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Growing Up in the 1950s
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The Four Marys
Part 1 The Four Marys
Part 2 The
Four Marys Part 3 The
Four Marys Part 4 The Four Marys Part 5 The Four Marys Part 6 The Four Marys Part 7 The Four Marys Part 8
The Four Marys - A Murder Mystery
By
Paul Norman
Part
Five (You can access the other parts from the main menu).
Chapter
Eight
Tuesday
Martha
watched the tall young policeman, currently in plain clothes, of
course, walk away down Tamar Road, knowing he was on his way home to
Boverton Drive, where the posh houses were. She knew very little else
about him, except for what he had told her tonight and earlier, at
the hospital, which was not that much. He was easy on the eye,
certainly, and the fact he was a good eight inches taller than her
was not lost on her, although she’d had no problem reaching up to
kiss him before dismissing him for the night. It had been the right
thing to do, she reflected. She was tempted to pour herself a second
whisky, but instead she turned on the radio and tuned in to the Third
Programme, hoping to hear a decent classical music concert. Music and
reading were her passions, and she often sat up well into the night,
well after the station closed down, engrossed in whatever book she
was currently reading. She was a member of and a frequent visitor to
the central library in Southgate, which was well-stocked, and she
rarely left without something to read. As well as Mazo De La Roche,
she was always up for an Agatha Christie, or a Jean Plaidy, whom she
found extremely educational in the matter of history, as well as
being very readable, and she was even not averse to some of the
romantic novels, particularly those involving a hospital setting,
which she found quite hilarious, with their exaggerated characters
and unlikely romantic scenarios between top-flight surgeons and
young, pretty nurses.
She
never missed an episode of Emergency
Ward Ten
and loved watching it in the company of Aunt Joyce, who honestly
believed that hospital was like that in real life. Aunt Joyce had, of
course, been suitably shocked by the inter-racial kiss between
surgeon Louise Mahler and Doctor Giles Farmer. How the writers had
kept straight faces when they created a character called “Giles
Farmer” in what was, essentially, a medical programme was beyond
her and always brought a smile to her lips.
When
she had applied to become a trainee nurse, it had occurred to her
that it was quite on the cards she might meet someone at the
hospital, a surgeon, a registrar, a junior doctor, or even a male
nurse or a porter, but so far no eligible bachelors that were in any
way attractive to her had materialised. There were plenty of married
doctors and surgeons, but whilst she may have been a wild child when
it came to the demon drink, Martha had no intention ever of coming
between a man and his wife. She realised with some alarm that she had
not asked Mike Thompson if he was married or even in a relationship.
Well, never mind. She was really attracted to him, but if it turned
out that he was not available because of a prior relationship, she
would move on. Her main, driving ambition was to meet and fall in
love with a handsome, decent, unattached man, to get married, and to
raise a family. After all, wasn’t that what most young girls wanted
nowadays? Same as it had always been, really. When the children were
off to school she could return to nursing, and besides, she wasn’t
quite ready to settle down just yet. She wasn’t interested in
sleeping around, although with a few drinks inside her, she had quite
often been tempted to do just that, and had come really close a
couple of times, indulging in some heavy petting and so on, but
finding an excuse, sometimes one involving the booze, to withdraw and
make her way home, sometimes to Tamar Road, sometimes via the police
station. On three occasions in the last twelve months alone, she had
drunk herself into oblivion, only to be picked up by the police and
carted off to the nick. She had something of a reputation, a
reputation that could quite easily follow her to her place of work,
but, luckily for her and her career, that had not yet happened.
Remembering
her last year at school, she realised how close she had come to
making love with one of the boys from the nearby boarding school, and
smiled to herself. Organising the “service” for the local boys
had been a distraction that had occurred to her shortly after another
of those days when girls’ parents turned up at the school for some
function or other, and because of the consequences of her adopted
parents’ last attendance she had asked them not to come, and had
shut herself away in her dormitory whilst her friends’ parents
came. She had recently finished reading Rosalind Erskine’s
sparkling story, The
Passion Flower Hotel,
and owned the Pan Books edition with the superb picture of Sarah
Callendar winking saucily, and took her inspiration from it to rock
the foundations of the school she attended. She had mused on the
unfairness of having been abandoned whilst just a baby, and the twin
floodgates of self-pity and fury had manifested themselves in a plan
to make them pay, a plan that involved scandal and a real risk to the
family name of Cottingholme-Cole. Even though she went by the name of
Martha Baker at school, there was little doubt that, had the story
come out about the mass prostitution of the Badminton girls, the
newspapers would find out who she really was, and that was part of
the thrill of it all, the possibility of paying them back for what
they had done to her.
But
the plan had been discovered and thwarted at the last moment, with
the boys just half a mile away on their bikes, by a well-meaning
prefect who had at first intended joining in, but as the time
approached for the girls to start delivering on the tariff Martha had
drawn up, the prefect had chickened out and roused the staff.
Martha’s interview with the headteacher had been short and
not-so-sweet, and she had been on the train home to Gloucester within
the hour. Getting a job in the mid-1960s had not been particularly
easy with a reputation like Martha’s, but a kindly head teacher who
had sympathised with her had given her a reference of sorts, and her
exam results were sufficient, combined with the reference, to secure
her a job as a trainee nurse at the hospital. Her brother Barney
Cole’s arrival this evening dragged all of these memories and
intense feelings of resentment back to the surface. The anger got the
better of her.
She
tried to resist it, to drive it to the back of her mind, where the
rest of the painful memories resided. With her gramophone recording of
Rachmaninoff’s
Variations
on a Theme of Paganini,
in her opinion far and away the most romantic piece ever composed,
playing quietly in the background, she tried to get into her book,
the Pan Giant edition of Young
Renny,
with its spectacularly romantic picture of Renny Whiteoak
half-heartedly fighting off a beautiful gypsy-looking woman with
black hair. In it young Renny was affronted by his friend Maurice
Vaughan’s infidelity towards Renny’s sister, while he himself
chose to have sex with this wild, abandoned-looking creature, and his
hypocrisy was not lost on her. But the words failed to penetrate
properly and the music, which had moved on to a beautiful rendering
of Chopin’s first piano concerto, was just in the background. Her
mind was teeming with the excitement and perhaps a touch of
resentment that her family, the family who had abandoned her when she
was newly born, had finally tracked her down. She had known that it
was always going to be on the cards, but she hadn’t had to think
about it for years, and now, here they were, within touching distance
of her.
Barney,
her older brother, seemed nice enough, someone she might like to get
to know in time, but she doubted she was ready just yet, and in any
case, she knew only too well that it was just a matter of time before
he tried to persuade her to “come home and meet her real Mum and
Dad”- she could almost hear him saying it. Abruptly, she went to
the sideboard and took out the bottle of whisky, and poured herself
another glass. It belonged to her dad, Edwin, but it was a common
enough brand, and she would replace it tomorrow from the off licence
in the city, on her way home for work. Aunt Joyce never looked in the
sideboard, at least, not into that side of the sideboard, because she
was teetotal, she abhorred alcohol, whisky especially. She went to
the local Methodist Church every Sunday, twice, and any occasion that
presented itself mid-week as well. Martha could easily slip into the
off-licence and pick up another bottle, and obviously the opportunity
to start
on it would not present itself whilst she was at work. When Edwin
Baker came home from Aberdeen in a few weeks’ time, there would be
a full bottle of his favourite whisky in the sideboard, just as there
had been when he had gone away.
Whisky
was not her favourite tipple, that was brandy. At least it was not
gin, which her Aunt called “Mother’s ruin”. Joyce never
lectured Martha about the evils of alcohol, even though she was well
aware of Martha’s drinking habits, and was always on hand to
welcome her home after a night in the cells. Joyce was her aunt, not
her mother, not even her stepmother, and she did not interfere in
Martha’s life in any way whatsoever. She only observed, and frowned
on the young girl’s actions, but never judged her. She offered
advice if she was called upon to do so, but Martha was an independent
young girl with a mind of her own. If she chose to drink hard
liquor,
that was her choice. Instead, Joyce would leave leaflets from
Alcoholics Anonymous and magazine articles about movie stars with
drinking problems lying around the house in the hope that Martha
would see and read them, and realise the terrible path she was
following. Martha ignored them.
She
was desperately unhappy to think that her brother, Barney Cole, had
tracked her down so easily. True, it was almost eighteen years ago
that she had been abandoned, but it seemed to her that she had just
attained adulthood and there they were, her original family, on the
periphery of her life, just waiting for the opportunity to muscle in
and take her over. It was as though now she had come of age, they
were there, waiting to pounce, and it made her feel very angry
indeed.
Martha
drained the whisky and poured herself another, and then another.
Pretty soon, it was midnight. She laid her head against the back of
the chair, closed her eyes, and drifted into a troubled sleep. That
was how her aunt Joyce found her in the morning, head back, mouth
open, dribbling, snoring loudly. Half an hour later she was washed,
dressed in her nurse’s uniform and ready to walk down to Ermin
Street to catch the bus as though nothing had happened last night.
All she felt was slightly nauseous, and she had the faint beginnings
of a small but tedious headache as she crossed the city and walked
into the hospital.
Chapter
Nine
Wednesday
The
village of Churchdown, to the north of Brockworth, boasts no less
than three fine parish churches, and two village centres. Surrounded
on three sides by open countryside, it is considered by many to be a
suburb of the city of Gloucester, but remains sufficiently rural to
be considered a village. On The Green stands the house where Beatrix
Potter stayed in 1901, and which led to her story The
Tailor of Gloucester. There
are many fine buildings of architectural note, far more than its
nearest neighbour, Brockworth, and the views from Churchdown Hill are
particularly inspiring, with views across the Severn Vale and to the
Cotswolds. There are a limited number of council houses, a few being
in Cordingley Close.
In one
of these council houses, which she shared with Jenny Rogerson, Mary
Fielding sat on the bed in Jenny’s room and took off her bright red
shoes to massage her toes. Stupid mare, wearing high heels, knowing
she’d be suffering with her corns come morning. She chided herself,
wincing with the agony. The clock on the bedside cabinet said 3:05am.
The window was slightly open, allowing a gentle cool breeze in, a
welcome relief after the sweltering heat of the past few days. She
undressed, taking off everything she was wearing, including her
underwear, and put on a flower-patterned housecoat. She bundled up
her clothes, which smelt of stale sweat and alcohol, and stuffed them
into the linen basket by the door. Then she found a pair of flipflops
in Jenny’s wardrobe and looked down at James, her little boy, who
was sleeping in Jenny’s bed. Jenny was downstairs, still partying
like there was no tomorrow, and would probably crash out on the sofa
in the lounge. John… where was John? God, she was so pissed. She
couldn’t even remember where John was. Oh, yes, that was right,
she’d sent him home with one of his migraines. She started to brush
her hair, and then realised she hadn’t cleaned her teeth, and
fished in her bag for the emergency brush and toothpaste she always
carried with her, and got up off the bed intending to walk through to
bathroom. And then her eyes widened as the bedroom window was lifted
up, and a man was climbing through, and then he was in the room,
standing in front of her. He was holding a piece of stone, as large
as his fist. Somewhere in the echoes of her mind, she thought she
recognised him from way back, though she couldn’t place his name,
only the face. In this she was entirely wrong, she had never met him
at all, and she was only known to him by association, the nature of
which would never have occurred to her in a million years.
Mary
opened her mouth to scream but the soft whup
of the stone on the side of her head stopped her dead in her tracks
and she felt her legs start to collapse. She felt them give way, her
bowels loosened, and then her bladder, and then she was falling,
falling down, dead, with blood coursing down her face and her chest
and little James was waking up… And she remembered him, as she
died, and reached out towards him, and then she was gone, forever,
and the man was gone, climbing out of the window and fleeing down the
drainpipe the way he had come in. It was all over in a matter of
seconds, and Mary Fielding was no more.
*******
Martha
Baker was waiting for Mike outside the entrance to the hospital. He’d
driven to the city today in his Morris 8 Tourer. It was open to the
elements when he set off, but he’d taken the precaution of stopping
in Hucclecote and pulling the black canvas top over because there was
rain forecast for later in the day. He supposed he would have to park
the car in the Police station car park after the post mortem, and he
wasn’t looking forward to it, because of the ragging he would
receive at the hands of the other bobbies and probably Sergeant
Wilson as well, but he’d been delayed at the police house in
Boverton Drive by a youngster, a little eight-year-old girl by the name
of Penny who
had mislaid her dog. Together they had searched the little green
space that led to Boverton Avenue, and they had found the little dog,
a mongrel by the name of Rosie, cowering under some bushes. She had
evidently been chasing a rabbit but had fallen foul of a cat very
nearly as big as herself, and it took a little coaxing from Mike to
bring her out to be reunited with Penny. She gave him a grateful
smile and he congratulated her on having the common sense to knock at
the police house for help. Now she could return home with her doggie,
have her breakfast and still be at school on time without having to
tell her parents she had momentarily lost the dog, an admission that
might have got her into trouble. But the incident had made Mike
slightly late, and whereas he had been planning on catching the bus
to Gloucester, he had had to turn the starting handle on Jasmine and
use her to get him to his first appointment of the day.
Martha
stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. She was immaculately
dressed in her nurse’s uniform, which was freshly pressed. She
still appeared not be wearing any make-up. He was no expert, but
there was no sign of anything that he could see. She caught him
staring at her, and smiled.
‘I’m
allergic to just about everything,’ she said, apparently reading
his mind. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the way to the mortuary.’
She
smelt lovely, and he supposed the allergy did not extend to her
perfume, which was subtle and gorgeous. She appeared to be none the
worse for wear after her drinking spree last night, if indeed she had
continued to indulge herself after he had left. Had he known just how
much whisky she had consumed after he’d gone, he would have been
horrified. They made their way through the bowels of the hospital to
a basement, and when she pointed to the room in which he needed to
be, he caught her hand before she could go.
‘Can
I see you again?’
‘If
you like, you know where to find me,’ she said carelessly, and then
she walked off, but she turned her head slightly to the left to look
back at him, and he could just see from her profile that she was
smiling. He supposed her casual manner towards him this morning was
some kind of test she was setting him. Well, two could play at that
game. He smiled to himself, knocked on the door and waited for
someone to say “Enter”. When no one replied, he opened the door
and went in. He was almost overpowered by the strong, chemical smell,
but there, in the room, was the Home Office pathologist, Jeremy
Burnham-Twist, and his assistant, a pretty young lady in an
eye-achingly white lab coat, who was introduced to him as Elizabeth
Trigg.
‘You’re
a little late, Constable, we had to start without you. Is this your
first time?’
‘Yes,
Sir. First real one, that is.’
‘I’d
prefer it if you didn’t call me “Sir”. Jeremy will do nicely,
thank you. Thompson, isn’t it? Mike Thompson? We’re all equals
here, Lizzie will tell you. A bit radical, I know, but there you go,
that’s just my way, I’m a bit of a rebel. You can call me Jeremy.
I already said that, didn’t I? Stand over there and just observe,
if you please. It won’t be pleasant, but if you keep your distance
you may get through it without keeling over. Most don’t, especially
if it’s their first time. There are peppermints on the bench over
there,
and there’s a bucket behind the door should you feel the need, but
you’ll have to empty it yourself. There are a variety of chemicals
in use in this room, Mike, the overpowering smell is formaldehyde.
You’ll get used to it.’
It was
on the tip of Mike’s tongue to ask if there was also an
informaldehyde, because if there was one thing he loved to do, it was
to play with words; but he restrained himself for the time being.
After all, chemists and scientists, for that matter, weren’t that
well known for their sense of humour in his limited experience. At
school, in the Crypt Grammar School, first year students were put
through their paces with every academic subject under the sun. At the
end of the first year, they were given the choice of which path to
take: classics or modern, classics including Latin, French and
possibly Greek, modern including the sciences, chemistry, physics and
biology. There was also a choice of whether or not to follow
geography. Mike had chosen to study Latin and Greek, together with
French and German, and had also dropped geography. His fellow
second-year students, for they travelled through school as a year
group, who had chosen the sciences, were far more serious than those
who studied Latin and Greek. It was something he had noticed, but in
the grand scheme of things, this didn’t amount to anything more
than an observation on the particular boys with whom he made his way
through school in that particular year. Hardly a scientific study.
Lizzie
was an attractive young lady, probably a year or two older than Mike,
with long light brown hair tied back into a pony tail. She was around
five feet six or seven, and although she was wearing this pristine
white lab coat, he could see that she was extremely shapely beneath
it, and he wondered, briefly, if she was spoken for, but then he
remembered the Ouija board and the exquisite perfection that was
Martha Baker.
The
procedure took the best part of an hour and a half, and Mike watched,
fascinated as the pair went about their routine with practiced
perfection, making notes as they went. There was not a great deal of
bodily fluid as the corpse had lain undiscovered for such a long
time, but there were plenty of disturbing and unpleasant smells, and
Mike often felt his gorge rising during the various procedures
involved in the post mortem, and had to fish in his pocket for a
packet of Trebor Extra Strong Mints a couple of times.
‘Right,’
Burnham-Twist said, ‘Lizzie can fill you in on the salient points,
and you and DCI Maxwell will receive a full report in due course,
probably this afternoon, provided we don’t get something else more
pressing on our plates in the meantime. I’m off to get a fry-up in
the joint round the corner. Lizzie?’
‘Yes,
Jeremy.’ When he had gone, she took Mike through to the office she
shared with the pathologist. ‘Are you all right, Constable?’
‘Mike,’
he said. ‘Call me Mike.’ He knew he must look a complete chump,
probably very pale, but she smiled and carried on.
‘They’re
not all that bad, believe me. This was pretty grim because of the
elapsed time.’
‘You’re
a chemist, or something, I take it?’
She
removed her lab coat and hung it on the hook on the door. As he had
suspected, she was very attractively built, had an engaging smile and
a pretty laugh. She was wearing a pink turtle-neck sweater made from
some soft-looking material or other, possibly synthetic, possibly
wool, and a slim, figure-hugging grey skirt. Sensible shoes but bare
legs completed her outfit.
‘Chemistry
and Physics at Leeds,’ she said. ‘Graduated last year. A first.’
Nineteen,
possibly, maybe early twenties, Mike surmised, his policeman’s
enquiring mind coming into play.
‘Congratulations.
Is this what you wanted to do?’
‘It’s
a job, it’s very interesting – sometimes, quite boring at other
times. The worst bits are when children are involved, obviously. Can
I get you a tea, or a coffee or something? We have a kettle. No milk,
though, I’m afraid. Or we could nip across to the canteen.’
‘No,
thank you, I’ll be fine. I’m not sure what the procedure is, I’m
just seconded to CID for this investigation. Can you talk me through
it?’
‘Of
course. I’ll give you the preliminary findings, not much more than
Jeremy would have told you at the scene of crime, and you really will
have to wait for the formal report this afternoon, but basically, we
have a young lady in her mid-thirties, cause of death was a blow to
the back of the head with a piece of flint, which I understand was
recovered at the scene. There is a scar on her abdomen which is
consistent with an appendectomy, that will be confirmed once I’ve
checked her records, and there is bruising on her back and her legs,
and her ankle bone is shattered. I can’t say for sure, but it’s
my belief that she was running away from someone, she fell, maybe
across a kerbstone or something, broke her ankle, then she was caught
and killed. Then dragged across to the undergrowth and hidden there
till someone’s wee doggie found her. If you take a look at the kerb
near to the entrance to the park, there may well be some indication
of where she fell. It looks as though she may have breakfasted on
something like Puffed Wheat. Rice-based, at any rate.’
‘Running
away from somone.’
‘That
would explain the bruising, yes. And a slice, maybe two, of toast.
And coffee. Definitely breakfast, I’d say, wouldn’t you?’
‘I
see, well, thank you. Yes, sounds like breakfast. I do know where she
was last seen, and it wasn’t at the playing fields. It was at the
shopping precinct in Barnwood, a couple of weeks ago.’
‘The
chemist’s shop, yes, I know, Jeremy said. I expect the DCI told
him.’
Mike
nodded. ‘About that coffee? Is it still on offer?’
‘Of
course. Let’s go to the canteen. They have milk there, I’m
reliably informed. Unfortunately Jeremy doesn’t take milk, so he
doesn’t buy any. I suppose I could, but I never remember! I’m due
a break myself. Follow me. I’ll buy the coffees, you can buy the
sticky buns.’
Elizabeth
Trigg made for a delightful companion over a cup of scalding hot,
surprisingly tasty coffee and an iced bun. They talked mainly about
football – Lizzie was passionate about football, and followed Leeds
United because of her time at university there, and Mike had been
following Liverpool FC for as long as he could remember, because of
his Uncle John’s fascination with the city where he had done some
of his policing before moving south to Gloucester. Lizzie pointed out
with some relish that the only two teams to beat Liverpool during the
season that had just finished, were Leeds United, who had finished
second behind league winners Liverpool, and Sheffield Wednesday. Mike
countered with the amazing fact that Liverpool had won the league
with just fourteen squad members, one of whom, he believed, had
completed the second half of one game with a broken leg. And then
they touched on the matter of the procedure Mike had just witnessed,
and the untimely and savage death of Mary Simkins.
‘Have
you worked here long? At the hospital, I mean? In this job?’
‘Straight
from university, a year ago.’ That put her at about nineteen or
twenty, as Mike had guessed, unless she had taken longer to gain her
degree than was usual.
‘Do
you know everyone?’
‘It’s
quite a big hospital, Mike!’ she said with a laugh and a raised
eyebrow.
‘Sorry,
yes. I just wondered if you knew Martha Baker? She’s a nurse.’
‘The
pretty nurse on men’s surgical? Our very own Sandra Dee, you mean?
That’s what they call her, you know. I know of her. She’s not a
friend, if that’s what you mean. I’ve been to a couple of parties
and she’s been there. Why do you ask? Is she part of the enquiry
into Mary Simkins’s death?’
‘A
different enquiry. The rapist…’
Lizzie
nodded. ‘I know about the rapist. Everyone does, of course…’
‘She
thought she was being followed the other evening on the way home.
Turns out it wasn’t the rapist. I just wondered if you knew
anything about her?’
‘The
party I went to was a bit – I don’t know how you’d describe it
– wild?’
‘That’s
the impression I got.’
‘She
wasn’t wasting your time or anything? No, I get it, you want to
know everything there is to know about her!’ There was a sparkle in
Lizzie’s eyes as she tumbled what Mike was up to. He coloured
instantly and tried to change the subject, but Lizzie was now in full
flight.
‘Well,
if you want my opinion, you should be very careful with our Martha.
She has something of a reputation. She’s a public schoolgirl, you
didn’t know? Bristol, I think. Somewhere in the West Country, at
any rate. Expelled during her last year, she and a few others were
preparing some kind of tariff for selling sex to the nearby boys’
school, like in that new book, what’s it called? The Passion Flower
Hotel, brilliant book, and she looks very much like the girl on the
front cover, you know. I’m not sure if they were caught before
anything happened, or after, but from what I can tell, they had some
kind of bordello rigged up under the stage in the hall, and the boys
were cycling over from their school and queueing up for sex.
Priceless! You realise, of course, that I could be making this all
up, don’t you? And you’d never know, because you’re not going
to ask our Martha about her racy past, are you? That would get you
exactly nowhere!
‘Are
you? Making it up?’ Mike knew full well that Lizzie Trigg wasn’t
making it up – he’d already read some of it for himself, of
course, but he kept that quiet for the time being in case Lizzie
could bring any further morsels of vital information about Martha
Baker to the table.
‘No,
it’s what I heard from one of the other nurses.’
‘This
all came out at the party?’
Lizzie
nodded. A strand of her hair fell across her face. He resisted the
urge to reach across the table and put it back. She was beautiful, he
decided there and then. A safer bet than Martha Baker, that was for
sure. She was beautiful, funny, well educated… Not that Martha was
badly educated – at least, he had no reason to believe such a thing
about her. Lizzie was a year older than he was, at the most…
‘It
was a doctors and nurses party. One of the junior doctors asked me
along so that he didn’t turn up without a partner. I left early.
Not really my kind of scene. I prefer a quiet night in with the Light
Programme and a good Agatha Christie…’
My
kind of girl,
Mike thought, but said nothing. An image of the two girls, Lizzie and
Martha, fighting over him, came into his mind. He smiled to himself
and drank his coffee.
‘I
must go,’ he said.
‘I’ll
walk you to your car,’ Lizzie said. ‘Let me just get rid of these
dirty cups and plates…’
Five
minutes later they were standing alongside Mike’s car, Jasmine.
‘She’s
beautiful.’
‘You
must come for a drive some time. When the weather is fine. Not much
fun when it’s raining, although she doesn’t leak, as such!’
‘I’d
like that. Call me.’
Mike
nodded. ‘See you, then.’
He
drove back to town, knowing that he had promised Martha Baker he
would see her after the post mortem, and resolved to ring the
hospital at a quiet moment in the nick. But he was met at the back
door by Sergeant Wilson, waving a piece of paper.
‘Get
yourself over to this address right away!’ he barked. ‘DCI
Maxwell’s waiting for you – there’s been another murder. Chop
chop! Turn that toy car of yours around, Noddy, and get moving!’
The Four Marys continues in the
June issue...
The
small print: Books
Monthly, now well into its 24th
year on the web,
is published on or slightly before the first day of each month by Paul
Norman. You can contact me here.
If you wish to submit something for publication in the magazine, let me
remind you there is no payment as I don't make any money from this
publication. If you want to send me something to review, contact me via
email at paulenorman1@gmail.com and I'll let you know where to send it.
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