Grey Ladies , livre ebook

Andrews UK - William Stafford

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94 pages

English

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A nasty outbreak of murder at an old people's home in the Black Country town of Dedley provides a new case for detectives Brough and Miller. Meanwhile, their personal lives come to the fore and strange goings on up at the castle are also a cause for concern. This sequel to Blood & Breakfast has twists and shocks to keep you guessing and a rich vein of humour to keep you laughing.

Informations

Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	21 juin 2016
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781782345145
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title Page
GREY LADIES

By
William Stafford

Publisher Information
Published in 2012 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © William Stafford 2012
The right of William Stafford to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988

1.
“One day, all this will be yours.” Alastair swept the air with his arm, taking in the whole of the town of Dedley below.
David Brough looked down at the trees, the office buildings, the shopping centre and the industrial wastelands. It was already his domain. In his capacity as Detective Inspector, that was.
“You’re funny,” he said, but his tone implied the opposite. “Coffee?”
“That stuff’ll kill you,” Alastair pulled a face.
“A bottle of water then.”
Brough made his way to the head of the spiral staircase, taking care not to brush the sleeve of his new jacket against the rough stone walls. The view from the top of the keep had been worth the climb but he wouldn’t go as far as to say it was worth the dry cleaning bills. He trod on each narrow step with care. Back in the day, people must have had much smaller feet. He didn’t quite entrust his safety to the handrail that coiled around the wall. Oh, it looked secure and sturdy enough. But Brough had a thing about germs and having left his hand sanitizer in his old jacket, he didn’t want to take any chances.
He was being silly and he knew it. It was a more recent development, this preoccupation with germs, this desire to protect against the unseen.
Alastair, nimbler or perhaps just more careless, soon caught up. He goosed Brough, pinching his waist above both hips. Brough startled and swore, uncomfortable with being touched by another man in public.
“I almost fell then,” he cast a cross look over his shoulder, coming eye-to-eye with Alastair’s crotch.
“While you’re down there,” Alastair smirked.
“Incorrigible,” said Brough and continued to descend.
“David...” Alastair followed, “Don’t be like that -”
They both had to back against the wall to allow a party of sightseers to climb past them. Brough’s brown eyes sent Alastair’s blue ones a warning look not to continue this conversation with members of the public so close.
Brough cringed and tried to breathe in as much as possible in a bid to avoid contact with the tourists as they passed. His shoulder blades brushed against cold, clammy stone.
He closed his eyes in disgust and waited for this ordeal to be over.
***
Detective Sergeant Melanie Miller was also enjoying a day off, although enjoying was perhaps not the word she would have chosen. She waited patiently for a gap in the oncoming traffic, clicking her tongue in time with the indicator, before making a right turn and driving through the tall iron gates that guarded the car park.
It was her fifth visit to the home since her mother’s incarceration - No, Mel; don’t call it that - Mother’s admission , rather. Miller supposed she had not quite built up enough loyalty points to merit her own parking space. Huh, she considered as she manoeuvred her car carefully between a pair of vans that weren’t precisely within the painted lines, how terrible that would be; if the home had to offer relatives loyalty points as incentive to get them to visit their so-called loved ones...
Damn it. She hadn’t even undone her seatbelt and she could already feel her mood plummeting. This place did it to her. Sapped all the joy.
Come on, Mel. She made eye contact with herself in the rear-view mirror. Happy face. Keep it upbeat. Keep it happy. For Mum.
She got out and locked up. A glance up at the foreboding exterior of the Dorothy Beaumont Rest Home drained her of even her fake enthusiasm.
The building had been converted from student halls a few years back. All those narrow bedrooms in which generation after generation of youngsters had got drunk, stoned, shagged and hung-over were now holding cells in which people at the end of their lives waited for death. No amount of pastel paint or hanging baskets could compensate for that sad truth.
She opened the boot and took out a holdall. Yet more things from the house to make Mum feel more at home.
Oh well, best get it over with.
Checking again that the car was secure, D S Miller made her way around to the main entrance. Get it over with and you can get some of that ice cream you like on the way home. There’s a good girl.
***
“I can’t believe you’ve never been here before,” Alastair repeated from across the table. He toyed with the plastic cap of his water bottle in a way that Brough found irritating. “You’ve been here - what? - a year and you’ve never -”
“Ten months and you know it,” Brough cut him short.
“And we’ve been going out for seven-”
“Will you keep your voice down?” Brough cast a panicked look around the cafe. They were still within the confines of Dedley’s castle. The cold and crass commercialism of the modern world had found its way into the Norman ruins, clinging to the stone like lichen. The plastic tables and chairs were at garish odds with the dark grey walls. Brough detested the place. He tried to drink his plastic coffee all the quicker but only succeeded in breaking out in a sweat.
“You’re sweating,” said Alastair, his eyes twinkling with amusement at his boyfriend’s discomfort. Brough was a funny bugger, in more than one sense, but Alastair had quickly learned not to take his quirks and foibles as personal slights or attacks.
“Am I?” Brough wiped his upper lip and seemed surprised to find his thumb came away wet. “I guess; when it’s on your doorstep...”
“What? Sweat?”
“No; idiot. All - all this,” he made a gesture that took in the cafe and beyond. “When it’s just up the road, I suppose you don’t make the effort.”
“Hmm,” Alastair rested his chin on his fist and watched Brough squirm beneath his scrutiny. “Just up the road but not up your street?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Not your cup of tea. Or whatever that sludge is you’re overheating yourself with.”
“I am sorry. Can we go now?” Brough was painfully aware of a couple of women with a group of children at a nearby table. Behind the counter, the girl may have been flicking through a gossip magazine, but she was no doubt taking in every word, noting every gesture of the two - the two - What would she call us? Poofs ?
“In a minute,” Alastair sat back. He stretched out, knees wide, taking up more room. “I’m enjoying your discomfort too much.”
“Fuck you.”
“Wait until we get home!” Alastair wiggled his eyebrows in a lascivious manner. His naturally curly hair shook and Brough had a flash of memory - his own fingers tangled in that mop... Ahem.
He tried to make himself smaller so that there was no increase in the amount of cubic space being occupied by homosexuals.
“Speaking of home...“ Alastair reached inside his jacket and pulled out a thin packet. He placed it on the table between them.
“What’s that?” Brough nodded.
“You’re the detective.” Alastair gestured to Brough to open the packet.
“A toothbrush?”
“No flies on you, Inspector.”
Brough examined the object as if he had never seen the like. A piece of tinsel had been tied around the plastic packaging.
“It’s a present,” Alastair explained.
“I don’t -” Brough frowned. “It’s not my birthday and Christmas is months away and I -”
“It’s a housewarming gift.”
“Oh, no...” Brough dropped the toothbrush on the table as if it had bitten him. He pushed himself from the table and got to his feet. “We’ve talked about this.”
He was out of the cafe and across the castle’s central quad before Alastair caught up with him and grabbed his elbow.
“I don’t get it!” He searched Brough’s face as though the answer might be written somewhere on it. “You spend a lot of time at my place as it is. I just think we should make it a more permanent arrangement.”
Brough froze. He appeared to neither blink nor breathe until Alastair released his elbow. “I can’t,” he whispered.
“Is it me?”
“No, it’s not you. Now, come on; let’s go and see the lemurs.”
Brough moved off. Alastair sent a pained look to the sky and followed. How many times were they going to play out this scene?
***
“And you’re warm enough?” D S Miller asked for the - well, she’d lost count how many times. She was sitting next to her mother in an armchair in one of the home’s communal areas. It was a stupid bloody question. The place was like a sauna, regardless of the weather. Mel could feel sweat coursing between her breasts and down the small of her back. She was earning her ice cream today. “And they’re feeding you properly?”
“I can feed myself,” her mother suddenly snapped. “I’m not completely incapable just yet, you know.”
“That’s not what I meant -”
“If you’re on about the cuisine, I can tell you it’s a damn sight better than those crispy pancakes you used to cremate three times a bloody week.”
“You didn’t like my cooking?”
“I mean, minced beef in a pancake! Well, it’s neither one thing nor another, is it?!
“I work, Mum. I’m busy!”
“We don’t get that muck in here, oh no. It’s all wraps and whatsits here, poonanis.”
Mel laughed despite her best efforts not to. “I don’t think that