The Dying Light by Henry Porter Read Free Book Online

then?’

    ‘A friend of mine: he lived near here.’

    ‘I’m sorry.’ He paused. ‘Old, was he?’

    ‘Early forties.’

    ‘Life is short: art is long. Well known, was he?’

    ‘Not really, but he had many admirers. He was killed while abroad.’

    The man slapped his forehead. ‘I know, it’s the fellow that got blown up - the prime minister’s man. He was on TV.’

    She smiled a full stop to the exchange and turned away.

    ‘Would you credit that?’ he said to her back. ‘Look at the way they’re treating that woman. I told you they was filth.’

    Beyond the stalls on the north side of the square four uniformed police were crowding round a middle-aged woman. One had taken hold of her upper arm. She wore a large black hat that made her seem top heavy. Her voice rose and the words, ‘I will not stand here’ then, ‘I won’t be treated . . .’ carried on the wind across the square. The woman wrenched her arm down, causing her handbag to fall to the ground and spew its contents. A policeman bent down to help but she brushed his hand away and swept everything back into the bag herself. It was at that moment that her hat fell off and rolled between the policemen’s feet. She made an undignified lunge and seized it, stood up and hit the chest of one of the officers with it.

    ‘That’s done it now,’ said the stallholder with a smirk. ‘Assault with a hat. I know that woman. She’s got something to do with the Assembly Rooms - arranges the programme and that. You can’t park there on market days. There’s a sign.’

    Kate recognised Diana Kidd from the inquest. Over the weekend she had toyed with the idea of calling the only Diana Kidd listed in the phone book to talk to her about Eyam, which was why she now returned her purse to the black shoulder bag, walked the thirty yards over to where Mrs Kidd was being questioned, and with a smile asked if there was anything she could do. When none of the officers replied she said, ‘Are you all right, Mrs Kidd? Perhaps these officers don’t know that you are attending David Eyam’s funeral.’ Then she turned to the policeman who had been hit with the hat. ‘I can vouch for Mrs Kidd.’

    ‘And you are . . . ?’ said a plainclothes officer in his thirties with razor burns on his neck.

    She gave her name.

    ‘Local?’

    ‘No, I’m from London. I’m staying at the Bailey Hotel for a few days. But I do know Mrs Kidd.’

    ‘Well, I am afraid she’s in some trouble.’

    ‘In what way? Surely she simply failed to observe the parking restrictions, an understandable error given she’s attending the funeral of a close friend?’

    ‘She struck a police officer. She failed to account for her intentions in a designated area and refused to let us search her bag.’

    ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean it, did you, Mrs Kidd?’ She touched her lightly on the arm. Diana Kidd shook her head and revolved the hat in her hand trying to compose herself. Kate suddenly had a sense of the universe of uncertainty in the woman.

    ‘If she agrees to park her car somewhere else, can you overlook the matter? You can see that she’s very upset.’

    Mrs Kidd stared at the ground and nodded pathetically.

    There was an older man in a short, grey coat, standing a little distance away - hands shoved into diagonal pockets below his ribcage, a gaze that contemplated the castle’s battlements and a manner that radiated contempt. Without looking at her he said, ‘Sergeant, you can let Mrs Kidd go.’

    The police moved back, allowing Mrs Kidd to pass to her car.

    Kate thanked him. ‘A designated area?’ she said incredulously. ‘Designated as what? By whom?’

    ‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ said the officer. ‘We’re just here to ensure that everything passes without incident.’

    His eyes moved to her and scanned her face, trying to place her in the same way that Mrs Kidd had done during the inquest. ‘Got your ID?’ he asked.

    ‘My passport’s back at