Playing with Fire by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A

scanty clothing, but she could soon feel that the bed-sit was centrally heated. Another change from her own student days, when she had braved a dash from the piled blankets to the gas fire and hoped to hell her five pee from last night hadn’t run out. She took off her overcoat and found that she was warm enough without it.
    â€œYou woke me up, you know,” Mandy said over her shoulder.
    â€œSorry about that,” Annie said. “Part of the job.” The messed-up sheets on the mattress under the window testified to what Mandy said.
    â€œCup of tea? I’m having one myself. Can’t think in the morning without a cup of tea.”
    â€œFine,” said Annie. “If you’re brewing up anyway.” Mandy had a posh accent, she noticed. What had she been doing with Mark, then? Slumming it? A bit of rough?
    The kitchenette was separated from the rest of the bed-sit by a thin green curtain, which Mandy left open as she filled the electric kettle. Annie sat in one of the two small armchairs, which were arranged around an old fireplace filled by a vase full of dried purple-and-yellow flowers and peacock feathers. There was a poster of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers on the wall, and the radio was playing quietly in the background. Annie recognized an old Pet Shop Boys number, “Always on My Mind.” That had been a hit back during her own studentdays in Exeter. She had liked the Pet Shop Boys.
    A vivid memory of Rick Stenson, her boyfriend at the time, came to her as the music played. A handsome, fair-haired media studies student, he had always put her down for her musical tastes, being into Joy Division, Elvis Costello, Dire Straits and Tracy Chapman. He thought he was a cut above the Pet Shop Boys, Enya and Fleetwood Mac fans. He even used to go on about the original Fleetwood Mac, when Peter Green played with them. What had she seen in him? Annie wondered now. He’d been nothing but a bloody arrogant snob, and he hadn’t been an awful lot of good in bed, either, showing some slight flair for the obvious and no imagination whatsoever beyond. Ah, the mistakes of one’s youth.
    Mandy came in with the tea and sat in the other armchair, legs curled up, the hem of her T-shirt barely covering the tops of her slim, smooth thighs. Curly brown hair, messy from sleep, framed a heart-shaped face with thin lips, a small nose and loam-brown eyes. She had beautiful Brooke Shields eyebrows, Annie thought with envy, her own being definitely on the thin and skimpy side.
    â€œWhat did you do last night?” Annie asked.
    â€œDo? What do you mean? Why do you want to know?”
    â€œWould you just let me ask the questions?” Annie didn’t know why she was becoming testy with Mandy, but she was; she could feel the irritation building at the girl’s voice, the thighs, the eyebrows. She took out a paper handkerchief and blew her nose. The room felt hot now; she could feel the sweat prickling under her arms. Or maybe it was a fever that came with her cold.
    Mandy sulked and sipped some tea, then she said, “Okay. Ask away.”
    â€œWas Mark here with you?”
    â€œMark? Of course not. That’s ridiculous. What’s he supposed to have done? If he said—”
    â€œYou do know him, don’t you?”
    Mandy toyed with a strand of hair, straightening and curling. “If you mean Mark Siddons, yes, of course I know him. He comes by the pub sometimes when he’s working on the building site.”
    â€œWhich building site?”
    â€œOver the park. They’re putting up a new sports center for the college.”
    â€œAnd are you friendly with Mark?”
    â€œSort of.”
    Annie leaned forward. “Mandy, this could be important. Was Mark here with you last night?”
    â€œWhat kind of girl do you think I am?”
    â€œOh, for crying out loud,” Annie said, feeling her head spin with the fever and the irritation. “This is supposed