The Saint Valentine's Day Murders by Ruth Dudley Edwards Read Free Book Online Page A

only wish there was someone here I could tell it to.
    I’m looking forward achingly to the weekend after this. It’s only the thought of pleasures to come that’s going to get me through the next few days. We’re all off to the Twillerton conference centre at three this afternoon. No one wants to go except Horace. He’s planning to write a report on the seminar for circulation to Authority so as to make same aware that under his leadership things are buzzing in PD. Of course he’s secretly pleased that Shipton has gone sick. It’s unbelievable what that layabout gets away with.
    Not a lot has been happening. There’s a general air of gloom and tension overlying all, which must, I suppose, mainly be Melissa’s fault. Or maybe it’s the thought of this weekend that is giving the lads a strained look. At least I’m getting on with them better now I’m no longer Public Enemy No. 1. Would you believe I haven’t had a single practical joke played on me since she arrived? She has suffered at least one. I emerged the other day at about ten past five and saw her back view as she left the office. Stuck to her coat was the simple legend ‘I am a dyke’. Regrettably, I am so coarsened by now that instead of pursuing her to point it out I gave Tiny a silent cheer. Or am I wrong and is this a new way of coming out? I thought they went in for lapel buttons.
    Melissa’s awfulness has made the awfulness of all the others pale into insignificance. I’m concocting a training plan for her that will send her touring regional offices and other parts of HQ to find out how they operate. I don’t see why we should be the only ones to suffer. Did I tell you she’s a proselytizing vegan? Last week she took it upon herself at lunchtime to tell Tiny he was eating cow sandwiches and Bill that his hardboiled egg was a chicken foetus. Tiny responded by saying that at least his cow was tastier than she was, but poor old Bill looked quite sick and pushed his egg away. He’s apparently got rather a soft spot for birds. I heard him yesterday rather touchingly explaining to Tony how to attract robins to a garden – as if Tony would have food wasted on our feathered friends.
    Anyway, I had some small revenge the following day. Cathy, our clerical assistant, complained that Melissa was giving her dirty magazines. It turned out to be a consciousness-raising attempt, with Melissa proffering Spare Rib as an alternative to Woman and Home . I summoned Melissa to my office and told her solemnly that if Cathy believed her vocation to lie in being a wife and mother, she, Melissa, should respect a Woman’s Right to Choose. She couldn’t decide if I was being serious or flippant so didn’t have the heart to argue.
    Horace is driving me to Twillerton, thus giving us the opportunity yet again to discuss how to make the party go with a swing. The others are all going in separate cars so they can collar the mileage allowance. Melissa is… guess! Yes – riding her motor bike. I hope it pisses down.
    Enough for now. I’ll continue this when I get a chance during the weekend. And may God have mercy on us all!
    Sunday
    Just when I really need you, your bloody phone goes out of order.
    I needed to babble incoherently, and now I have to write it down instead. Where shall I begin? Yes, yes. I hear your trained mind calling on me to take it from the beginning. Here goes.
    Friday
    3:00-5:00 Unspeakable journey with Horace. I wish I’d known he hates driving in London. I could have ridden on Melissa’s pillion. He is of the ‘if-you-grip-the-steering-wheel-until-your-knuckles-turn-white- and-hunch-over-it-till-your-back-hurts-you-will-be-able-to- better-control-events’ school of motoring. (Sorry about the split infinitive. I am not the purist I used to be.) Horace’s eyesight is appalling. I had to yell warnings several times. Is the silly sod too vain to wear glasses? It wasn’t until we got on to the motorway that he relaxed, but by then my nerves were