The Burden of Doubt by Angela Dracup Read Free Book Online

his car and gave it a couple of short revs. He waited for his boss to climb in. ‘How did it go, sir?’
    Swift shut the door with a firm thud, his face giving nothing away.
    Not too brilliant then, Doug decided.
    Swift pulled at the seat belt and clicked it in place. ‘The usual,’ he said evenly. ‘Mostly routine damp squibs, but there was a bit of a firecracker at the end.’ He gave Doug a brief account of the spiky-haired newshound. ‘She’s just joined The Yorkshire Echo . Her comments could be pure fancy, and I’m guessing she’s simply wanting to make a name for herself and get noticed.’
    Doug grinned. ‘Still, if someone chooses to throw us a juicy bone, we might as well go and have a chew on it.’
    ‘It’ll have to wait its turn,’ Swift said. ‘First on the list is the post mortem.’ Regrettably, he added to himself.
     
    Sylvia Farrell, the widow of Moira’s father, lived in a square stone house standing on the eastern fringes of the town of Ilkley. Theentrance door was painted dark blue, its centrally placed brass lion’s head knocker polished to the colour of silver.
    In response to Laura’s two short raps, the door was opened by a woman in late middle age dressed in a plain black skirt and a pale-blue sweater. She had the thick white hair of people who have turned grey in early middle age, and whose hair has now lost all its pigment. It was rolled into an immaculate French pleat in the style worn by film stars in the 1960s. Around her neck was a single string of pearls, illuminating the woman’s face and highlighting her chiselled bone structure. Laura showed her ID. ‘Mrs Farrell?’
    ‘Yes, I’m Mrs Farrell. I’ve been expecting that someone from your department might come today.’ She was perfectly polite, yet her voice managed to convey a hint of disapproval. ‘Would you come this way please, Constable?’
    The Lady of the Manor dispensing largesse to the lowly serfs, Laura thought, pulling a little face at the woman’s departing back. And, oh, what a very straight back.
    The drawing-room was large and square, painted in a soft sea green, and furnished in a conventionally elegant style which Laura surmised would have been favoured by comfortably wealthy people around thirty years ago: linen covers on the sofas, gleaming walnut tables, oil paintings showing country landscapes, looped curtains framing the tall windows through which a glimpse of the River Wharfe could be seen beyond the long garden, its shifting waters the colour of a grey pearl. A huge vase filled with deep pink stargazer lilies stood on top of the grand piano in one corner of the room, scenting the air with their pungent sweetness.
    A small slender woman in her mid twenties was sitting at the keyboard, picking out a soft, mournful melody with the fingers of her right hand. She turned as Sylvia Farrell announced Laura’s presence. As her head tilted, her long straight black hair fell across her shoulders like a ripple of silk. Her delicate, clean-cut features carried an air of shock and quiet despair. ‘Jayne Arnold,’ she told Laura, getting up from the piano stool and offering her hand. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve come. All this sitting and waiting is horrible. Itmakes you feel so helpless.’ She released Laura’s hand and seated herself on a sofa close to the fireplace.
    Mrs Farrell instantly joined her, crossing her legs and neatly folding her skirt before placing a hand lightly on that of the younger woman. ‘Jayne is my daughter,’ she told Laura.
    Laura began the interview by murmuring respectful condolences .
    ‘How can I help you, Constable Ferguson?’ Mrs Farrell asked abruptly, barely giving the constable time to finish her short speech.
    Looking at the mother and daughter duo, sitting so formal and upright on their grand sofa, Laura felt rather like a hopeful job candidate in front of the selection panel. She reminded herself that her boss Ed Swift would have no truck whatsoever with such