Free A Choice of Victims by J F Straker

white-haired and bearded: Claud Philipson, he supposed. The woman he recognized as Cheryl Mason, wife of the West Deering postmaster.
    ‘Good morning,’ he said. Cheryl Mason smiled and nodded, a beringed hand smoothing her hair, and he looked at the man. ‘Mr Philipson?’
    ‘That’s me,’ the man growled. ‘And who might you be, mister? Bought the place, have you?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Hasted said. ‘I knocked and I called, but no one answered. So—’
    ‘So you walked in, eh? Just like that. You got a nerve, mister.’
    ‘It’s all right, Philly,’ Cheryl said. She was a good-looking blonde of around forty, with a trim figure and prominent breasts that clearly were not confined by a bra. Hasted noticed with interest that some of the buttons down the front of the low-cut summer frock were undone. ‘It’s Mr Hasted. You know—the police.’
    ‘Oh! Sergeant, is it?’
    ‘Inspector.’
    ‘Come about that woman, have you? The one what was killed?’ Philipson moved slowly to a chair and lowered himself into it. ‘Cheryl here’s been telling me. You got the man that done it?’
    ‘Not yet,’ Hasted said. ‘But you may be able to help us there, sir. You’re probably the last person to have seen Mrs Doyle alive. Other than the—the killer, that is.’ He had been about to use the plural noun. But Mrs Shawby’s two visitors were only suspect because they had been in the relevant vicinity at the relevant time. There was nothing to connect them with the crime; it would be a mistake to jump to an unwarranted conclusion. ‘When she called here Friday lunchtime was there anything in her manner—anything she said—that might be considered unusual?’
    ‘Not really, no.’
    ‘How do you mean, “not really”?’
    ‘Well, most of them likes a bit of a natter when they come. But not her. It’s dish out the grub, grab the money and off. Friday, though, it was different. Almost chatty, she was.’
    ‘What did she talk about?’
    ‘About how I wasn’t to get depressed about my health and how I needed a lady friend to cheer me up.’ The old man grinned, deepening the creases in his craggy face. ‘I asked her if she was offering.’
    Hasted smiled. ‘And that’s all?’
    ‘Ay.’
    ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Hasted?’ Cheryl asked. She had a rather singsong voice that although pleasing enough in tone could become monotonous. ‘It won’t take a minute.’
    Hasted shook his head. He noted with surprise that she wore neither shoes nor stockings. ‘I’ve just had coffee,’ he said. ‘Oh! One more point, Mr Philipson. Can you remember whether Mrs Doyle was carrying a handbag? A red one, probably.’
    Philipson considered. ‘No, she wasn’t. Just a purse. She took it out of her mackintosh pocket when I give her the money.’ He exhaled noisily. ‘Sixty-five pence! That’s what it costs now. Bloody robbery, if you ask me.’
    ‘It’d cost you a lot more in a restaurant,’ Cheryl said.
    ‘You told Mrs Holden that Mrs Doyle left here shortly after one,’ Hasted said. ‘Could you be more precise?’
    ‘The news was on,’ Philipson said. ‘Been on a few minutes. Five past, perhaps? Something like that.’
    Cheryl accompanied Hasted to the front door. ‘I like to come over Sundays,’ she said. ‘Make sure he’s all right. Summertime I usually come of an evening, while Ed’s visiting his mother in Yellham. He always spends Sunday evenings with his mother. Sunday evenings and Friday lunchtime; never misses if he can help it. But this weekend I’ve got my sister staying, so I thought I’d pop over now while she and Ed are at church.’
    ‘The service ended nearly an hour ago,’ Hasted said.
    ‘Did it? Yes, I suppose it did.’ The knowledge did not seem to bother her. ‘I’d best be getting back. They’ll be wanting their lunch.’
    ‘Can I give you a lift?’
    ‘I’ve got my car,’ she said. ‘Left it at the Falcon.’
    She opened the door. With her body silhouetted