In for the Kill by Pauline Rowson Read Free Book Online Page B

houseboat.’
    ‘I doubt it. It’s locked.’ I could see that she wasn’t going to believe me, so I opened up and we stepped inside. ‘What’s her name?’
    ‘Ruby Kingston.’
    ‘And yours?’
    I could see she was reluctant to tell me. I thought she was going to tell me to mind my own business, but after a moment she said,
    ‘Scarlett and no cracks about Gone with the Wind .’
    ‘It’s a very pretty name. Mine’s Alex Albury, but I expect you know that already.’
    She sniffed and scoured the interior of my lounge as if her mother could have been secreted somewhere.
    ‘I wasn’t convicted of kidnap or murder,’ I snapped, irritated by her manner.
    ‘Makes no difference to me what you went down for.’
    ‘Or that I was innocent?’
    She gave a cynical smile. ‘That’s what they all say.’
    ‘In my case it happens to be true. What made you think she could be here?’
    ‘She forgets where she lives. She knocks on all the houseboats along here and I thought she might have got in without you realising it.’
    I was about to say that I thought I would have noticed an old lady rattling around the place when something in her expression prevented me.
    Behind her scowling countenance I could see genuine concern in her large brown eyes.
    ‘I’m sure she’ll turn up,’ I said gently, but she mistook my meaning.
    ‘Oh yes, she’ll turn up, perhaps dead on the beach, washed up by the tide. She might even turn up in the mortuary after being knocked down by a car.’
    ‘Look, I –’
    ‘Forget it. What do you care anyway?’
    She stormed out and I was left feeling shocked by her sudden outburst and then angry with her.
    I dismissed her and her mother from my mind, made myself something to eat and took the folder of Joe’s reports from underneath the mattress where I had stowed it. A bloody silly place, I know, and the first place Andover would have looked. I read through them again. There didn’t seem to be anything in them that Andover would be interested in.
    Roger Brookes’ house was just outside a village called Wootton-under-Edge in Gloucestershire; Joe had furnished me with the address two years ago. That must have been just before Brookes had sold out to Sunglow. I jotted the details down in my notebook and lay back on the bed. The couple of whiskies I’d drunk had made me sleepy.
    I was woken by a noise. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see that it was almost ten o’clock. The noise came again; someone was trying to get in. Suddenly I was alert. I stuffed my notebook into the pocket of my trousers and crept to the door. I threw it open to find a very wet and very distressed old lady on my doorstep.
    This must be Ruby.
    ‘Hugo!’ she cried, tumbling into my arms and pressing her soaking wet head against my chest, her body heaving with sobs; I could see her pink scalp through her wispy grey hair. Her dress was sodden and her legs and feet filthy. Disgust was my first reaction, followed swiftly by fear, not of her but of my reaction: I had wanted to push her away. I folded my arms around her frail body. It seemed to give her some comfort because the sobs eased. I wondered who Hugo was?
    ‘You’re safe now. Come on, sit down.’ I eased her towards the bench and prised her arms from around my back lowering her onto the seat.
    ‘Have you got a handkerchief in your bag?’
    Her head came up and she stared at me alarmed. Clutching her handbag tight to her waist she wailed, ‘Don’t you come near me. I know what you’re after.’
    I descended to the kitchen to fetch a towel and some tissues. By the time I returned she’d gone and the door was flapping open in the wind. I cursed loudly and vehemently, pulled on my sailing jacket, grabbed a torch and stepped out into the wild April night.
    She was a few hundred yards down, stumbling towards Bembridge village. I needed to go after her and bring her back, but she might think I was attacking her, and before I knew it the police would be