Free A Talent For Destruction by Sheila Radley Page A

Parson’s Close,’ said Justin. ‘It’s private, you see,’ he explained, as though to a couple of retarded eight-year-olds.
    The policemen elected to drain their teacups and retire in good order. Mrs Muttock went with them to the front door.
    â€˜There’s a chance that the boys may remember something that could be useful,’ Quantrill told her. ‘If you do hear them saying anything about Parson’s Close, I’d be much obliged if you’d give DC Wigby a ring at the station.’
    Mrs Muttock brightened, glad that her brief importance was not yet at an end. Wigby had just pulled on his coat, and she stepped forward to settle the dark fleecy collar for him. ‘Definitely,’ she said with fervour.
    Alarmed, Wigby bolted down the snow-fringed concrete path. Quantrill thanked her for the tea and had begun to follow, when she called to him.
    â€˜I say –’
    He returned to her side, thinking that this might be an equivalent of what he had heard described as the ‘By the way, Doctor,’ syndrome. He felt certain that the boys were concealing something; they were too virtuous by half. Probably Justin’s grandmother had a shrewd idea of what it might be, but found it difficult to express.
    â€˜Yes, Mrs Muttock?’ he encouraged her.
    But all she had wanted was to give her neighbours the maximum opportunity of seeing her in conversation with a tall dark stranger. She put her hand on his sleeve, and motioned with her head towards the window of the sitting room.
    â€˜Monster food – did you ever! Funny little devils, kids, eh?’ she said proudly.
    Quantrill had agreed, but with no paternal pride. And then he had gone home to wait with his family for Peter’s interview with Detective Sergeant Tuckswood.
    He had said very little to his son since the previous morning, when the Rector had told him about Peter’s possible involvement in the church-hall incident. It was a severe embarrassment, exacerbated by Molly’s impartial reproaches to her husband on behalf of her son, and to her son on behalf of his father. She kept trying to talk it over, but all Quantrill would say to either of them was that Peter must tell the truth when Sergeant Tuckswood questioned him.
    It had been difficult, while they waited for the Sergeant to come, to think of a suitable topic of conversation. Fifteen-year-old Peter had grown rapidly during the previous six months, and in doing so he seemed to have sloughed off all his former interests. His mother was of the frequently voiced opinion that he had outgrown his strength, but his father silently suspected that he was bone idle.
    Peter didn’t believe in standing when he could sit, or sitting when he could lie down. He was waiting for the interview in a semi-recumbent position in a deep armchair, with his sneakered size tens resting on the coffee table. When his father joined him in the sitting-room Peter grudgingly, but without being told, acknowledged his presence by removing his feet from the table. After that the two of them sat on opposite sides of the room, listening to Molly making agitated noises with pots and pans in the kitchen.
    Presently Quantrill cleared his throat. ‘Did you hear about the skeleton that’s been found in Parson’s Close?’ he asked socially.
    â€˜Mm,’ said Peter. Had he been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it over his face to indicate that he was not at home; as it was, he made do with closing his eyes and scraping his dark fringe as low as possible with his fingers.
    â€˜We think it might have been an Australian who camped in the meadow last summer.’
    â€˜Umph,’ said Peter.
    His father’s work used to interest him, but now he hated everything to do with it. He hated being a policeman’s son, and above all he hated being the son of the head of the Criminal Investigation Department in a small town like Breckham Market, where everyone