Free Not Safe After Dark by Peter Robinson

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.
    •
    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?’
    ‘Terry?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘This is Francis.’
    ‘Where the hell—’
    ‘Did you come all the way down on Friday?’
    ‘Of course I bloody well did. I thought we had an—’
    ‘Oh God. Look, I’m sorry, mate, really I am. I tried to call. That woman at work – what’s her name?’
    ‘Elsie?’
    ‘That’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?’
    ‘My mother. You know she’s been ill for a long time?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, 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?’
    ‘It’s me who should be sorry,’ Reed said. ‘To hear about your mother, I mean.’
    ‘Yes, well, at least there’ll be no more suffering for her. Maybe we could get together in a few weeks?’
    ‘Sure. Just let me know when.’
    ‘All 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?’
    ‘Great, I’ll look forward to it. Bye.’
    ‘Bye. And I’m sorry, Terry, really.’ Reed put the phone down and went to bed. So that was it – the mystery solved.
    •
    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 did look a bit like a bible
salesman – chubby, with a cheerful, earnest expression on a face fringed by a neatly trimmed dark beard – but the other, painfully thin, with a long, pock-marked face, looked more like
an undertaker, except for the way his sharp blue eyes glittered with intelligent suspicion.
    ‘Mr Reed? Mr Terence J. Reed?’ the cadaverous one said, in a deep, quiet voice, just like the way Reed imagined a real undertaker would speak. And wasn’t there a hint of the
Midlands nasal quality in the way he slurred the vowels?
    ‘Yes, I’m Terry Reed. What is it? What do you want?’ Reed could already see, over their shoulders, his neighbours spying from their windows: little corners of white net-curtain
twitched aside to give a clear view.
    ‘We’re police officers, sir. Mind if we come in for a moment?’ They flashed their identity cards, but put them away before Reed had time to see what was written there. He
backed into the hallway and they took their opportunity to enter. As soon as they had closed the door behind them, Reed noticed the one with the beard start glancing around him, taking everything
in, while the other continued to hold Reed’s gaze. Finally, Reed turned and led them into the living room. He felt some kind of signal pass between them behind his back.
    ‘Nice place you’ve got,’ the thin one said, while the other prowled the room, picking up vases and looking inside, opening drawers