Free A Talent For Destruction by Sheila Radley Page B

associated the name Quantrill with the police force. The responsibility was more than he could cope with. He’d had enough of taunts and gibes from his classmates, and of reproaches from adults. What he longed for above all was anonymity.
    â€˜Yes,’ went on his father, trying hard. After all, the boy was bound to be apprehensive about the coming interview. That made two of them, so the least he could do was to ease the waiting time in as friendly a way as possible. ‘It’s an interesting case. We don’t yet know how the man died, and after this lapse of time we may never know. The significant question is, what happened to his tent and camping gear? The scene-of-crime team have found a few likely items dumped in the bushes, but there’s no sign of the bulk of the equipment. If he was murdered, then the murderer might have removed the man’s belongings to make it look as though he had packed up and gone. But the fact that the gear isn’t there doesn’t necessarily point to murder, of course.’
    Peter, looking excessively bored, began to whistle through his teeth.
    â€˜Did you happen to see anything of a small orange tent in Parson’s Close last summer?’ his father asked. ‘Or did you see or hear anything in the town of an Australian?’
    Peter stopped whistling long enough to say, ‘Nope.’ He was silent for a few minutes and then he said, ‘Holy cow. Heowly ceow,’ he drawled, in a mock-Australian accent, and then he resumed his whistling.
    â€˜Look,’ said Douglas Quantrill, making an effort to be patient, ‘it’s really important for me to find out about this tent. You see, supposing the man died accidentally: we know he was a drinker, and he could have fallen down drunk and died from exposure, or asphyxiation. His tent would then have been left in Parson’s Close – but it wouldn’t have stayed there indefinitely, would it? Camping equipment costs a packet, you know that. Someone would sooner or later have noticed that the tent was left unattended, and would have nicked it – don’t you agree?’
    â€˜If you say so.’
    â€˜Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ snapped Quantrill, showing his irritation at last. ‘Use your head, boy – of course it would have been stolen, either bit by bit or in one swoop. And if it was stolen, I need to know. I have to find out what happened to it before I can start to make any sense of the man’s death.’ He paused, and tried a more conciliatory tone. ‘Look, Peter – can you ask around? Some of your mates may know something, or be able to find out something that will help me.’
    Peter went very quiet. His face flushed. He pushed himself upright in the armchair. ‘Are you asking me – do you expect me – to inform on my friends?’ he demanded in a tight, angry voice.
    â€˜Oh, come on,’ Quantrill had protested, trying to cool the situation. ‘ Inform’s a ridiculously emotive word. I just want you to help me out – do a bit of detective work for me. You always wanted to do that, didn’t you?’
    But Peter, choked with indignation and fury, had retorted, ‘Get stuffed!’
    Then there was the ordeal of listening to the interview between his son and Sergeant Tuckswood. And after that, in bed with Molly, her inevitable post-mortem: how could Peter let them down like this? Where had they, as parents, gone wrong? And what was he, Douglas, proposing to do about the boy in future? Little wonder that he had gone to work next morning in a bad humour.
    It was a brighter, milder day. Winter had not yet gone, but it was visibly in retreat. The sun was low, of course, but it shone through a melting haze for most of the morning, leaving the roads and pavements wet but – except for the gutters – clear for the first time for weeks.
    Quantrill sent DC Wigby into the town on a dry tour of the rest of the pubs,