Free Dying Fall by Judith Cutler Page A

‘Look at your teeth.’
    â€˜What have my teeth got to do with George’s death? Or even, to stretch a point, the murder of Wajid? Because those are the only things I can spare time to worry about at the moment.’
    â€˜Worry about? But they were accidents. At least George’s was. And the kid died in a family feud, they say. You keep out.’
    â€œThey”?’ My turn for an ironic repetition.
    â€˜Everyone. The papers.’
    â€˜Since when have the papers been interested in the truth?’ I admit to having a problem with the British press. But I refused to get on my soapbox. I merely smiled, grimly.
    It’s difficult to describe Jools’s movement as a flounce, but no other word comes near. It took her from the table to the chair where she’d slung her jacket. I could smell the leather, it was so new. She shrugged herself into it: ‘I might as well go. I only came because I thought you’d be upset.’
    â€˜I am. Aren’t you?’
    â€˜Of course. I mean, I never liked him the way you did. I always thought he was a bit of a bore. Always had his nose in other people’s business. Those stupid jokes. All that fuss about making his own reeds.’
    Expecting George to buy ready-scraped reeds would have been like expecting me to buy TV dinners.
    â€˜And he used to rabbit on about the government. All the time.’
    Our views were very similar.
    â€˜And another thing –’
    â€˜He was my friend, Jools.’
    She looked at me, an expression on her face I couldn’t identify. Anger? Grief? I couldn’t be sure.
    â€˜I’m sorry. You know, I’m really miserable. Don’t know why. Like PMT, only it isn’t.’
    Any other time I’d have given her a quick hug, but tonight she’d hurt me too much.
    â€˜You’re sure it isn’t that weird diet of yours?’ I asked eventually.
    â€˜Nothing weird about it. All the supplements are pure and natural. You just have this bee in your bonnet. I’ve had enough. I’m going home.’
    I stood up politely, suppressing an almost overwhelming desire to throw her out physically. Not that I could have done, anyway. Not the new-look Jools. ‘We’ll meet up another night, shall we? When we’re both feeling a bit better?’ I suggested.
    â€˜If you like. But I dare say I’ll be pretty busy. They’ll be wanting me to sit up.’
    â€˜Sitting up’ has nothing to do with posture. It means moving up in the pecking order. And I didn’t think they would want her to do anything of the sort.
    Accidental death, my arse.
    I’d managed to wangle some time off on Wednesday morning to go to the coroner’s court for the inquest on George. Some time, no doubt, I’d have to give evidence in the Wajid affair, but there’d been a perfunctory adjournment since the cause of death was so palpably unnatural.
    If I was fizzing with a volatile mixture of anger and pain, Tony Rossiter’s face showed scarcely disguised relief. There are times when I wonder if being a manager ought to carry a government health warning, it does so much harm to your moral judgement. He’d phrased his replies so carefully that the impression of George the coroner must have got was of a man on the verge of senile dementia. I didn’t wish to speak to him and rapidly put as much space between us as I could.
    I was staring into the street, seeing nothing, when I smelt an aftershave approaching.
    â€˜Sophie?’
    â€˜Mr Mayou?’
    â€˜Stobbard. I was thinking all this might be a bit upsetting for you.’ He leaned forward, his head slightly to one side.
    I smiled, grateful for the sympathy in his voice. Before I could speak, however, another aftershave arrived.
    â€˜I’d like to talk to you, Ms Rivers, if you’ve a moment,’ came Chris’s voice.
    I assumed from his tone he meant officially. Stobbard Mayou lifted an ironic