Free Innocence by Peter Robinson Page B

answering machine? Reed cursed. Then he realized he didn’t even have one himself, hated the things. Francis no doubt felt the same way. If you were out, tough tittie; you were out and that was that.
    Outside, the street lights reflected in oily puddles on the roads and pavements. After walking off his heartburn for half an hour, thoroughly soaked and out of breath, Reed ducked into the first pub he saw. The locals eyed him suspiciously at first, then ignored him and went back to their drinks.
    â€œPint of bitter, please,” Reed said, rubbing his hands together. “In a sleeve glass, if you’ve got one.”
    â€œSorry, sir,” the landlord said, reaching for a mug. “The locals bring their own.”
    â€œOh, very well.”
    â€œNasty night.”
    â€œYes,” said Reed. “Very.”
    â€œFrom these parts?”
    â€œNo. Just passing through.”
    â€œAh.” The landlord passed over a brimming pint mug, took Reed’s money and went back to the conversation he’d been having with a round-­faced man in a pinstripe suit. Reed took his drink over to a table and sat down.
    Over the next hour and a half he phoned Francis four more times, but still got no reply. He also changed pubs after each pint, but got very little in the way of a friendly greeting. Finally, at about twenty to nine, knowing he couldn’t bear to wake up in such a miserable town even if he could afford a hotel, he went back to the station and took the train home.
    â€¢
    Because of his intended visit to Francis, Reed hadn’t planned anything for the weekend at home. The weather was miserable, anyway, so he spent most of his time indoors reading and watching television, or down at the local. He tried Francis’s number a few more times, but still got no reply. He also phoned Camille, hoping that her warm, lithe body and her fondness for experiment might brighten up his Saturday night and Sunday morning, but all he got was her answering machine.
    On Monday evening, just as he was about to go to bed after a long day catching up on boring paperwork, the phone rang. Grouchily, he picked up the receiver: “Yes?”
    â€œTerry?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThis is Francis.”
    â€œWhere the hell—­”
    â€œDid you come all the way down on Friday?”
    â€œOf course I bloody well did. I thought we had an—­”
    â€œOh God. Look, I’m sorry, mate, really I am. I tried to call. That woman at work—what’s her name?”
    â€œElsie?”
    â€œThat’s the one. She said she’d give you a message. I must admit she didn’t sound as if she quite had her wits about her, but I’d no choice.”
    Reed softened a little. “What happened?”
    â€œMy mother. You know she’s been ill for a long time?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, she died last Wednesday. I had to rush off back to Manchester. Look, I really am sorry, but you can see I couldn’t do anything about it, can’t you?”
    â€œIt’s me who should be sorry,” Reed said. “To hear about your mother, I mean.”
    â€œYes, well, at least there’ll be no more suffering for her. Maybe we could get together in a few weeks?”
    â€œSure. Just let me know when.”
    â€œAll right. I’ve still got stuff to do, you know, things to organize. How about if I call you back in a ­couple of weeks?”
    â€œGreat, I’ll look forward to it. Bye.”
    â€œBye. And I’m sorry, Terry, really.”
    Reed put the phone down and went to bed. So that was it—the mystery solved.
    â€¢
    The following evening, just after he’d arrived home from work, Reed heard a loud knock at his door. When he opened it, he saw two strangers standing there. At first he thought they were Jehovah’s Witnesses—who else came to the door in pairs, wearing suits?—but these two didn’t quite look the part. True, one