Free Dead Reckoning by Patricia Hall Page A

pretty ropey there but surely not bad enough to provoke murder,” Thackeray said, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. Longley, he thought, was letting his anxieties get to him. “I’ll bear it in mind as another lead anyway.”
    â€œAye, do that,” Longley said heavily. “It looks like we’re in for a messy few weeks one way and another. Keep me up to date, Michael. I don’t want to be caught on the wrong foot and end up in the sticky stuff with either of these cases.”
    â€œSir,” Thackeray said.

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    It was mid-morning before DCI Thackeray and DC Val Ridley parked on the gravel drive outside the Earnshaw family’s substantial house on the outskirts of Broadley.
    â€œNot short of a bob or two, then, boss,” Val said, pulling a wry face as she glanced at a gleaming Jag and a muddy Range Rover parked outside and gazed up at the dark stone façade and tall windows each side of the heavy front door. As they stared, a thick curtain at one of the downstairs bays swayed slightly as if someone had been pulling it aside to look out and had then let it fall again.
    â€œOne of the great wool families, when that meant anything,” Thackeray said. “But from what I hear that mill is a white elephant now. One of the things I want to get out of this is some idea of just how much financial trouble the Earnshaws are in. But I guess they won’t be keen to tell us.”
    The front door was opened almost as soon as Thackeray touched the bell and the small plump housekeeper showed them into the main sitting room at the front of the house: a large, opulently furnished, immaculately tidy room where the only items that appeared out of place were the three people who inhabited it. Matthew Earnshaw, dressed in navy tracksuit bottoms and a green polo shirt, was sprawled on a pale cream sofa with a glass of what looked like whisky in his hand. He looked pale and drawn. His father and mother were sitting in armchairs, one on each side of the fireplace like a pair of porcelain ornaments, both dressed in black, both pale-faced and red-eyed, both apparently uninterested in the visitors who hovered for a moment awkwardly by the double doors from the hall.
    â€œI’m sorry to intrude,” Thackeray said. “But you do understand that we need to talk to you about Simon’s death?”

    This elicited a flicker of reaction from Frank Earnshaw who turned his head slowly in Thackeray’s direction. Matthew Earnshaw ignored them, taking another gulp of his drink and turning his head away while his mother did not stir at all.
    â€œMr. Earnshaw?” Thackeray persisted. “This is DC Val Ridley. Today we merely need to establish some of the basic facts about Simon so that we can start the investigation into his death as quickly as possible. The first twenty-four hours of an inquiry is reckoned to be vital and a lot of time has already been wasted in this case because we didn’t know who our victim was.”
    With what appeared to be an enormous effort Frank Earnshaw forced himself to sit up and take notice and waved the two officers to sit down, Thackeray taking the end of the sofa on which the surviving Earnshaw son was slumped and Val Ridley selecting a seat close to the door from which she could observe everyone else in the room. As she pulled out her notebook she felt she could almost touch the brittle tension which surrounded the bereaved family. Any of them might shatter, she thought, at the slightest touch.
    â€œWe’ve had the Press and TV onto us already, bloody vultures,” Earnshaw complained.
    â€œWe need their help to trace witnesses, find Simon’s car, all of that,” Thackeray said quietly. “These first hours of an inquiry are vital.”
    â€œAye, I suppose so,” Earnshaw conceded. “So what do you want to know, Chief Inspector? I thought we dealt with a lot of this last night.”
    â€œOnly in