Free Death of a Raven by Margaret Duffy Page A

stirred up? His full tilt exit from the stable certainly suggested that he had been on his way to get help.
    The DARE people collectively took the hint and went to bed. Paul lingered and then bashfully came over to Patrick and held out his hand.
    “You’ll think I’m daft,” he said, “but that was absolutely bloody marvellous. Thank you.”
    Patrick can be seen to be lost for words perhaps once in every ten years. This was one of those occasions but he smiled and gripped Paul’s hand warmly. No more was necessary.
    That was where the pleasantries ended. Emma sat tight until an unrelenting stare from Patrick unnerved her. Even Terry was caught in the fall-out from this and rose to go.
    “Sit down,” said Patrick.
    Terry sat.
    David Hartland meanwhile had been going through the motions of reading a newspaper, turning the pages with angry jerking movements. When the door closed behind his wife he threw the paper down and commenced to swear at Patrick with all the ingenuity and verve of a man who has been made a thorough fool of.
    Patrick sat, left leg crossed over right, toe swinging gently, and waited for him to finish. Finally, Hartland ran out of steam and was reduced prosaically to demanding an explanation.
    Patrick said, “When you request help from home base, it doesn’t mean you can call the tune. You know that.”
    Hartland took a deep breath. “Tell me one useful piece of intelligence that you discovered whilst engaged in this ridiculous and, I take it, self-motivated exercise.”
    Helping himself to a big handful of peanuts from a dish on a side table, Patrick said, “Well, for a start your Newfoundland’s likely to be in pup, courtesy of the Great Dane down the road.”
    For a moment I thought Hartland was actually contemplating physical assault. This possibility came alarmingly closer when Patrick delivered his next remark.
    “Also that your wife seems to possess roughly the same inclinations as a bitch in heat. A security risk, wouldn’t you say?”
    I began to see why he had ordered Terry to stay.
    “She’s had every man in this house barring McAlister and myself. And you, of course.”
    I couldn’t help it. I glanced across at Terry who steadfastly refrained from looking at me.
    “You’re lying,” Hartland said.
    “Why should I? Anyway, you knew about it. You suspected her and had microphones installed in every room.”
    “No — no. They were already here. I took this place over from the Canadian Secret Service.”
    “But still operational. Several thousand dollars’ worth of equipment humming away behind a false wall in the laundry-room. Even a child would want to know why a cupboard door has such expensive locks on it.”
    “It facilitates certain —” Hartland began, but Patrick cut him short.
    “I’m sure it bloody does. Perhaps Emma’s in the know too and gets them talking if she can. In return for which you allow her certain freedoms.”
    “That’s filthy slander, Major!” Hartland burst out. “Andy Quade was on his way to meet her at a motel the evening he was killed.”
    “Kitchen gossip?”
    Patrick nodded gravely. “You find out an awful lot when you live backstairs. But I did check. She was careless enough to book the room in her own name.”
    Hartland gazed wildly around the room and seemed to find inspiration. “This has absolutely nothing to do with your brief to ensure that the DARE team stay alive.”
    “Carte blanche,” Patrick drawled. “I’m still trying to work out why you invited them here. Were you hoping there was a rotten branch to be discovered by you — with Emma’s help, of course? Does the prospect of an eventual knighthood make personal torment worth while?” 
    Was this revenge for a cold, damp room, I wondered, or was he trying to goad Hartland into some kind of confession? Or was he hoping for an excuse to get really tough? I didn’t have long to wait for the answer.
    Hartland got to his feet, deadly calm after his initial outburst.