Free Death of a Sunday Writer by Eric Wright Page B

I’ve heard. They wouldn’t hurt me. And my cousin didn’t have much to do with the very bad ones, I hear.”
    â€œWhat’s it all about, anyway?”
    â€œI’m going to get a licence and take over my cousin’s agency, and I want to write a memoir about him. My first job is going to be to find out what he was like.”
    Ibbotson was amused, but he was becoming sympathetic, as if she were an earnest teenager on assignment from her high school newspaper. “What can I tell you?”
    â€œYou knew him. Who were his acquaintances?”
    â€œI knew of him. He didn’t have a record. His friends did, though, some of them.”
    â€œWho were they?”
    â€œYou want to know who he hung around with?”
    â€œYes.”
    Ibbotson shook his head. “I don’t think I can talk like this.”
    Lucy pulled a slip from her purse. “What about these?” She read off the names she had found on the computer in Trimble’s memoir.
    â€œNolan’s still around. At least he was when I last looked. He and Trimble were great buddies.”
    â€œWhere can I find Nolan?”
    â€œOut at the track. Any day.”
    â€œWhat does he look like?”
    â€œWe don’t give mug shots to the public.”
    Lucy pulled out the photos she had taken from the walls of Trimble’s office. “Any of these?”
    Ibbotson glanced at them and shook his head. Then he looked at them again, selected one and said. “Him. Johnny Comstock. He’s a trainer, but he wouldn’t hang around with your cousin.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Ibbotson looked out the window, saying nothing.
    â€œI see. You mean he’s an honest trainer.”
    â€œI mean no trainer would hang around with your cousin, and yes, as far as I know, Comstock is strictly on the up-and-up.”
    â€œWhere will I find him?”
    â€œSame place.” Ibbotson looked at the pictures again, then pushed them back to her. “What do you plan to do? Go up to each of these guys and ask him to tell you stories about Trimble?”
    â€œI’ve got a better idea than that. Thank you very much, Sergeant. May I come back?”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œIt’s a very new world to me. I might need help to understand what I find out.”
    â€œI’ll help you right now. Forget it.”
    â€œI can’t do that. I think my cousin deserves some kind of memorial.”
    â€œPeter,” she said. “Look at these pictures. I got them off the walls. Have you ever seen any of them before?”
    â€œHim,” Tse said immediately, pointing to the picture of Comstock.
    â€œThat’s where I’ll start, then. Tomorrow I’m off to the races.”
    â€œLucy, what are you up to?”
    â€œI told you. I want to write a little memoir about David.”
    â€œSo you say, but I don’t believe you. I’ve been thinking about you. You think somebody killed David, don’t you?”
    â€œNo, no, of course not. How could that be?” Lucy moved some objects around the desk like the operator of a shell game.
    â€œThat’s what you’re trying to find out.”
    â€œWell, I do think it’s strange. I know he had a heart attack, but he might have been threatened, which would bring it on. Why was the office broken into? There’ssomething at the bottom of it. Was there anyone in the office before the person across the street arrived?”
    â€œHis door was locked. I opened it.”
    â€œLocked door murders are a dime a dozen. There are books, collections of them.”
    â€œIt was nine o’clock in the morning. Dave’s friends don’t get up that early.”
    But it wasn’t good enough. It had to be proved.
    Tse shook his head. “Well, for God’s sake be careful who you ask. I’ll come with you to the racetrack.”
    â€œThat would be nice. I don’t even know where the race track is. What time do we have to