Scene of Crime by Jill McGown Read Free Book Online

so,” he said.
    Ryan performed perfunctory ringside tests; he passed a finger in front of him, and Dex’s eyes followed it; he held up three fingers, and Dex didn’t see six. “He’ll be okay,” he said, and ran a hand over his brother’s short, tightly curled hair. “Won’t you, champ?”
    Dex nodded.
    “Even so. He’s not well. You just wait here until I get back.” His mother picked up her coat, then put it down again. “On second thought, you can go,” she said. “You’ll be quicker than me.” She opened her bag, taking out her purse, and selected exactly the right money. “Cod, beefburger, and a large bag of chips. Straight there and straight back,” she said.
    Ryan smiled. She used to say that when he was ten. “Cod, beefburger, and a large bag of chips,” he repeated. “Are you sure you don’t want to give me a note for the man in case I forget what I’ve gone for?”
    “Less cheek. Just hurry up.”
    Ryan was back in ten minutes with the fish and chips, and helped his mother put them on plates, something only mothers ever did. “Keep an eye on him, Mum,” he said. “If he looks drowsy or he’s sick again, you should get the doctor.” He saw his mother’s face, the worried frown deeper than ever. “But I think he’s okay,” he added reassuringly. “Honest.”
    He went up to his room and retrieved the carrier bag from the closet, then rattled down again, popping his head around the door to say cheerio. He glanced at Dex as he went out, and Dex looked away immediately. But there would be another opportunity to talk to him.

    “I told the officers who came earlier.”
    Tom nodded. “I know, sir, but I’d just like you to go over it again with me, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    He was with Geoffrey Jones, the neighbor who had called the police. Everything about him, from the hair he’d combed over his bald patch and his horn-rimmed glasses, through his cardigan and slacks, right down to his nylon socks and polished shoes, instantly irritated Tom.
    Mr. Jones gave a short sigh of resignation. “You’d better come in, then,” he said.
    Tom closed the front door and followed Mr. Jones into the immaculately tidy sitting room, where his wife, wearing a sculpted hairdo and a fussy blouse and skirt that quarreled with one another, was hovering anxiously as Mr. Jones moaned about the intrusion. Her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes red; Tom doubted that she had received much in the way of sympathy.
    “I don’t see why the other chap can’t tell you what I told him. Why should I have to go through it all again?”
    “Geoffrey,” said his wife. “Estelle’s
dead
.”
    “Well?” he said. “Telling umpteen policemen what I saw isn’t going to bring her back to life, is it?”
    Mrs. Jones looked hurt and shocked. Tom cleared his throat. “Detective Sergeant Finch, Stansfield CID,” he told her, since her husband was clearly dispensing with introductions, and turned to Mr. Jones again. “I’m sorry we’re taking up so much of your time,” he said. “But if you could just tell me in your own words what—”
    “In my own words? Whose words do you suppose I’m going to use?”
    Tom produced something approaching a friendlysmile, for which he felt he deserved a medal. “Well, perhaps you could just tell me what made you call us,” he said.
    “Sit down, Sergeant Finch,” said Mrs. Jones. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, woman! We’re not running a café! We might have to have policemen all over the place, but you don’t have to make them all tea in the bargain!”
    “It’s only polite.”
    Tom took a deep breath. “No, thank you, Mrs. Jones,” he said, but he did sit down as invited. “Now, Mr. Jones, if you could tell me what happened tonight—it is quite urgent.”
    “I know it’s urgent! How many break-ins have there been round here? And what have you done about them? Nothing, that’s what!”
    The evening paper had been running a