The Distant Dead by Lesley Thomson (most difficult books to read .txt) 📗

by another lodger. So all in all, your Death Clubbers have no motive.’ Janet was swiping through her mobile, ‘We’ve got extra patrols in the town, I’m doing the telly news to warn the public not to approach anyone acting suspiciously… yadda yadda. Personally, I miss Crimewatch; decent coverage and we’d round up these shit-arses in no time.’ Janet crunched on the mint and, flapping her gloves at Stella, went to the stairs. ‘Catch you soon, Stella.’

As Janet’s footsteps died away – she’d asked Stella to leave a couple of minutes after her to avoid them being seen together – Stella pondered if, after all, the mystery of Roddy’s murder was a nasty mugging gone wrong. Not the kind of death she imagined Roddy would have envisaged for himself. Stupid, because Roddy hadn’t expected to be murdered.

Five minutes later Stella made her way down the uneven stairs out to the street.

It was raining heavily, not the light shower forecast on her app, making the abbey a black ink sketch against the sky.

‘If it isn’t the Cleaning Detective.’ In a fur hat with earflaps, his threadbare overcoat buttoned to his chin and ski-boots, it was Clive the clockmaker. At the Death Café Clive had said time wasn’t on his side but, to Stella, the ruddy-cheek and glittering eyes promised years yet.

Clive regarded her with a knowing, amused look from beneath the rim of his umbrella. Stella was struck with horror. Had he been in the bookshop? Had he listened to her conversation with Janet?

‘You never told us you’re a celebrity.’ He twirled the umbrella handle which, Stella noticed, was decorated with clock faces.

‘I’m not.’

‘Modesty is unbecoming. I do hope you’re going to solve our little murder.’ Clive moved closer as Stella stepped back. He leaned confidentially towards her. ‘I’ve got a clue to get you started.’

‘You should tell the police.’

‘Think John Lennon.’

‘What have the Beatles to do with it?’ Stella hated riddles.

‘Who mentioned them? Consider when time ran out for John Lennon.’

‘If you know something you should go to the police,’ Stella repeated.

‘Take my advice, never get involved with the police.’ He put up his hands, the knuckles swollen, probably rheumatic. Stella wondered if he still mended clocks.

‘Come to my house tonight. Around eight. Address: 1 Stag Villas. Cross the weir at Fletcher’s bridge and turn right.’

Before Stella could refuse, umbrella held high above evening shoppers, Clive Burgess had lurched away into the rainy darkness.

The rain was pelting now. Her hair plastered to her head, Stella swept Stanley up and hurried along the street to the flat.

In her staff cleaning manual for Clean Slate, Stella had written, Operatives must never enter premises without informing HQ of their location. Following her rule, if not her judgement, Stella decided to ask Lucie to go with her to 1 Stag Villas. She didn’t fancy being alone with Clive.

Chapter Twenty-Four

2019

Stella

The Victoria Pleasure Gardens gleamed in sporadic moonlight. The river had risen above the banks, it lapped across the paths and lawns. Sharp gusts of wind drove forward the encroaching water, the surface pocked with yet more rain.

In the daytime, the gardens were another of Stella’s refuges. She and Stanley wandered the paths soothed by the geometry and neat rows of winter planting. She sat on a bench watching the river, which made up for missing the Thames. Tonight – with no Stanley – each step felt like an advance into oblivion.

‘Wait for me.’ Never had Stella been so grateful to hear Lucie, tottering and slipping in high-heeled boots several metres behind. She stopped and, catching up, Lucie clawed at Stella’s sleeve. ‘Christ, will the rain ever stop? This town is underwater.’

Lucie May’s dress-code was either war correspondent in cargo pants and combat jacket or an outfit in which she ‘dressed to kill, darling’. In tonight’s faux-fur jacket over a shimmering black dress that showed off her too-thin figure, she must be freezing.

‘This was a dumb shortcut with a murderer about.’ Lucie splashed into a deep puddle. She shouted over a distant rushing sound.

It was dumb. Glad to have Lucie and striving to keep them both upright, Stella made for the gate by Fletcher’s Mill.

‘So, this is the drill. You point me at Clive the Clock, stand back and watch me go. In no time at all he’ll be spilling his beans.’ Lucie stamped a booted foot, soaking them both. ‘Whoops, damn.’

‘Clive asked me to go there, I doubt he’ll need encouragement to talk.’ Having seen Clive Burgess’s chatty efforts with Gladys Wren and the surly Andrea at the Death Café, Stella doubted he’d need luring with Lucie’s particular charm. He could clam up.

They stepped onto St Mary’s Road where, in the shifting shadows of scudding clouds, the row of higgledy-piggledy cottages seemed to jostle for their rightful place. The rushing intensified to a roar as they passed the weir. A thundering torrent, sheened moon-silver, streamed over the sluices into a cauldron mass below.

Lucie’s heels caught on the planking as Stella attempted to guide her over the footbridge. Pausing to look over the side, Stella was instantly mesmerized. She imagined casting herself into the spume and being spun away by the relentless force.

‘Stella!’ Above the cacophony, Lucie’s cry was faint. Gripping the balustrade, she tugged Stella on across the bridge. On the other bank she grabbed her wrists and coming up close, yelled, ‘What in hell happened there?’

Stella’s numbed lips were slick with spray, she could only shake her head.

‘You were about to throw yourself over.’ Lucie shook Stella. ‘Shit, girl, you gave me a fright. When you saw him last night, exactly what did Jack say? You’ve been a zombie ever since.’

‘It wasn’t Jack. I would never ki—’ Stella could not explain her reflexive urge to leap into the river was not suicide, but a bid for life.

The clock on the abbey tower said two minutes to eight. Clive had said around eight. He’d said punctuality was a concept but it could do no harm to be on time.

‘It’s like all this