Free Death of an Old Goat by Robert Barnard

carpet. There was nobody to utter the obvious quotation from Macbeth , but sentiments appropriate to the play were not wanting. The cool, tanned receptionist in her tasteful floral print frock looked with mild distaste at the scene from the safety of the doorway, and said: ‘Dreadful to think of it happening in this motel.’
    And the motel caretaker, standing by the bed until such time as the police turned up, said: ‘Not a very nice thing to happen anywhere.’
    The rebuke went unnoticed.
    â€˜We’ve always tried to have things so nice here, haven’t we?’ the receptionist continued. ‘Never any trouble with the police before, except that case of the manager and that girl under the age of consent, and he hushed that up, though it cost him a packet. Do you think he might be able to hush this up?’
    â€˜Not a hope,’ said the caretaker. ‘Might be if the chap was an Abo, but he’s not.’
    Now the receptionist really was shocked.
    â€˜I should think not! Watch your language! An Abo in this motel!’
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    â€˜Hey, Fred!’ shouted the police constable to one of a little ring of sergeants playing whist round a table in the smoky back room of the police station. ‘Call from the Yarumba Motel. They say there’s been a murder.’
    â€˜OK. Tell ’em I’ll be round. Just finish this game.’
    â€˜They say it’s urgent.’
    â€˜Aw, it’ll just be some drunk Abo.’
    â€˜No, it’s not. They said it was some Professor or other. He was staying there.’
    â€˜Some egg-head, eh? OK. Speed it up a bit, Jack. Just finish this hand.’
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    â€˜Isn’t it dreadful ,’ said Lucy Wickham with ghoulish pleasure into the telephone. ‘I haven’t got any of the details yet, but as far as I can make out his throat was cut.’
    â€˜Poor old chappie,’ said Mrs Turberville at the other end. ‘Seemed so full of life yesterday, too.’
    It was the first time for many decades that Professor Belville-Smith had been described as full of life, and he was not alive to appreciate it.
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    The little knot of sergeants and constables stood around the motel bed, with the caretaker looking on. The two sergeants looked at each other regretfully.
    â€˜It’s murder all right, Fred,’ said Sergeant Jack Brady to Sergeant Fred Malone.
    â€˜Looks like it, Jack,’ said Fred.
    They both looked towards the caretaker to see if he showed any admiration for their powers of deduction. He seemed, on the contrary, to be repressing a sarcasm.
    â€˜Poor old bugger hardly woke up, I wouldn’t wonder,’ said Sergeant Brady. ‘Doesn’t seem to have put up any fight.’
    â€˜He was about eighty,’ said the caretaker. ‘Would you expect him to do a swift bit of ju-jitsu, swing around from the chandelier, or something like that?’
    â€˜What the hell are you doing here anyway, smart Aleck?’ said Sergeant Brady.
    â€˜Get lost,’ said Sergeant Malone. The caretaker left them reluctantly, as if he thought they might bury the body under the floor-boards, and try and forget the whole thing.
    When they were alone, they looked at each other again.
    â€˜It’s murder all right,’ said Sergeant Brady. Sergeant Malone nodded sagely.
    â€˜We’ll have to call Royle, you know.’
    â€˜He’ll be wild.’
    â€˜I know he’ll be wild.’
    â€˜He hates being called when he’s on the job.’
    â€˜I know he does. But what did he give us the phone numbers for? If we can’t phone him when we’ve got a murder on our hands, what can we call him for?’
    Sergeant Malone thought for a bit.
    â€˜If he won the lottery?’ he suggested.
    â€˜Come on,’ said Brady. ‘Here’s the list. Wednesday 11.30-12.30. Drummondale 4561. Are you going to phone him, or am