Free Death of an Old Goat by Robert Barnard Page A

I?’
    â€˜You are.’
    Sergeant Brady sighed and went towards the reception office.

CHAPTER VII
INSPECTOR ROYLE
    T HE JOB that Inspector Royle was on was Mrs Winifred Fairweather of 59 Bardell St, Drummondale, and she was just beginning to get excited when the phone rang.
    Mrs Fairweather obliged Inspector Royle on Wednesdays at 11.30 with the full permission of her husband, Fred Fairweather, whose only conditions were that the inspector should be out of the house by the time he came home for lunch at one, and that whatever they might do together while he was out should not prevent his lunch being on the table when he came in. These conditions had been scrupulously observed, and the arrangement seemed to suit all parties. Fred Fairweather found it convenient to oblige the police. Not that his activities could in any way be described as criminal; but he had a small removal firm, and it was as well to make sure that the authorities would turn a blindeye to such small details as defective brakes or headlights or — in the case of one of his vans — complete unroadworthiness. So Mrs Fairweather had joined the list which included Mrs Jones (9.30 Mondays), Mrs Randle (2.30 Tuesdays), Mrs Ford (2.00 Thursdays) and Mrs Beecham (12.00 Fridays). She had replaced a Mrs Westerby, a widow with scruples who had been consigned to outer darkness because Inspector Royle felt she took more time than she was worth. Since Inspector Royle started paying his visits to the Fairweathers, Fred had stopped slipping small sums to one of the constables, so what one was gaining on the roundabouts, another was losing on the swings.
    â€˜Christ,’ said Inspector Royle hoarsely as the phone rang. ‘What a bloody time to ring.’
    â€˜Let it,’ said Mrs Fairweather, putting her fingers around his shoulder-straps.
    â€˜Can’t,’ said Royle. ‘Got a hell of a rocket last time I didn’t answer.’
    â€˜When was that?’ asked Mrs Fairweather. ‘You weren’t with me.’
    â€˜Oh, a long time ago,’ said Royle evasively. ‘Will you go and answer it, Win?’
    â€˜No, I won’t. Do it yourself if you must. Bound to be for you. All my friends know not to ring Wednesday mornings.’
    Royle lumbered off the bed and into the hall.
    â€˜Yes,’ he said cautiously.
    â€˜Brady here, sir,’ said the voice.
    â€˜You fucking idiot,’ said Royle, exploding. ‘What the hell do you mean ringing at a time like this? I’ve told you before. You’ve put me right off my stride.’
    â€˜Couldn’t help it, sir. There’s been a murder.’
    â€˜Some blasted black, I suppose.’
    â€˜No, sir. A Professor of some kind. Pommie, I think. On a visit here. We’re at the Yarumba.’
    Inspector Royle groaned.
    â€˜Christ in Hell. Not the bloody University mob. OK. I’ll be right over.’
    He slammed the receiver down with a force fit to disrupt the instrument and stumped towards the bedroom.
    â€˜Who’d be a bloody policeman?’ he said, making a bad-tempered grab at his trousers.
    â€˜Worse if you was a fireman, I expect,’ said Win, who was sitting on the edge of the bed and pouting a little.
    â€˜Number of bloody murders we get in this place you’d think it was Chicago,’ said Royle, stuffing himself with difficulty into his trousers.
    â€˜Careful with that zip,’ said Win. ‘You don’t want to do yourself an injury.’
    Royle took his hat off the chest of drawers, and adjusted it carefully in front of the wardrobe mirror. There might be photographers around, and he could do with some good publicity.
    â€˜Will I see you later — after lunch, say?’ asked Win.
    â€˜Course you won’t. This is a murder not a bloody parking offence.’
    â€˜Who was it then?’ asked Win.
    â€˜Some pommie Professor or other, unless Brady’s got the wrong end of the stick, which he