A Fatal Affair by Faith Martin (top e book reader TXT) 📕

wondering where they were going and, for a moment, wondered wistfully if he could follow them without being spotted. He rather thought that he couldn’t though, which was a pity.

He waited until they had disappeared around a bend in the lane and then climbed out of his car. He’d always wanted to have another chance at seducing the lovely Trudy Loveday, once the dust had had time to settle after their last encounter – and if he could pick up any scoops on the May Queen murder, all the better.

Perhaps now was a good time to test the waters …

Chapter 10

The Finch family lived in a large, square house on the junction of two lanes. Set in a large garden, it looked solid and respectable – just the sort of place you might expect a solid and respectable police officer and his family to live.

‘Did your DI ask Superintendent Finch about any expensive jewellery his son might have bought Iris?’ Clement asked as they paused at the garden gate to admire the house.

‘If he did, he hasn’t told me,’ Trudy said morosely. ‘But then, I spent most of this morning doing really important things like filing and making tea for the Sergeant and the likes of PC Rodney Broadbent,’ she added with a flash of spirit. ‘It’s not as if any of them think of me as someone who should be kept in the loop.’

Clement grunted. ‘More fool them, then, hmmm?’ he said absently, but the compliment cheered her.

‘Anyway,’ Trudy said, ‘it’s far more likely that his mother would know about things like that,’ she said. ‘Mothers are more aware of what their children get up to than fathers, in my opinion,’ she added with a smile, thinking of her own mother, who, at certain times during her childhood, seemed to be positively clairvoyant, not to mention omnipresent.

‘So, let’s go and talk to her then,’ Clement said soberly. ‘If anybody can give us an insight into David Finch’s state of mind shortly before he died, it’s probably her.’

Trudy felt herself tensing up. Talking to the bereaved was always an ordeal, even if a necessary one. She only hoped that one day, even if she never got used to it, she would at least feel less incompetent at it.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the garden gate. It creaked loudly as it did so, and made her smile, helping to lighten her mood a little. A proper copper’s trick, that creaking gate – it meant that nobody in the house would ever be taken by surprise by a visitor coming in through the front way. And she would have bet her last shilling that any side or rear entrances to the property were firmly locked or barred.

Betty Finch was a short, slightly plump woman, with dark curling hair and large hazel eyes which had, at the moment, blue smudges beneath them. She was pale but composed when she answered the door, and somewhat to Trudy’s surprise, seemed to recognise them immediately.

‘Oh, Dr Ryder, hello. And you must be WPC Loveday? Thank you for dropping in. Won’t you come in?’ As they passed her into a small, neat hallway, she added, ‘My husband told me about you and what you’re doing for us. I can’t tell you how grateful we are.’

So they had been expected to call in at some point, Trudy thought, silently agreeing as they followed Mrs Finch into the front room. It made sense that her husband had kept her informed about all that was happening in their son’s case.

The room was obviously seldom used, but had recently been dusted and the scent of furniture polish hung in the air. A vase of daffodils, probably picked that morning from the garden, rested on a sideboard, catching the sun’s rays. The room had a stuffy feel, however, and as if reading her mind, their hostess went quickly to a window and opened it to let in the warm but fresh spring air.

‘Would you like tea?’ she asked. She was dressed in a simple black dress and wore ballet-like black pumps. Although neither of them wanted tea after their drink at the pub, they both nodded, knowing that it would give her something to do and help settle her for the interview that lay ahead. She couldn’t have been married to a police officer for all these years without having some inkling of why they had come and what they needed from her.

As they waited, Clement glanced around the small but pleasant room, decorated in shades of apple-green and cream, and shifted slightly in his chair. He’d popped a breath mint into his mouth as they’d walked up the path, careful not to let Trudy see it. One of the symptoms of his illness could include bad breath, and now he was careful to always have a supply of strong mints on hand any time he expected to talk to people.

‘Here we are – I hope you like shortbread. I baked some this morning. They’re my daughter Delia’s favourite. I like to keep busy.’ Mrs Finch said the words in a rush, running the sentences together and then she sat down the tray abruptly onto the table, rattling the cups and saucers a little. She sat down equally abruptly in the chair facing the sofa, where Clement and Trudy had elected to sit. She looked, to Trudy’s eye, as if she’d suddenly run out of energy.

‘I’ll pour, shall I?’ Trudy said kindly, and set about adding sugar lumps and pouring milk. She noticed Mrs Finch, after accepting her cup, immediately set it down again, without taking so much as a sip.

‘So, you’ve come to talk about David,’ Betty Finch said firmly, straightening her shoulders a little and looking determined to do her best, even though she was almost coming apart at the seams. It made Trudy’s heart ache for her.

‘I know that he didn’t kill Iris, and I know that he didn’t kill himself either,’ Betty said,