Free The Vacant Casualty by Patty O'Furniture Page B

alone. Second reason . . .’ he counted them off on his fingers, ‘he
unknowingly picked Miss Quimple’s aubergines over those of her sister when he was a judge at last year’s flower show. He said they were remarkable – plump and firm and sensual,
and he wanted to put his hands all over them. But he said it to the wrong sister, you see. She nearly fainted. It was the highlight of my summer. Then he picked
that
sister’s melons
over the other and made the same mistake all over again. So they both hate him.’
    ‘As well as having access to explosives and firearms,’ pointed out Bradley. ‘What did he say about the melons?’
    ‘Oh, let me see, I did write it down . . .’ Both men smiled at his presumed joke, but then he produced a small black notebook and, flicking the pages back, said, ‘Ah yes, here
we are: “Squeezy, sumptuous – I want to have their juices running down my chin.” Yuck! He really was an unassuageable pervert. But then, who isn’t in this day and age?
How’s the custard?’
    Sam nodded happily, a spoonful still to his lips.
    ‘Fourth on the list: the mayor. Another pervert. A man who is a pathetic, short-statured, poorly organized, self-aggrandizing, bad excuse for a public official, but who is really just a
twat . . .’
    ‘What do you mean by that, exactly?’ asked Bradley, paused with his pen over his notebook.
    ‘Sorry if I wasn’t being clear,’ said the major, clearing his throat, and flicking up his eyepatch. ‘What I meant was that he is . . . a
twat
.’
    ‘In this usage,’ said Sam from his seat behind the detective, ‘I think the word means a useless or risibly pointless person.’
    ‘I see,’ said Bradley. ‘What are the final two reasons?’
    ‘Reason five: he was in charge of the local movement to oppose military installations nearby.’
    ‘What military installations?’
    ‘They had a couple of thousand intercontinental ballistic missiles stationed about ten miles away until a few years ago and the locals revolted, got them out. The idea was to stockpile
about a thousand weapons beneath the great Hill at the top of town. Along with Saracene Galaxista, Terry opposed this and got backing from lots of people.’
    Sam was halfway through sipping his bowl of crème de menthe-flavoured custard, which was filling his stomach with warmish velvety goodness (‘Like a crap hot version of
Baileys,’ he thought to himself), but he still made a mental note that he must try and persuade Bradley that their next interview should take place in the pub. For entertainment value, at the
very least. It then occurred to him that he was taking the matter of a man who was missing and possibly murdered very lightly.
Then
it occurred to him that he was drinking alcoholic
mint-flavoured custard from a bowl, and spilling some of it down his top, and he should try to deal with one thing at a time.
    ‘Final reason: he was sniffing around. He had been quite excited these last few weeks and months. He was the sort of chap who’d love to expose a miscarriage of justice, or a cover up
of some kind and he kept hinting at it. Not heavy-handed hints, you understand, but accidentally. He was foraging around in the library recently, and seemed to have a bee in his bonnet. This vote,
for instance – it was supposed to be passed six weeks ago but he kept having it delayed while he asked for extra time to look into something. People were wary enough of him already, but that
might have been what tipped someone over the edge.’
    The two men were intrigued and excited by this last possibility.
    ‘What do you think he was looking for?’ asked Bradley.
    ‘I couldn’t possibly tell you,’ said their host. ‘Remember, I’ve only been here a few years – less time than him.’
    ‘We’ve got lots of motives to investigate, then,’ said Bradley. ‘I suppose we ought to speak to some of these folks as soon as we can. Thank you, Major – I mean,
Doctor.’
    ‘That’s okay,’ he