Free By a Narrow Majority by Faith Martin

shouldn’t, it wouldn’t exactly break your heart, perhaps?’ she asked, allowing just a touch of knowing amusement to creep into her voice.
    As she’d expected, McNamara suddenly spread his hands in a helpless gesture, and a small, reluctant smile spread across his face. He had, she noticed for the first time, a moustache . It was so small and pale she’d almost missed it.
    ‘Well, let’s just say, all’s fair in love and politics.’
    ‘Mr Dale’s campaign secretary seemed to think he had a good chance of getting the nomination,’ Hillary said, throwing it into the pot just as the door opened and a plump, elderly lady came in with a tray. On it was a genuine silver coffee pot, made somewhere around the 1840s, Hillary guessed, and what looked like genuine Spode cups and saucers. A matching silver creamer contained cream, not milk, and a sugar bowl was full to the brim with loose sugar, not lumps, with a small, silver spoon nestling beside it.
    ‘Ah, thanks, Daisy. Wonderful as ever,’ McNamara complimented . Not one of the three women present knew whether he was referring to Daisy or the coffee, but Daisy smiled briefly and went out, without saying a word.
    ‘Well, of course, his own campaign secretary would have to say that,’ George McNamara said in response to Hillary’s statement, reaching for the pot as he did so. ‘But I’m hardlylikely to agree. Yes, Malcolm has a lot of support, but most of it comes from the higher echelon of the party. My own strength is at grass roots level, which can sometimes be much more of an advantage. Cream? Sugar?’
    Hillary murmured her choices and took a moment to think. So far, everything seemed on the up and up. McNamara was still talking about Malcolm Dale in the present tense, and seeing as the news of his death hadn’t yet hit the papers, or been released to the local radio stations, there was no reason why the solicitor should know that his rival was dead. And right from the start, George McNamara had seemed to think that Malcolm Dale had been caught in some peccadillo that had for some reason caught the attention of the police.  
    But of course it could all be camouflage.  
    ‘So, tell me how I can help, Inspector,’ McNamara said, raising the coffee cup to his lips.  
    ‘I’m afraid Mr Malcolm Dale was brutally murdered last night, Mr McNamara,’ Hillary said calmly, lifting her own cup and taking a sip. Ah, wonderful. No mere instant spooned from a jar, this, but properly percolated, Brazilian coffee.  
    ‘He what?’ McNamara said blankly. ‘Malcolm? Dead? But …’ He slowly lowered his cup to the table, then looked at Hillary with a deliberate hardening of his face. ‘I see,’ he said, his voice taking on a much more solicitor-like tone. ‘And you want to know where I was at the time?’  
    Hillary felt like smiling. He reminded her of nothing so much as a bird who’d had his feathers unexpectedly ruffled.  
    ‘Well, that would be a good start, sir,’ she murmured blandly.  
    ‘And when was he murdered exactly?’ McNamara asked, with a definite hint of you-don’t-catch-me in his tone, which made Hillary feel like grinning. Or saying something equally fatuous, like ‘touché’.  
    ‘If you can just tell me what you did from, say, five o’clock onwards last night, sir?’ she said instead.  
    Somewhat appeased, McNamara nodded. ‘Let’s see. I lefthere at my usual time, that is, 5.30. The receptionist downstairs can confirm that. I live in Kidlington, so it took me, oh, say half an hour to get home. You know what traffic is like. My wife was home by then, and we made dinner together. Something simple – pasta of some sort, I think it was. We ate, and then I had some work to do in my study. Campaign work. I watched some television with my wife about ten – the news, that sort of thing. And we were in bed by eleven.’
    ‘And did your wife disturb you in the study?’
    ‘My wife, Inspector, I assure you, knows better,’