Free The Saint Valentine's Day Murders by Ruth Dudley Edwards

believe them?’ he said hopelessly.
    ‘Of course I don’t believe them!’ roared Shipton indignantly. ‘What do you take me for? I wouldn’t believe those imbeciles if they told me Peter Sutcliffe was the Yorkshire Ripper.’
    Amiss looked at him. The folds of flesh were fairly quivering. ‘You mean you’ve told them to go on working on it?’
    ‘I most certainly have not. I’ve told them they’re a pair of bloody fools who’ve been wasting our time. Do you know they haven’t even tried to find out who sent them the anonymous letter about Tiny’s jokes? I’ve had enough. We’ll have to let the whole thing drop. I’ve told them to clear off back where they belong and check the spoons. Evidence for the prosecution: “He claims not to wear pyjamas and doesn’t like working in PD.” If that’s evidence, they should be accusing me. Get on with your work and forget all about it. I’ll make sure no one hears about their report.’
    He waved Amiss towards the door and settled himself back comfortably. As Amiss turned to thank him, he saw his eyes were already closing.

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    12
    « ^ »
    17 December
    Amiss fretted in the departure lounge. It had been stupid of him to suggest meeting Rachel in a restaurant rather than picking her up at her flat. He’d be more than an hour late, whatever happened now. Could he ring the restaurant and leave a message? No. His fragile French would never stand the strain. Hell. She’d have left the embassy by now and her bloody phone was out of order again. Why didn’t the frogs spend some of their ill-gotten gains from immoral arms sales on getting their stinking telecommunications right?
    He bought himself another drink and tried to immerse himself in the novel he had just bought from the airline bookstall, but he had only got to page ten when a sepulchral voice announced the imminent departure of the Paris plane. Draining his glass, he began to hurry towards the departure gates. As he did so, he caught a glimpse ahead of a familiar-looking figure. After a momentary shock he realized he must be seeing things. If any of his staff decided to go abroad, it would be talked about for weeks. He was becoming obsessed with these people. This was a weekend for spiritual refreshment, not speculating on hallucinations.
    By the time he reached the restaurant in Montparnasse, he was almost an hour and a half late. She was sitting in a corner, her feet propped on the chair opposite, reading with concentration. In front of her was a half empty carafe of red wine. He rushed over and apologized volubly. She looked at him with amusement.
    ‘Good grief, Robert. Anyone would think I might accuse you of being late on purpose. Pull yourself together. You sound like a henpecked husband trying to blame British Rail for his night on the tiles.’
    ‘Oh, God. I do, don’t I?’ He bent down, kissed her and handed his overcoat to a hovering waiter. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sitting down. ‘It’s catching. After last night’s Annual Dinner Dance I expect all women to be unforgiving.’
    ‘Take things gently. Have some wine and choose something to eat. Then when you’ve calmed down you can tell me all about the dinner dance. It sounds promising.’
    Amiss gazed at her lovingly. After the sights of the previous night the effect was pleasant: short brown hair neither permed nor dyed; thin intelligent face not over-made up; clothes chosen neither to depress nor stun; unpretentious black glasses.
    ‘You’re looking particularly beautiful tonight, darling.’
    ‘Nonsense, Robert. I’m looking the same as I always do. You’re obviously suffering from overreaction to your colleagues’ wives. Now shut up for a minute and concentrate on the menu.’
    Amiss felt rather dashed. It wasn’t often he made pretty speeches, and it wasn’t pleasant to have them ruled out of order.
    ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. It’s just that you’re carrying a whiff of suburbia with you. I’m