Free Shades of Murder by Ann Granger Page A

about Interpol?’
    He twitched his eyebrows, startled. ‘Isn’t that making a big jump in reasoning? We’ve no reason to believe he’s a crook. The Polish authorities could confirm whether or not he’s for real or a fake, but there again, we’ve no excuse for contacting them. Presumably his travel documents are in order or he wouldn’t have got through immigration at Heathrow.’
    ‘There is one thing I can do,’ Meredith told him. ‘I can phone Juliet Painter and warn her. She’s got an excuse to visit Fourways and check things out. I’ll do it tonight.’
    She paused. ‘I was going to phone her anyway. I’ve changed my mind, about my house.’
    She saw the alarm flood into his eyes. ‘You’ve moving out? Going back to your place?’
    ‘No. I have decided to sell my place.’ She waited.
    He said quietly, ‘I don’t want you to do this just to please me.’
    ‘That’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I want to show you I care. That I’m not half-hearted about us looking for a new home together. That I want – that I want this new stage in our relationship to work and I’m prepared to do my bit towards it.’
    Later, she moved her head on his shoulder and said, ‘Today, for the first time, I told someone you were my partner.’
    ‘That’s nice.’ He smoothed her hair. ‘Whom did you tell?’
    ‘How grammatical you are. I told Jan Oakley.’
    ‘Ah? In self-defence?’ He was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his blue eyes.
    ‘Perhaps it was, but it won’t be in future.’ She said softly, ‘I mean it, Alan.’
    He reached out and took her hand. ‘I do know what a big step this is for you.’
    She squeezed his fingers. ‘Funnily enough, it’s not as difficult to make as I thought it would be. Dithering never helps, does it? It’s always best to make up one’s mind.’
    ‘For better or worse?’ he asked quietly.
    ‘Getting married is a bigger step.’ Meredith drew a deep breath. ‘I’m making progress, Alan, but I need to do it in my own time.’
    So they left it at that, for the time being.
    Damaris Oakley toiled slowly up the winding staircase, steadying herself with a hand on the banister. The oak was worn as smooth as silk by the touch of countless other hands. Behind her came their visitor, his clumsybackpack bumping against the treads. She could hear his breath, was conscious of the scratching of the rucksack against the woodwork and the rustle of his clothing, the heat of his body and the smell of male sweat. It was as if some large wild beast crept up the staircase behind her. She had to fight back terror, an old, old terror which had resurfaced.
    When she and Florence had been small, a nursemaid had frightened them with stories of the bogeyman who lived in dark corners and jumped out at passing children. As a result, she and Florence and even Arthur, although he was a boy and knew he ought to be brave, would only go up and down the stairs together. Hands gripped for mutual reassurance, they’d peer fearfully into each shadowy corner, uttering squeals of dismay at each creak of the woodwork. At last their father had found out how terrified his children were and had conducted an elaborate ceremony, involving raiding the dressing-up box, to banish the fiend.
    And now he was back. Perhaps, thought Damaris, he’d never really gone away at all. He hadn’t been fooled by Papa in an Oriental dressing gown and a turban. He’d just been biding his time and here he was. No longer a shadow, but flesh and blood. Our flesh, she thought, and our blood. At the other end of a long life, she had to deal with him again. The bogeyman had become reality. He was there now, following her up the staircase as he’d followed two scared little girls nearly eighty years ago.
    They’d reached the corridor. She led him along it and opened the door. ‘I’ve put you in the turret room. I hope you’ll be comfortable. There is a bathroom just along there. The hot water is a little