Free Days Without Number by Robert Goddard Page A

beneath the wiper blade. Before he had a chance to examine it, however, Andrew had clunked the Land Rover into gear and pulled away, shouting a goodnight as he went. Nick gave a halfhearted wave and watched him turn out of sight at the end of the street.
    Only then did he walk into the pool of amber light beneath the nearest streetlamp and look at what he held in his hand: a sealed blank white envelope, dampened by the drizzle. He tore it open, pulled out the contents, and found himself looking at a condolences card. There was an artist's impression of a candle, beside the Gothically scripted words In Sympathy. He opened the card, where more words were printed. Thinking of you at this sad time. But there was no signature. No name. No message. The condolences were strictly anonymous.
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    The incident grew more worrying the longer Nick thought about it. He could not help turning it over in his mind as he drove back to the Old Ferry later that evening, secretly glad that he and Irene were making the journey in separate cars. He did not want to tell her about the card for the simple yet disturbing reason that it made no sense. No-one in the Citadel Road area knew Andrew, let alone his Land Rover. If the card had been dropped through the letterbox at Anna's flat, it would have been puzzling enough. As it was, the message seemed intended for Andrew alone - for reasons which Nick could not even guess at.
    Irene had closed the pub for the evening. A sign apologizing for the fact and citing a family bereavement as the reason hung on the door, palely lit by the headlamps of Nick's car as he slowed for the turn into the yard.
    He entered by the back door, which had been left unlocked for him, cut through the darkened bar and carried his bag up the stairs. As he reached the top, the television news cut out in the sitting room and Irene called to him through the open doorway. 'Nick?'
    'Who else?'
    'Join me for a nightcap?'
    'OK.'
    Irene had left Anna's flat half an hour or so ahead of Nick. It looked to him as if she had hit the whisky since then. The heat from the gas fire had filled the room with the smell of it. He poured himself a finger and sat down opposite her, noticing as he did so the tears welling in her eyes.
    'Bad times, eh, sis? Bad, sad times.'
    'I think it was worse when Mum died.' Irene thumbed away the tears and sniffed. 'This is mostly shock.'
    'Well, we had plenty of warning with Mum, didn't we?'
    'Too much.'
    Ts none at all better?'
    'Not sure. Maybe.'
    'Did they tell you . . . exactly when they think he died?'
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    Ten hours or so before Pru found him, apparently. So, late last night.'
    'And he was at the bottom of the cellar steps?'
    'Yes.' She smiled. 'Maybe he'd gone to fetch a vintage claret to celebrate the defeat of his children.' More tears came then, which she mopped with a tissue.
    'Did he have a bottle with him?'
    'Sorry?'
    'Was he carrying a bottle when he fell? I mean, why else would he have gone down there?'
    Irene frowned. 'I don't know. Nobody's mentioned it. Maybe he hadn't got that far.'
    'But he must have, if he fell as he was leaving. Why would he be leaving empty-handed?'
    'How do you know he fell as he was leaving?'
    'Because the injury was to the back of his head. That's what you told me.'
    'Yes, but . . .' Irene's blurred gaze snapped into focus. 'What are you getting at?'
    'Nothing. Just . . . trying to understand what happened.'
    'What happened was that he slipped or tripped . . . and fell. What possible difference can it make whether he was coming or going at the time?'
    'None, I suppose. Except . . .' Nick took a sip of whisky. 'Andrew reckons we should be careful not to mention Tantris's offer to the police.'
    'It's none of their business.'
    'No. Precisely. But if they got wind of it, well, they might put two and two together and make five. Like Basil said, they're paid to be suspicious.'
    'Rubbish. They're far too busy trying to solve real crimes to waste time looking for imaginary