Grave Stones by Priscilla Masters Read Free Book Online Page A

instinctively he didn’t like the short, balding man with the shiny suit, the evasive eyes and the over-willingness-to-help syndrome, who smelt too strongly of an identifiable Lynx deodorant. Africa .
    ‘Anything I can do to assist the police.’
    Mostyn was irritating him already with his pasty face and sweating forehead.
    ‘Just answer my questions, sir,’ McBrine began formally. ‘How long have you lived here?’
    ‘Six years.’
    ‘Alone?’
    Mostyn’s face leaked anger. ‘Not at first,’ he said.
    McBrine simply raised his eyebrows.
    ‘I came here with my wife. She left me three years ago. For another man. We’re getting divorced.’
    McBrine almost sniffed it in: spite, jealousy, hatred, financial problems.
    ‘Any children, sir?’
    Mostyn dropped the play-acting and scowled. ‘I don’t see what that’s got to…’
    Which confirmed McBrine’s supposition. He smiled.
    ‘Three,’ Mostyn said tightly. ‘They spend a lot of time here.’
    ‘I bet they like it, with the farm.’
    The simple comment softened Mostyn’s face to something proud, paternal, almost beatific. ‘My daughter, Rachel, does particularly,’ he said. ‘She rides the pony sometimes.’
    McBrine smiled in fake empathy.
    ‘But my son, well…’ he held his hands out, palms uppermost. ‘I don’t think it makes any difference where he is,’ he said. ‘As long as he’s hooked into his video games. And my youngest daughter, Morag – well – she’s quite young. Only four.’
    ‘When did you last see the farmer, Mr Grimshaw?’
    Mostyn looked vague. ‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said.
    ‘Might it be worthwhile asking your daughter?’
    Mostyn shrugged. ‘Possibly. But I really don’t think—’
    ‘When was your daughter last here?’
    ‘She was here the weekend of the eighth and ninth. She left on the Sunday evening.’
    ‘And your son?’
    ‘Was here the same time.’
    ‘Did your daughter ride that weekend?’
    Reluctantly, Mostyn nodded very slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she did.’
    ‘On the Saturday or the Sunday?’
    ‘Both days.’
    ‘We’re going to want to speak to her.’
    Mostyn looked wary.
    ‘Naturally, as her father, we’d expect either you or your wife to sit in on the interview.’
    ‘Ex-wife,’ Mostyn said, but he looked mollified.
     
    DC Danny Hesketh-Brown, next door, was having a pretty tough time of it. His problem was that his eyes were very blue, his hair dark, his features regular, andhe was six-foot tall with an athletic bearing. Women were drawn to him like the proverbial bees to a honey pot.
    Charlotte Frankwell opened the door to number 3 and gave the policeman one of her winning smiles.
    He brandished his ID card in front of her nose and she invited him in. She sat opposite him at the kitchen table, leaning forward to display an impressive and possibly fake cleavage. What Charlotte didn’t know was that in spite of his appearance she was wasting her time. Hesketh-Brown had one man and two women in his life: one an intelligent and attractive wife, Betsy, who was a teacher in Tunstall, in the Potteries; the second, his daughter Tanya, who was six months old; and the little man, Tom, a sturdy six-year-old who already had a plastic policeman’s helmet that he practically went to bed in. And the tiny baby and his wife were the only women likely to be in his life for the foreseeable future.
    However, for all his morals, Danny Hesketh-Brown was a man and he hadn’t missed out on the skinny jeans and white see-through shirt. And Charlotte Frankwell wasn’t wearing a bra to restrain those bouncing breasts. Had he been available she would have been a very tempting proposition. Heske-Brown sighed. Time was… Then he remembered the kisses that had sent him off to work that morning and felt ashamed.
    ‘There’s been an accident at the farm,’ he began awkwardly.
    ‘What sort of accident?’
    ‘The farmer, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Oh.’ She seemed unconcerned. ‘Coffee?’
    ‘No