Free A Species of Revenge by Marjorie Eccles

what you saw was a panoramic view of sky, and the tops of trees just below, and beyond them, between lights winking palely in the early evening, the seemingly endless, undulating landscape of houses, factories, blocks of high-rise flats and roads leading towards several blobs on the horizon, one of which he said was the Rotunda.
    And behind her, on the walls of the room, a continuing cyclorama, in the paintings which covered them: the great sweep of skies and trees portrayed on the canvases hung, stacked and laid flat on the floor, all of them unframed.
    â€˜Do you do this for a living?’
    â€˜Good God, no! I’m not a professional, as you’ll see only too well, if you look closely. I run a design consultancy. You could call this a hobby, if that’s a word you’d use, though I wouldn’t. Let’s just say it’s served its purpose.’ She looked quickly for that flash of raw pain which had struck her before, but his face was closed. ‘Obsessive as to subject matter,’ he went on, ‘but it’s the only thing I can do. I’d like to try a human figure, but I’m not sure ... At any rate, I think I’ve painted myself out of this as a subject by now, hence the bonfire.’
    She was shocked. ‘You can’t!’
    His brilliant eyes lit with something which might possibly have been amusement as he followed her glance to the scores of canvases. ‘As a painter. I’m a damned good designer. But maybe burning them is a trifle Draconian, what do you think? No.’ He held up a warning hand. ‘Don’t answer that. I’d honestly rather not know.’
    She wanted to laugh, having a suspicion that he’d never had any intention of putting all his work on the bonfire, it was simply a contorted way of arriving at an apology. ‘It’s no good asking me, anyway, I’ve no qualifications to judge. You should ask my – the man I work for,’ she amended hastily. Bringing Simon into this was, she realized, the last thing she wanted to do, only she’d been thrown by James Fitzallan, his change of attitude. She’d written him off, but now, against all odds, she found she might be warming to him.
    â€˜What about you? What sort of work do you do?’ he was asking. ‘Sit down, if we can find you somewhere among all this, and I’ll make some coffee while you tell me the story of your life.’
    When she left half an hour later, she realized this was more or less what she’d done, while he’d skated the surface and she’d learned practically nothing about him.

6
    Rodney Shepherd’s mood couldn’t be described as best pleased when he woke up the next morning to find the strange car still blocking his entry, when he was expecting customers and deliveries. He picked the telephone up and rang the police in a rage, ordering them to come and tow away this sodding BMW that was blocking his entry, or he wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences.
    The offending car was removed from behind his premises by the police with a speed which satisfied even Rodney.
    The details having been input in to the National Computer, within minutes it was found to be registered to a Philip James Ensor, with an address in Solihull. The keys in the pocket of the man who had died at the Colley Street allotments were found to fit the car, and his prints corresponded with those all over the inside. A jacket was neatly folded on the back seat and his wallet was locked in the glove compartment. Jubilation all round at Milford Road Police Station was tempered by a telephone call Abigail made to his home which disclosed the presence of a wife who had thought he was still abroad on a business trip. Lord.
    â€˜I’ve made an appointment with Mrs Ensor over at Solihull,’ she told Mayo. ‘I’m taking Martin Kite with me, OK?’
    She was impatient to be off. She’d convinced herself that she’d done all that