Susan Hill - The Shadows in the Street: A Simon Serrailler Mystery

I am again indebted to Detective Chief Superintendent Paul Howlett of Wiltshire CID, who has answered my many questions in most helpful detail and with both authority and alacrity, and spared time and thought to my fantasy cases when he had plenty of real ones on his hands.

Dr Robin Birts answered my medical questions with clarity and patience, while the anonymous members of the police999.com forum were always willing to come to my aid with professional information on police procedure.

Barrister Anthony Lenaghan has advised me on legal points. Sheila Finlayson drew on her many years of experience in social work to reply to my queries and passed others on to those still toiling in the field who gave me up-to-date information.

My grateful thanks to them all. Any errors that may remain are my own.

Leslie Blade stopped in the overhang of the college entrance to put up his umbrella.

Rain. Rain morning and evening since the beginning of the week.

He could drive to work, but it was only a couple of miles so he didnt qualify for a college parking permit. He could get a bus, but they were infrequent and unreliable and there was still a ten-minute walk from the stop nearest to his house.

People were dashing down the steps and out into the downpour. Students crossed the courtyard with anorak hoods pulled over their heads.

Leslie Blade lifted his umbrella and stepped out.

Until the last few months he had always followed the same route along the main road and around by the Hill, but now the Old Market Lanes had opened he sometimes walked through them, liking the cobbles and the less garish lights, looking into the windows of the bookshop and a couple of galleries, buying a piece of cheese or some salami from the delicatessen which stayed open until seven. It made him twenty minutes or more later arriving home, which his mother did not like, so he had taken to buying her some chocolate or a bag of butter toffee. It was a bribe, and it wasnt what she really wanted, which was his company, but it worked. She enjoyed the sweets.

By the time he reached the Lanes this evening, rain was sluicing off the gutters and there were deep puddles at the side of the narrow cobbled way. The deli was closing early.

He saw her at the end of the Street, where the Lanes decanted onto the market square. She was standing just inside the light that spilled out from the pub, the collar of her jacket up, trying to shelter from the rain but still remain visible. Leslie quickened his step. This was a new place; he had not seen any of them here before. It was too near the main shopping streets and cars were not allowed to stop in the square only buses, and taxis on their way to the rank at the far end.

But it was Abi. He was sure it was Abi, even from the other end of the street. Abi or just possibly Marie?

He skirted one puddle but hit the next and felt the cold water slosh up the front of his leg, soaking his trousers, and he almost fell as he reached the corner.

Abi?

The young woman did not glance round, but instead went to join the man for whom she had clearly been waiting. Took his arm. Went into the pub.

Not Abi. Not Marie. Not one of them after all.

Leslie felt angry and he felt a fool. But there was no one to notice.

He crossed the market square and headed away from the shops and the lights, towards the Hill.

Hilary, his mothers carer, left at four thirty and he tried to get home just after six. Tonight, it was nearer twenty past because the rain driving into his path had slowed him down. It was Thursday, one of his two nights for going out, but if it didnt clear up, he wondered, was there much point? Would any of them be out in weather like this?

He opened the front door.

Hilary always left the porch light on for him, the kettle filled and ready. If he wanted her to do anything else, peel potatoes or put something into a low oven, he had only to leave a note and she would do it willingly, though he rarely made any requests. She was his mothers carer, not a domestic help. He and Hilary almost never met, but communicated, if they needed to, by a series of notes hers always cheerful and decorated with funny faces and little pencilled stars or flowers. He was lucky. He had heard stories of the other sort of carer the Chief Librarians secretary had had a few bad experiences with her mothers carers, women who had been brusque or even downright unkind, and one who had been a thief. Hilary was dependable, strong, cheerful, reliable. Leslie knew good luck when it came his way. Norah Blade was not difficult, but rheumatoid arthritis as bad as hers did not make for an even temper.

Leslie?

Im here. But Im going up to change, Im soaked.

Its poured all day, Ive watched it through these windows and it hasnt let up since you went out this morning.

He could tell everything by her tone of voice. Good day. Bad day. Painful day. She sounded bright. Not a bad day then.

They could have a nice evening, and shed be settled in bed before he had to go out. Sometimes, if she was in a lot of pain, he had to stay up with her, play a game of cards, help to make the night a bit shorter. On those evenings he couldnt go.

The strip light was on above the kitchen worktops, a pan of peeled carrots on the cooker, a chirpy note from Hilary on the pad. He felt better for dry trousers and his slippers, poured himself a lager and checked on the casserole. The curtains were not yet drawn and, as he reached up to close them, he saw that the rain was no longer teeming down the windows and the wind had dropped.

Theres nothing much on, Norah said, after they had eaten supper and he had helped her back to her chair.

She watched quiz games, wildlife and travel programmes, Midsomer Murders and reruns of the gentler comedy series.

University Challenge?

They all look so scruffy.

Goodness, Mother, you should see some of our students. The ones on television are quite presentable.

There was a boy with green hair.

That was years ago.

All the same.

They could continue bantering enjoyably in this way on and off until bedtime. It had taken Leslie some years to understand that Norah pretended to be grumpy and dissatisfied about small things television programmes, the noise the neighbours made, bits and pieces in the local paper as a safety valve. She was in continuous pain, she was limited in movement, confined to a couple of rooms, and about those things she never complained. Grumbling over the scruffiness of the young on TV was a way of letting out a scream of anguish and misery at her condition.