Free An Air That Kills by Andrew Taylor

harbour where the barges used to load and unload before the coming of the railways. Masterman’s shop was halfway down the hill on the left-hand side with a patrol car standing at the kerb.
    Thornhill parked the Austin behind it. Two women with shopping baskets were peering through the window, engaged in an animated conversation which stopped abruptly when he got out of his car. With averted heads, the women walked up the hill.
    He gave himself a moment to examine the front of the shop. First impressions were always important because you saw things with a clarity uncompromised by subsequent knowledge. Masterman’s was a small, single-fronted establishment. The woodwork had been painted a dingy green before the war – certainly before the last war and possibly before the previous one as well. The detachable bars were still padlocked across the window. The display had not been restocked since the night. All that could be seen were two alarm clocks and a few pieces of china, some of them labelled ‘A Present from Lydmouth’, set against a sunbleached green velvet backcloth. There were darker marks on the velvet where the sun had had less opportunity to do its work; here must usually stand the more valuable items which went in and out of the window every day. With a little imagination, you might infer that trade was sluggish, almost static, and that the shopkeeper was set in his ways.
    There were two doors: on the right of the window, the shop door which was still shuttered and on the left the door to the private accommodation. Thornhill rang the bell on the left. A moment later there were heavy footsteps on a flight of stairs inside. The door opened to reveal a uniformed constable with a spotty face. He was so large that he filled the doorway like a barrier. His boots gleamed like a guardsman’s.
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir,’ he began, ‘Mr Masterman is not . . .’
    â€˜I’m Detective Inspector Thornhill.’ He felt the anger inside him straining to get out. ‘Is Sergeant Kirby here yet?’
    The man swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realise that—’
    â€˜All right,’ Thornhill said. He felt guilty because for a few damning seconds he had wanted to treat this boy as Williamson had treated him. ‘This is my first week in Lydmouth. What’s your name?’
    The constable stood back to allow Thornhill into the narrow hall. ‘Porter, sir,’ he said miserably.
    â€˜Sergeant Kirby?’
    â€˜He’s upstairs with Mr Masterman. The doctor’s here too.’
    A strip of streaky brown linoleum ran down the hall. On the right there was the door to the shop, and at the end of the hall was another door which presumably led outside at the back. The place smelled of drains and old, tired vegetables. Two monochrome engravings in dark wood frames hung on the walls. Thornhill glanced at them as he passed. They appeared to depict the respective martyrdoms of St Sebastian and St Peter. He went up the stairs with the constable plodding behind him. The handrail was dusty.
    Before he reached the head of the stairs, one of the doors at the top opened. Bayswater appeared.
    â€˜Ten to one there’s nothing that a good night’s rest won’t sort out,’ he said to the room behind him, ‘but I suppose you’d better get up to the hospital and have an X-ray. I’ll call an ambulance. Soon we won’t need doctors at all, you know. Just technicians.’ He saw Thornhill coming up the stairs and his lips twisted. ‘Ah, the new boy. How are you getting on with your bones, Inspector?’
    â€˜Good morning, Doctor. Is it all right if I talk to Mr Masterman now?’
    â€˜Talk away, my dear man. But don’t let him talk too much.’
    Bayswater waved his hand in a vaguely benedictory gesture and clattered down the stairs; his mood had mysteriously improved since the evening before. Thornhill and Porter