Free Cold Sacrifice by Leigh Russell Page B

knee.
    ‘What about it then?’ he asked.
    ‘What?’
    ‘The seed cake. Is it ready yet?’
    Mrs Jamieson smiled indulgently.
    ‘Poor thing, he didn’t hear a word I said, did you dear?’

16
    H E CONSCIOUSLY ENJOYED DRINKING in the comfort of his own home without anyone watching him and criticising, but the pleasure soon faded. The house felt disconcertingly empty. Even the noise of the television didn’t fill the silence. He flipped restlessly between channels, scowling at false laughter and seemingly endless adverts. Mark had gone out. No one else ever came round. Until now, Henry hadn’t realised how much he had come to depend on Martha. For thirty years she had lingered in the house like a bad smell. It was no wonder he had lost interest in her as a woman when all she did was complain. She was so bloody self-righteous, as though their problems were all his fault. And it was maddening, the way she would stare at him in silence whenever he lost his temper. Yet any time he was in trouble, Martha had been there for him. When he had been laid up with the flu, Martha was the one who had brought him soup, and propped him up on his pillows so she could feed him, like a baby. He had broken his ankle slipping over on the ice one winter. Martha had taken him to the hospital, looking after him until he was fit again.
    ‘It’s my duty,’ she had said primly when he wanted to thank her for taking care of him. ‘I’m your wife.’
    She had never shown him affection, but she had always been there. Maybe that should have been enough.

    It was ironic that he was in trouble as a consequence of her death, when she was the only person who would have helped him. His son was refusing to vouch for him, even though Henry had sworn he had been asleep on the sofa on Friday evening. As his son, Mark should have taken his word for it. Henry had been banking on his co-operation. Instead, Mark had as good as accused him of following Martha to the park, sticking a knife in her heart, running home again, and lying about it to save his own skin. If he couldn’t rely on Mark to furnish him with an alibi, he would just have to find someone else. But only Martha would have been prepared to lie to protect him. There was no one else.

    About to pour another whisky into his glass, he thought better of it and set the bottle down on the table. Drinking alone was depressing and besides, he needed to remain sober if he was going to fight his way out of his present troubles. His head cleared as he walked along the street. It was a fine evening, but chilly. Under any other circumstances he would have been happy, free at last, with money to burn. He tried to imagine how he would be feeling if Martha had passed away naturally. Outwardly like any other grieving widower coming to terms with the death of his wife, inside he would be rejoicing at his good fortune. He wouldn’t be tormented by the crippling fear that now plagued him. Without an alibi for the time of Martha’s death, he was as good as convicted. Only unlike his dead wife, he was a fighter. Having wasted more than thirty years of his life tied to her, he refused to let her ruin what little time he had left. The police were on to him, but he would get the better of them yet. With a little planning he could outwit the lot of them.

    He walked along the front until he came to a rundown pub. At nine o’clock it was almost empty. A middle-aged man lounged in one corner, while a couple of young lads sat laughing together at a table. An old tart was sitting up at the bar, eyeing everyone who came in. She glanced over at Henry, and turned away again. She wasn’t much to look at, but she gave him an idea. He didn’t have any friends to speak of, just a few workmates. But he had money. Lots of it. Instead of a short, he ordered a black coffee, strong and bitter, with two sugars. He needed to stay alert if he was going to carry out the plan that was forming in his mind. Gulping down the hot sweet