Free Not Safe After Dark by Peter Robinson Page A

an inch or two, then closing them again.
    ‘Look, what is this?’ Reed said. ‘Is he supposed to be poking through my things? I mean, do you have a search warrant or something?’
    ‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ the tall one said. ‘He’s just like that. Insatiable curiosity. By the way, my name’s Bentley, Detective Superintendent Bentley. My
colleague over there goes by the name of Inspector Rodmoor. We’re from the Midlands Regional Crime Squad.’ He looked to see Reed’s reactions as he said this, but Reed tried to
show no emotion at all.
    ‘I still don’t see what you want with me,’ he said.
    ‘Just routine,’ said Bentley. ‘Mind if I sit down?’
    ‘Be my guest.’
    Bentley sat in the rocker by the fireplace and Reed sat opposite on the sofa. A mug of half-finished coffee stood between them on the glass-topped table, beside a couple of unpaid bills and the
latest Radio Times .
    ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Reed offered.
    Bentley shook his head.
    ‘What about him?’ Reed glanced over nervously towards Inspector Rodmoor, who was looking through his bookcase, pulling out volumes that caught his fancy and flipping through
them.
    Bentley folded his hands on his lap: ‘Just try to forget he’s here.’
    But Reed couldn’t. He kept flicking his eyes edgily from one to the other, always anxious about what Rod-moor was getting into next.
    ‘Mr Reed,’ Bentley went on, ‘were you in Redditch on the evening of 9 November? Last Friday, that was.’
    Reed put his hand to his brow, which was damp with sweat. ‘Let me think now . . . Yes, yes, I believe I was.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘What? Sorry . . . ?’
    ‘I asked why. Why were you in Redditch? What was the purpose of your visit?’
    He sounded like an immigration control officer at the airport, Reed thought. ‘I was there to meet an old university friend,’ he answered. ‘I’ve been going down for a
weekend once a year or so ever since he moved there.’
    ‘And did you meet him?’
    ‘As a matter of fact, no, I didn’t.’ Reed explained the communications breakdown with Francis.
    Bentley raised an eyebrow. Rodmoor rifled through the magazine rack by the fireplace.
    ‘But you still went there?’ Bentley persisted.
    ‘Yes. I told you, I didn’t know he’d be away. Look, do you mind telling me what this is about? I think I have a right to know.’
    Rodmoor fished a copy of Mayfair out of the magazine rack and held it up for Bentley to see. Bentley frowned and reached over for it. The cover showed a shapely blonde in skimpy pink lace
panties and camisole, stockings and a suspender belt. She was on her knees on a sofa, and her round behind faced the viewer. Her face was also turned towards the camera, and she looked as if
she’d just been licking her glossy red lips. The thin strap of the camisole had slipped over her upper arm.
    ‘Nice,’ Bentley said. ‘Looks a bit young, though, don’t you think?’
    Reed shrugged. He felt embarrassed and didn’t know what to say.
    Bentley flipped through the rest of the magazine, pausing over the colour spreads of naked women in fetching poses.
    ‘It’s not illegal you know,’ Reed burst out. ‘You can buy it in any newsagent’s. It’s not pornography.’
    ‘That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it, sir?’ said Inspector Rodmoor, taking the magazine back from his boss and replacing it.
    Bentley smiled. ‘Don’t mind him, lad,’ he said. ‘He’s a Methodist. Now where were we?’
    Reed shook his head.
    ‘Do you own a car?’ Bentley asked.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do you live here by yourself?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Ever been married?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Girlfriends?’
    ‘Some.’
    ‘But not to live with?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Magazines enough for you, eh?’
    ‘Now just a minute—’
    ‘Sorry,’ Bentley said, holding up his skeletal hand. ‘Pretty tasteless of me, that was. Out of line.’
    Why couldn’t Reed quite believe the apology? He sensed very strongly that Bentley had made the