Murder Fortissimo by Nicola Slade Read Free Book Online Page B

bit green.’
    Wetting her lips, but not capable of attempting speech, Doreen flapped a hand and shook her head.
    ‘Thanks, love,’ Vic nodded to Christiane Marchant. ‘I’ll keep an eye on her. Time of life, you know,’ he added, not noticing his wife’s cringing at the booming explanation. ‘We won’t be long anyway, got to go for a test drive. We’re looking at a new Mercedes.’ Swelling with pride he bent towards his father and raised his voice. ‘You hear that, Dad? We’re off to look at a new Merc in a minute, top of the range. What d’you say to that then?’
    Fred Buchan raised his eyes from silent contemplation of the bare-stemmed silver birch outside the window, graceful andstarkly silhouetted against the pewter sky. He looked out at Vic from heavy, hooded lids, pale-blue eyes faded and chill. ‘Good, my son, very good.’ He went back to staring at the tree and Vic shrugged. The day Dad took an interest in anything beside himself would be the day Vic put up the flags. Mum had been the one to talk to, to praise, to admire. Never Dad. Vic sighed, raising his eyes to the ceiling; thank God for Doreen, at least she took an interest. She was a good wife, Dor, a real good sort, never any secrets with Doreen, just straight up front.
     
    Ryan was still in bed. No point getting up, nothing to do, not the day for signing on. If Gemma hadn’t been working he could have got her to come round; his mum was down the road till three-thirty, had been since breakfast, working in the kitchen in the Blue Boar. Even Kieran, the faithful dog, was working. Stupid dickhead, always going on about that shit job of his. Who in their right mind would want a job? Still, that said it all, didn’t it? Kieran wasn’t in his right mind really, the great soft pudding. But useful.
    Gemma was another great soft pudding, soft in the head, and soft in other parts too. He lay back, arms folded behind his head, watching the porno DVD he’d liberated from a market stall in Eastleigh, and he thought about Gemma and her soft, yielding body. His eyes glistened in anticipation, he was going round there tonight, to that fancy great old folks’ home, and she was to get out and meet him. All that fuss about getting rid of the baby, not ‘feeling’ like it, not going with him, and her bitch of a mother sticking her oar in. Well, it was too long, tonight he was going to get lucky – or else.
     
    Still in hiding behind her curtain, Harriet Quigley watched with interest as Vic and Doreen Buchan gathered up their coats and took their farewells of Fred. Vic clapped him heartily on theshoulder, mumbling empty nothings, clearly anxious to get away and Doreen repeated her earlier performance, a chilly peck on the cheek, given and received with not the slightest evidence of pleasure on either part.
    As the couple walked out to the drive Harriet looked out of the window and was intrigued by the sight of Doreen’s pale, ravaged face looking back towards the house. Her shoulders sagged as Christiane Marchant, now being wheeled on the terrace by Gemma, waved gaily at her.
    Now, what does all that mean, I wonder, Harriet mused. That woman has only been here a few hours and already she’s upset Tim, got Ellen Ransom sneaking around like a whipped dog, caught Matron on the raw, as well as Fred Buchan, and now here’s Doreen Buchan looking as though she’s been given the Black Spot. What does it all mean? Why do I have a feeling that Christiane Marchant is trouble?

Chapter Four
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    Alice was cheerfully singing Christmassy songs, slipping from ‘Jingle Bells’ to ‘White Christmas’, when she broke off abruptly as she realized that, give or take an adjective, it was true. She really
was
dreaming, looking forward to the day, though the chances of snow falling then in this part of southern England seemed highly unlikely. Not impossible though; look at today with its bright, glittering morning, branches rimed with silver, berries bellying red on the