In a private club tucked away in central London three gentlemen sat savouring their brandies. The oldest, a plump figure bald, lived-in face, his eyes bird-like darting everywhere.
”The memorial service was pukka, don’t you think?”
His colleagues nodded their agreement. The man with a military bearing leaned forward, glancing around.
”Just thank the lord he did the honourable thing after his traitorous behaviour.”
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Low lighting and heavy drapes held the evening at bay. Valerie Trent sat across from her new client, Anita Wallace, who was devoid of makeup, her hair chopped short, her shoulders hunched.
”Anita can you tell me why you are here?”
“My husband died six months and five days ago and I keep thinking I killed him”
”Did you?”
Her eyes filled with anguish. ” I don’t know, he tripped over my foot as I scrambled away from him and he went over the cliff to his death.”
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Alfie disappears into the classroom without looking back. It swallows him whole. That’s good, I tell myself. He’s happy and I’m free to be ‘me’ again. It’s terrifying.
Turning towards the gate, I focus on the shiny new stilettoes that I hoped would bring me confidence. But I feel ridiculous. A pool of sweat is collecting beneath the too-tight waistband of my trousers, the material straining to contain my bulging flesh. Why did I let Ben convince me to pursue a career again, at my age? Asking his university colleagues to consider me for a job? They’ll see right through me. Inadequate. Embarrassing. Fat.
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‘Find the killer of my daughter.’ Beauleigh Williams’ breath came in more pants than a filly at the Derby. ‘Where you gonna start?’
‘Motive,’ I replied. ‘Did she have any enemies?’
‘She had a boyfriend. He was my enemy. The rat wasn’t good
enough for her. He’s not good enough for a female rodent, come to that.’
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I met Dai on Fabian Way
He had a flask, tea he’d say
Quick he moved, his purpose grim
Did not stop, they were after him
Who they were, I could not see.
And when I did, they were after me.
Across the bridge, up Castle Way
Lord above, too late to pray.
Out in front, a shadow rode.
On a bike, with a cursed load.
Saint Andere, but nor for hire.
A dreadful stare, and spat hell fire.
Down the hill, towards the sea.
Smelt their breath, near Anna Quay.
I will no lie, no perjury
There at last, Marina Surgery.
The wait was long, that much was true.
We were many, the doctors few.
Dr Faustus and Dr Soul
Annual check-ups were never dull.
Apologies to Shelley!