Killing a Stranger by Jane A. Adams Read Free Book Online

was Patrick that took her arm, all the time wishing he too could escape into the kitchen and telling himself that this was a bad idea. Not just bad, stupid, out of their depth idea. Glancing at Charlie he could see the same emotions writ large in the pale, pinched face and the darting eyes. Charlie wanted to turn and run and it was only loyalty to his dead friend that had brought him to see Rob’s mother and that pinned him now, like an insect on a display board.
    They sat in silence until Becky appeared with the laden tray.
    It was strange, Patrick thought, how having something to do with your hands kind of allowed the brain to slow down and the thoughts to get in some kind of order. Surprisingly, it was Charlie that broke the silence.
    â€˜I don’t know what to tell you,’ he said, though so far Clara had asked nothing. ‘I can’t believe he threw himself off that bridge. I mean, why would he? I mean, he was all right when he left the party. He’d had a bit of a spat with Becky – sorry, Becks, but everyone could see that – I mean, he just stormed off but we all figured he’d be back to himself the next day and he’d probably not even mention it unless Becks made him and …’
    â€˜They think he might have killed a man.’ Clara said.
    Patrick stared.
    â€˜You what?’ Charlie was gazing at the woman as though she really had gone mad. He stood up suddenly as though about to make a run for it, mug of coffee slipping from his hand and crashing to the floor.
    Becky, mouth open, face drained of colour, placed her own mug down on the coffee table. ‘Clara?’
    â€˜What the hell are you on about?’ Charlie demanded.
    For Patrick, more familiar with police procedure, everything suddenly made sense: the scale of the investigation; far greater than required for a simple suicide. Horrifying as it was, it seemed suddenly obvious. ‘Um, did they say who?’ he blurted.
    â€˜Are you mad!’ Charlie was outraged anyone could even consider the idea. ‘Rob wouldn’t kill anyone. I mean, fuck it, he’d go off on one occasionally, blow up and … and say stuff, then storm off. But he’d never …’
    Clara replied to Patrick as though Charlie had not spoken. ‘A man called Adam Hensel,’ she said quietly. ‘He was stabbed. When Rob came home, he was covered in blood. Adam Hensel’s blood. Rob told me he had killed a man.’
    â€˜And you believe them?’ Charlie still couldn’t get to grips with it. ‘They’ll say anything. Blame anyone just so they look good. Rob wouldn’t … Rob couldn’t …’ He sat down suddenly and for the first time seemed to be aware of the mug he had dropped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking at the smashed crockery and wet carpet at his feet. ‘I dropped it … I …’
    Charlie never cried, Patrick thought, watching as his friend finally broke down and allowed the tears to come. Charlie doesn’t cry and neither do I.
    It was another hour before they got around to clearing up the broken mug and spilt coffee. ‘I think it’s going to stain,’ Becky fretted.
    Clara smiled wanly. ‘I’ll stick a rug over it,’ she said. ‘That carpet’s been down since we moved in anyway, it’s probably time I got another one and that’s nothing to the stuff Rob’s …’ She waved away the rest of the sentence.
    Patrick and Charlie came through from the kitchen with fresh mugs and biscuits. Glancing at the clock above the fireplace, Patrick noted that it was after ten. He really should be heading for home. He sat back down and looked across at Clara.
    â€˜You’ve really never heard of him?’
    Clara shook her head. ‘I’ve racked my brains,’ she said. ‘And Rob’s never mentioned anyone of that name to you?’
    Charlie opened the biscuits. ‘We’d remember