Free Wobble to Death by Peter Lovesey Page B

running.’
    ‘You show her around? She wants to see his tent, I expect?’
    ‘I simply introduced her to some of the officials. She knows most of us. We didn’t look into Darrell’s tent.’
    Jacobson remembered. ‘Monk—that’s Darrell’s trainer— took Mrs Darrell in there.’
    The eyebrows jerked higher. ‘For long?’
    ‘Oh, not much longer than five minutes.’
    Constable Thackeray, finding the standing position awk-ward for writing, sat on the bed.
    ‘Then she leaves?’
    ‘As far as I can remember, yes.’
    Cribb ran his finger down the newspaper which he was holding.
    ‘The last hour. Darrell in poor shape. Foxing, is he?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Jacobson answered. ‘His feet were troubling him. He took off his shoes before the end. Several of the runners were limping.’
    ‘Monk attends him, I suppose? Gets him back in the tent at one o’clock?’
    ‘Yes. Most of the competitors chose to rest at that stage.’ ‘Now then.’ Cribb had dissected the report to his satis-faction, and tossed the paper in Thackeray’s direction. ‘Darrell comes out again. What time?’
    ‘Soon after four.’
    ‘How’s he looking?’
    ‘Very good at that stage,’ Herriott recalled. ‘He set off at a clinking pace. The feet seemed to have improved a lot.’
    ‘Erratic?’
    ‘I don’t think so. He seemed well in command, but full of energy.’
    Cribb’s face lit into a momentary smile.
    ‘Not surprising. Full of strychnine. Acts as a stimulant. The first spasm, now. When does that come?’
    ‘That would have been about six.’
    ‘Six. Is it now? Thought it might come earlier. Maybe the running makes a difference. Must check that.’
    He patted the tip of his nose several times with his index finger.
    ‘Time of death? No matter. I’ve got that.’
    Herriott took the opportunity of a lull in the interroga-tion to raise a point that was troubling him deeply.
    ‘Sergeant, this investigation. Does it mean that you will want me to cancel the race?’
    ‘Cancel? Whatever for? Keep it going, Mr Herriott. Keep it going as long as you can. Perfect for investigating a poisoning. Everyone’s here, you see. Might ask you to extend it into next week if I’m held up.’
    Neither Jacobson nor Herriott was equal at this hour to the sergeant’s style of humour, so he turned to other matters.
    ‘This man Monk. He’s the cove I’ve got to see.’
    ‘You won’t learn much from him,’ commented Herriott. ‘The man is drunk. He took to the bottle this afternoon, drinking alone. He seemed to be doing it with the idea of get-ting stoned out of his mind. He fell into a stupor eventually, and then woke up and made a scene out there in the arena. I hauled him over to a spare hut. He’s sleeping it off there.’
    ‘We’ll have him out, then. Must grill him at once. Get him sobered up and bring him to Darrell’s tent. I’ll see him there.’
    Herriott had hoped for a chance to sleep after the ques-tioning, but clearly he and Jacobson had been co-opted as members of the Detective Branch. Sergeant Cribb’s tone stifled protest.
    ‘Another thing,’ he snapped. ‘The second doctor, Mostyn-Smith. Hook him out of bed. We’ll hear his story while you dowse Monk.’
    ‘Mostyn-Smith won’t be in bed,’ said Jacobson. ‘He does-n’t normally rest for more than a half-hour. They say he gets his best walking done when the rest are sleeping. After this morning he’ll have a long stretch to make up.’
    Cribb was not inconsiderate quite to the point of brutality. ‘Lost some ground did he? Can’t have him losing more, then. How long since you finished beat-bashing, Thackeray?’
    The constable returned the look of a trapped bear.
    ‘Three years, Sarge. The feet, you know.’
    ‘Splendid. Should hold you up for a mile. Get out there with the Doc. You know the line of questioning. Not a word about the strychnine. We’ll keep that close at present. Understood, gents? Off you go, then.’
    He passed each of the