Free An Air That Kills by Andrew Taylor Page A

stood aside to let him pass. A few seconds later, the front door slammed. One of the other doors on the landing was slightly open. Thornhill caught a movement in the room beyond. Someone had been watching them through the crack.
    He went into the room the doctor had just left. It was furnished as a sitting room, with two windows overlooking the street. Porter clumped after him and, at a nod from Thornhill, shut the door.
    Detective Sergeant Kirby was standing close to the old man’s chair, which had been pulled up to the coal fire blazing in the grate of the tiled fireplace. Kirby was a sturdy man in his late twenties; he had well-greased yellow hair and regular features. He took a step towards Thornhill. His eyes were wary.
    â€˜This is Inspector Thornhill,’ he said to the person hunched in the chair. He looked at Thornhill. ‘And this is Mr Masterman, sir.’
    The old man wore a shabby dressing gown over a jersey and trousers. His thin nose was large in relation to the rest of his face, which gave him the appearance of a young bird, and his hands were clasped round a mug of warm milk.
    â€˜How are you feeling, sir?’ Thornhill asked.
    Masterman said nothing but his body quivered. The milk slopped, almost reaching the brim of the cup. Kirby took the cup from his hand and put it on the table beside him. The old man glanced at Thornhill and then quickly looked away. It was possible, Thornhill knew, even probable, that he would never recover fully from the events of last night: that they would leave a lasting legacy of apprehension and timidity which would exist quite independently from any physical effects.
    â€˜I imagine you’ve already told Sergeant Kirby what’s happened, sir?’
    Kirby nodded. Masterman didn’t move.
    â€˜Then I’ll ask him to tell me and you can let me know if he gets something wrong or leaves something out. All right?’
    Kirby already had his notebook in his hand. He flicked back a couple of pages. Thornhill glanced round the room. It was much as he had expected. The books had been swept off the bookshelves; the drawers had been taken out of the bureau and turned upside down to deposit their contents on to the floor. He glimpsed old letters, cheque stubs, pencils, rusty nibs and paperclips. On either side of the fireplace were recessed cupboards, the open doors revealing bare shelves within. At the foot of one of them lay a heap of china – cups, saucers, plates and jugs.
    Kirby cleared his throat. ‘Mr Masterman hasn’t slept well since his wife died last year. Last night he was lying upstairs in his bed with the light off and he thought he heard a noise downstairs at the back. That was at about half past twelve. He wasn’t sure – his hearing, he says, isn’t what it was and he might have imagined it. But he took the poker and he came down to have a look. The only telephone’s downstairs in the shop, by the way. He didn’t switch on the light. He came down the stairs as quietly as possible to this floor. He listened. He couldn’t hear anything. He went down the next flight of stairs, down to the hall.’
    â€˜Still without turning on the light?’
    â€˜I don’t need the light,’ Masterman said in a dry, thin voice. ‘I’ve lived in this house fifty years come next summer. I know my way round blindfold. Saves electricity, look. I’m not made of money, you know. Fifty years and I never had nothing like this happen before.’
    Kirby coughed gently. ‘The intruder was waiting at the foot of the stairs. He hit Mr Masterman over the head. When Mr Masterman woke up, he found himself in his own cellar.’
    â€˜It was cold,’ the old man interrupted. ‘It went right to my bones.’
    â€˜Mr Masterman had been tied up with his own clothesline. His attacker had also wrapped him in an eiderdown which he’d taken from Mr Masterman’s bed.’
    â€˜Just as well he