The Fatal Strand. Robin Jarvis

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      Mrs Gloria Rosina focused a bleary eye upon her alarm clock and snorted in disgust to learn that it was only twenty-to-six in the morning. An impatient ringing had awoken her but the little clock was not to blame.

      Someone was incessantly pressing her doorbell and brutal thoughts whisked through her mind as she hauled herself out of bed. Swearing, she thrust her podgy feet into an icy pair of slippers.

      ‘All right, all right!’ her gravelled voice ranted as she heaved herself into her worn dressing gown and bundled out of the bedroom, snatching up her cigarettes and lighter en route.

      The landlady of The Bella Vista boarding house was a slovenly, fifty-three-year-old, overbearing widow who suffered no one gladly.

      Instead of the familiar surroundings of her bedchamber, this morning her customary coughing fit was barked and expelled in the shabby hallway where cheap prints of London landmarks and exotic views cluttered the walls.

      Still the bell rang its urgent summons, and the woman’s over-generous bosom heaved with annoyance as she regarded the wobbly outline showing through the frosted glass of the front door. Pulling the belt of her dressing gown to so tight a constriction that her ample figure ballooned around it, she padded down the shabby hallway with her arms formidably folded, an unlit cigarette twitching between her lips.

      ‘I hear you! I hear you!’ she bawled, angrily. ‘You’ll break the bleedin’ bell in a minute.’

      The ringing ceased and the landlady grunted as she stooped to unbolt the door, wisely keeping the chain on.

      ‘Better have a flamin’ good reason to wake decent people up at this God forsaken …’

      She left the sentence unfinished as she opened the door a fraction and saw the tall Chief Inspector upon the step.

      ‘Sorry if I woke you, Madam,’ Hargreaves apologised, ‘but it is important.’

      Mrs Rosina shut the door again to slide the chain off, then opened it fully.

      ‘What is this?’ she asked, folding her arms once again. ‘A dawn raid? Post office ain’t been done over again has it?’

      The Chief Inspector cleared his throat. ‘Nothing like that,’ he assured her. ‘I understand you have a Mr Pickering lodging with you. Is that so?’

      The woman bristled visibly and she raised her dark eyebrows. ‘I see,’ she drawled with tart disdain. ‘What’s he done?’

      ‘Nothing, I’d just like to have a few words with him, that’s all.’

      ‘Look, love, I know it’s early but I don’t look that green, do I?’

      ‘Is Mr Pickering here or isn’t he?’

      Mrs Rosina pursed her lips and the cigarette waggled insolently as though it were a substitute tongue.

      ‘You’d better come in, then,’ she finally invited.

      Removing his cap, the Chief Inspector stepped inside the hall and gazed mildly about him.

      ‘Well, he’s not down here,’ the landlady was quick to point out. ‘Only me and me old mother have those rooms. What sort of a place do you think this is? That Pickering’s in Room Four, upstairs. This way.’

      Leading the policeman up to the first floor landing, the woman gave a wheezing breath. ‘So what do you want him for?’ she insisted, blocking the Chief Inspector’s progress with her substantial form. ‘Got a right to know, ain’t I? I don’t want to be murdered in me bed.’

      The Chief Inspector eyed her restlessly. He did not have time for this tedious woman. ‘I have already said that I only wish to speak to your boarder, Madam,’ he repeated, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. ‘I guarantee that you have nothing to worry about.’

      ‘So you’ve only come to have a cosy little chat with him – at this time of the morning? You must think I’ve just got off the boat. Hoping he can help you with your enquiries, is it? We all know what that means, oh yes.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Madam,’ Hargreaves interrupted, unsuccessfully attempting to squeeze by her. ‘It really is urgent.’

      Mrs Rosina sniffed belligerently, then revolved like a globe upon the axis of her slippers and trotted to the door marked with a plastic number four.

      Using the butt of her lighter, she vented some of her irritation by rapping loudly and calling for the occupant of the room to wake up.

      ‘Hello?’ a muffled, sleepy-sounding voice answered. ‘What is it?’

      ‘Visitor for you.’

      ‘If you could give me a minute or two to get dressed …’

      The woman threw the Chief Inspector a sullen look. ‘Hope you’ve got some of your lads out back – ’case he scarpers through the window.’

      The corners of Hargreaves’ mouth curled into a humouring smile which infuriated her more than ever.

      ‘Wouldn’t put anything past him, anyway,’ she said sulkily. ‘Bit too quiet, if you know what I mean. Doesn’t talk much – gives nothing away. Been here a couple of months now, on and off. Right through Christmas an’ all, which I thought was downright peculiar.’

      Before she could unleash any further spite, in the hope of startling some hint or disclosure from the policeman, the door opened. As she’d been leaning on it, Mrs Rosina nearly fell into the room.

      ‘Austen Pickering?’ the Chief Inspector inquired.

      A short man, with a high forehead encompassed by an uncombed margin of grizzled hair, looked up at him in drowsy astonishment.

      ‘Inspector СКАЧАТЬ