Not Safe After Dark by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online Page B

solitude and his cleverness, Quilley linked his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. Out back, he heard the rustling of a small animal making its way through the
undergrowth – a raccoon, perhaps, or even a skunk. When he closed his eyes, he pictured all the trees, shrubs and wild flowers around the cottage and marvelled at the deadly potential so many
of them contained.
    •
    The sun blazed down on the back patio of the Madison, a small garden protected from the wind by high fences. Quilley wore his sunglasses and nursed a pint of Conner’s Ale.
The place was packed. Skilled and pretty waitresses came and went, trays laden with baskets of chicken wings and golden pints of lager.
    The two of them sat out of the way at a white table in a corner by the metal fire escape. A striped parasol offered some protection, but the sun was still too hot and too bright. Peplow’s
wife must have given him hell about drinking the last time because today he had ordered only a Coke.
    ‘It was easy,’ Quilley said. ‘You could have done it yourself. The only setback was that foxgloves don’t grow wild here like they do in England. But you’re a
gardener; you grow them.’
    Peplow shook his head and smiled. ‘It’s the gift of clever people like yourself to make difficult things seem easy. I’m not particularly resourceful, Mr Quilley. Believe me, I
wouldn’t have known where to start. I had no idea that such a book existed, but you did because of your art. Even if I had known, I’d hardly have dared buy it or take it out of the
library for fear that someone would remember. But you’ve had your copy for years. A simple tool of the trade. No, Mr Quilley, please don’t underestimate your contribution. I was a
desperate man. Now you’ve given me a chance at freedom. If there’s anything at all I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to say. I’d consider it an honour.’
    ‘This collection of yours,’ Quilley said. ‘What does it consist of?’
    ‘British and Canadian crime fiction, mostly. I don’t like to boast, but it’s a very good collection. Try me. Go on, just mention a name.’
    ‘E. C. R. Lorac.’
    ‘About twenty of the Inspector MacDonalds. First editions, mint condition.’
    ‘Anne Hocking?’
    ‘Everything but Night’s Candles .’
    ‘Trotton?’
    Peplow raised his eyebrows. ‘Good Lord, that’s an obscure one. Do you know, you’re the first person I’ve come across who’s ever mentioned that.’
    ‘Do you have it?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’ Peplow smiled smugly. ‘X. J. Trotton, Signed in Blood , published 1942. It turned up in a pile of junk I bought at an auction some years ago. It’s rare,
but not very valuable. Came out in Britain during the war and probably died an immediate death. It was his only book, as far as I can make out, and there is no biographical information. Perhaps it
was a pseudonym for someone famous?’
    Quilley shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Have you read it?’
    ‘Good Lord, no! I don’t read them. It could damage the spines. Many of them are fragile. Anything I want to read – like your books – I also buy in paperback.’
    ‘Mr Peplow,’ Quilley said slowly, ‘you asked if there was anything you could do for me. As a matter of fact, there is something you can give me for my
services.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘The Trotton.’
    Peplow frowned and pursed his thin lips. ‘Why on earth . . . ?’
    ‘For my own collection, of course. I’m especially interested in the war period.’
    Peplow smiled. ‘Ah! So that’s how you knew so much about them? I’d no idea you were a collector too.’
    Quilley shrugged modestly. He could see Peplow struggling, visualizing the gap in his collection. But finally the poor man decided that the murder of his wife was more important to him than an
obscure mystery novel. ‘Very well,’ he said gravely. ‘I’ll mail it to you.’
    ‘How can I be sure . . . ?’
    Peplow looked offended. ‘I’m a man of