Free A Choice of Victims by J F Straker Page A

against the bright sunlight, Hasted saw that she was wearing nothing underneath the frock, and as he walked back to the car he wondered about her. Was the heat the sole reason for her being so scantily clad? According to Sybil, if local gossip had it right then Cheryl Mason was doing more for the old man than feeding him, but although there was probably enough smoke to give credence to the suspicion of fire, it seemed unlikely that a man as old and as sick as Claud Philipson could kindle much of a flame. And what of the husband? The gossip must surely have reached him. The majority view in the village, Sybil said, was that he countenanced the affair, however reluctantly, in the hope of financial gain on the old man’s death; it was common knowledge that business at the post office stores was on the slide. Others, Sybil said, believed that he had no choice—that despite her apparently easy-going manner Cheryl dominated him completely, that his protests had no effect on her decisions. That, they said, accounted for his general irritability.
    The news of Mrs Shawby’s visitors delighted Driver. Forensic had found straw and traces of animal excreta in the Morris, which tied in with the youths’ statements that they had spent the night in a barn. ‘And there are prints galore,’ he added. ‘If those two yobbo’s are our killers, which it’s a hundred to one they are, it looks like being in the bag.’
    ‘We have to catch them first,’ Hasted said.
    ‘Ah! There speaks the voice of caution,’ Driver said cheerfully. ‘True, we have to catch them. Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. They’re not super-criminals, George. They’re just a couple of—’ The telephone rang. ‘Yes. Yes, he’s here.’ He handed the receiver to Hasted. ‘For you.’
    It was Frances Holden. They had been trying to contact him for the past hour or more, Frances said, ever since Sybil’s pains had started. But not to worry. Tom had called an ambulance to take her into Limpsted General. ‘I don’t suppose you’re a father yet,’ she said. ‘But it won’t be long. Congratulations!’
    He thanked her and put down the receiver. His hands were sweating and he felt light-headed, and as he told Driver the news the words tumbled over themselves. ‘All right with you if I clear off?’ he said. ‘I’d like to be there. Not at the actual birth—that isn’t my scene—not Sybil’s either. We discussed all that before Jason was born. But I’d like—’
    ‘Stop prattling, George,’ Driver said. ‘Off with you, lad. Run along and be a daddy.’
    *
    Cheryl Mason was seldom up of a morning in time to get breakfast ready for her husband. Most days he had eaten and was out of the house before she arrived downstairs, which was usually in her dressing gown. That was how it was that Monday morning. She wandered into the kitchen to find her sister hunched over the table, a large mug of black coffee held between her hands. A frying pan and the remains of Ed’s breakfast were in the sink. Cheryl shuddered when she saw them.
    ‘God, I feel awful!’ she said huskily.
    ‘You look awful,’ Blanche Seaton said.
    Cheryl peered into a mirror. Her eyes looked sunken, there were dark shadows beneath. ‘My head’s splitting.’
    ‘So’s mine,’ Blanche said. There was a similarity of features between the sisters, but Blanche was older and plumper. She too was wearing a dressing gown. ‘Want some coffee? It’s instant. I couldn’t find the percolator.’
    ‘Don’t bother. I’ll do it.’ Cheryl switched on the kettle and spooned coffee granules into a mug. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’
    ‘Ugh! Even the thought of food makes me want to throw up.’ Blanche sipped coffee. ‘What was that stuff we were drinking last night?’
    ‘Gut-rot. Some of Ed’s cheap plonk.’
    ‘What time did we get to bed?’
    ‘God knows! Well after two, anyway.’
    ‘Was Ed awake?’
    ‘No. Snoring his head off. What was he like this morning? Or