What Men Say by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online

dead woman, stripped of clothes and dignity, dumped in a corner of the barn; her killer, a shadowy male figure, sidling round the door with a bundle of blood-stained garments in his arms . . .
    â€œHow did he get in there in the first place?” she asked suddenly, the melodramatic imaginary scene giving way to the real memory of Sam struggling with a heavy padlock.
    â€œWe only locked it for the party,” Bridget said offhandedly.
    â€œAnd you didn’t—you didn’t look inside?”
    Bridget looked apologetic. “What for? It’s Sam who’s keen on those old ploughs and harrows or whatever they are. I’d bin them tomorrow.” She pulled a face. “Lucky escape, huh?”
    â€œNot really,” said Audrey, “you wouldn’t have seen anything anyway. There’s a hole in the floor, about six feet by three—” She returned the book to the dresser and sketched a rectangle in the air with her hands.
    â€œThe sheep bath?” Bridget looked surprised. “You mean she was in the sheep bath?”
    â€œI assumed it had some agricultural purpose. There were a couple of old doors on top of it, and one of those—a rusty thing with spikes. That’s why you didn’t smell anything, not till those boys pushed them aside.” She reached up and adjusted the velvet band which held her long fair hair off her forehead. “I really must go. Monday mornings are always the worst, the surgery’s full to bursting . . . When’s your next appointment at the John Radcliffe?”
    â€œMy—” Bridget looked blank for a moment. “Oh—Tuesday. Tuesday morning.”
    â€œLet me know how it goes.” Audrey came round the table and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Ring if you’re at all worried. Goodnight, Loretta—don’t come up, I’ll see myself out.”
    â€œWant any help with clearing up?” Bridget yawned and stretched as the sound of Audrey’s feet receded up the stairs.
    â€œNo, leave it. Most of it can go in the dishwasher.”
    â€œIf you’re sure.”
    â€œWould you like a book? The new Anita Brookner’s over there.”
    â€œNot tonight, thanks. That glass of wine’s made me sleepy again. Night, Loretta.”
    They hugged each other, the first physical contact they had had for several weeks, and Loretta was surprised by the familiar angularity of her friend’s body. Bridget had always been thin, a slender size 10, and she had not put on much weight during her pregnancy—except, of course, in the obvious place. “Sleep well,” murmured Loretta, releasing her.
    She tidied the kitchen, her own weariness manifesting itself in heavy limbs and a lack of concentration which allowed a glass to slip from her hand onto the black-and-white tiles, where it split into several large fragments. She collected up the jagged pieces, holding each one carefully between her thumb and forefinger, and was looking for something to wrap them in when the phone rang. She picked it up without thinking and was immediately startled out of her zombielike state by the faint, unearthly echo of a satellite link.
    â€œLoretta? Is that you?”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œGeoffrey—Geoffrey Simmons.”
    â€œGeoffrey? Where are you calling from?”
    â€œSan Francisco. Didn’t Bridget tell you I was over here for the summer?”
    â€œYes—yes, of course.” Geoffrey Simmons was a historian, an old flame of Bridget’s whom she had unsuccessfully tried to pass on to Loretta. She kept Loretta abreast of his career in a slightly reproachful way, as if to remind her of what she was missing; Loretta now recalled that he was engaged in a research project at Berkeley, collaborating with an American who had written a controversial book on the history of madness.
    â€œIs it true they’ve found a stiff in Bridget’s