Free Bodies by Robert Barnard

what he couldn’t tell me that interested me. Many people are wary when they find themselves talking to the police, but such a blanket of reserve is unusual.
    The other phone call I found intriguing was to a number listed under the name of Denny. It started off unpromisingly.
    â€œThey’re not ready, and they won’t be ready till tomorrow afternoon, and that’s final, so you can get off my back, right?” said a ripe female voice at the other end.
    â€œI’m sorry. I must have got a wrong number. I wanted to speak to Denny.”
    â€œMy fault, love. I thought it was Mr. Schomberg, on at me about the blouses. ’E gets very pushy round about this time of the week, and it gets my goat. Denzil’s not ’ere, lovie. ’E’s gone up to Scotland, to one of them championships. ’E said ’e didn’t know when ’e’d be back.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I didn’t expect him to be away,” I improvised.
    â€œNo more did I. It wasn’t a date ’e’d fixed in advance. It’s Aberdeen, and very provincial, and I keep telling Denzil that ’e’s in the big time now, and shouldn’t bother with this small-time stuff. But acouple of days ago ’e decided, an’ orf ’e went up there. I think ’e should save ’imself, personally.”
    â€œFor the big time?”
    â€œO’ course. I mean, look at the titles ’e’s won, and the cups. ’E’s been on the cover of Fitness Monthly —lovely picture it was, I ’ung it in my kitchen. It made it all wurf while, seeing my Denny on all the news stands.”
    â€œI bet it would. I say, would it be possible to come round and have a chat with you?”
    â€œI’m always ready for a chat with someone ’oo’s interested in Denny’s career. Are you in the training business yourself, then?”
    â€œOnly in a small way, very small. Would twenty minutes be all right?”
    â€œO’ course. Mr. Schomberg can go whistle for ’is bleeding blouses. It’s Twenty Mayburn Crescent, just off the Old Kent Road. You can’t miss it.”
    I parked the police car some way away from the house, then walked up to No. 20 which was part of a brick terrace of houses, most of which had been mutilated by the owners in different ways in the name of improvement. Denzil’s mother had had double glazing put in, and a large window in the attic suggested she had got an extra bedroom up there, or perhaps a training studio for Denny. The front apron of garden was a mass of weeds. When I rang the doorbell, the door was soon opened by a squat, energetic little figure in black, who filled the space of the lower half of the door.
    â€œÂ â€™Ullo. You the bloke what rang? Come on in. I’m Mrs. Crabtree. ’Ilda to me friends. Would you like a cup of tea?”
    â€œI would indeed.”
    â€œWell, come on through. I’ve got one on.”
    She led me into a tiny front room, where it seemed that every inch of floor and table space was covered with blouses—finished, tacked together, or merely in parts. Around the room were dummies of both sexes, some of them also wearing blouses over their smooth anatomical anonymities. On the table was a heavy electric sewing machine, warm from use.
    â€œWait a mo’. I’ll move that. Give us a bit of space for the cups.”
    â€œLet me do it,” I said, gallantly springing forward. “Since your son isn’t here to do it for you.”
    â€œOh, I wouldn’t let Denny do it. I couldn’t let ’im strain ’isself in that way. Anything can happen, you know, when you’ve got a body as fine-tuned as Denny’s is.”
    â€œI see. Awkward,” I said. I looked to see if there was any irony behind her words. There was not. She let me lift the machine to the floor. Clearly she did not feel that my body was worth the same protective