The Cilla Rose Affair by Winona Kent Read Free Book Online Page B

happened?”
    “As far as we can tell, it was an accident.”
    “You’re quite certain he wasn’t deliberately pushed?”
    “I’m not certain about anything at this point, Nicholas. I do know Simon wasn’t feeling well when I interviewed him. He may have simply…fallen.”
    “What does the pathologist say?”
    “I’m going to see him in a little while. I’ll let you know. I’ll also be going over the Epsom surveillance tapes from Tuesday and Wednesday.”
    “I suggest you do,” Nicholas Armstrong replied, sending an envelope skidding down the table which, upon closer inspection, turned out to contain an internal memo to all senior personnel concerning an early retirement package put together by Human Resources in Ottawa. “Or I’ll be sorely tempted to put your name in for that.”
    Evan slipped the letter back into the envelope without comment and stood up.
    “Royal Navy all over me wanting to know where their bloody Sea King had got to in the middle of the night,” his superior muttered. “Go on, away with you.”
    Ian was waiting for him in the spare office that had been appropriated as their base of operations. He was studying a wallet-sized map of the Underground.
    “You know,” he said, “once upon a time Trafalgar Square was called Trafalgar Square.”
    “It was,” Evan confirmed, slipping the scoped-down edit of Ian’s surveillance at Epsom into the VCR. “And Charing Cross was called Strand, and Embankment was Charing Cross.”
    “What happened to Trafalgar Square?” Ian asked, confounded.
    “Progress,” his father replied, dryly, switching on the monitor. “By the way, I appear to have piqued someone’s interest. Be on the lookout for fleet-footed strangers.” He adjusted the tracking. “This is the infamous garden, I take it.”
    “Tuesday lunch,” Ian confirmed.
    “What’s that? A bird?”
    “Carrying on an animated conversation with my parabolic mike, yes. One of the hazards of shooting on location.”
    On the monitor, Simon Darrow and his wife strolled through their garden, Darrow making a remark about the spectacular colour of the roses, his wife worrying vocally about a tertiary crop of aphids.
    Suddenly Mrs. Darrlow let out a shriek, and made a terrified dash out of the frame.
    “What’s that all about?” Evan asked, curiously.
    “A wasp, I think. Or a bee.”
    On the tape, Simon Darrow was laughing at his wife. He continued his inspection of the roses alone and, after a few moments, Mrs. Darrow ventured a cautious return. Simon slipped his arm around her waist, protectively, and they turned away from the flowerbeds and began to walk back across the lawn towards the house.
    As they crossed in front of the concealed camera lens, Simon abruptly jerked away from his wife.
    “Ow!” he shouted. “Bugger it!”
    He leaped around, swatting his back with his arm.
    “Bee…?” Evan guessed.
    “Bee,” Ian confirmed.
    “Bloody hell,” Simon Darrow complained.
    It was Mrs. Darrow’s turn to laugh at her husband.
    “Serves you right,” she said.
    “That’s not fair, Nora.”
    “Don’t be such a baby. Come inside and I’ll read up on bee stings in the medical book.”
    “Two stiff drinks and an ice pack, I shouldn’t wonder,” Darrow grumbled, checking behind and about himself for any further insects.
    The camera panned with them until they reached the house, then reverted to static. Evan stopped the tape.
    “What do the audio logs say about the rest of Tuesday, and Wednesday morning?”
    “More domestic conversation. Tea and sympathy. He complained about the sting in the night, didn’t feel well, got up for a couple of aspirins, went back to bed.”
    Evan was deep in thought.
    He rewound the tape, and hit the play button again, studying the screen.
    “What are you looking for?”
    Evan raised a tentative hand, then played the tape a third time.
    “Listen,” he said, as the sparrow in the tree erupted in song.
    Ian listened.
    “All right—now, here’s