The meanest Flood

was here. One of my assistants, Geordie Black, came round late-afternoon. We took his dog for a walk.’
    ‘Would there be anyone else who could verify your whereabouts yesterday?’
    ‘Maybe,’ Sam said. ‘But I’m not sure I want to answer more questions unless you tell me what this is all about. Something happened to Katherine? What’s the Nottingham connection?’
    ‘Your ex-wife was found murdered in her bed this morning, Mr Turner.’
    ‘In Nottingham? She was living in Nottingham?’
    ‘Yes, that’s right,’ the policeman said. ‘You don’t seem particularly disturbed by the news.’
    ‘I’m sorry for her,’ Sam said. ‘How did it happen?’
    ‘She was stabbed through the heart with a long blade, maybe a sword.’
    Sam shook his head, tried to recollect the woman he’d been married to all those years ago.
    ‘Why would someone want to do that to her?’ Delaney asked.
    ‘I don’t know. It was a long time ago I knew her. I barely remember what she looked like.’
    ‘Do you own a sword, Mr Turner?’
    ‘I want to ring my solicitor,’ Sam said.
    ‘You can do that from the station, sir. I take it you have no objection to helping with our enquiries?’
     

4
     
    Celia Allison put the phone down and leaned forward on her elbows in front of the computer. She had been Sam Turner’s secretary, bookkeeper and Girl Friday for seven years and she could read him like a book. She was wearing a black lace blouse with a high collar to hide the seventy-odd years’ of wrinkles on her neck. Each wrist rattled with bangles and her ear lobes sported antique jet ear-rings. She wore an ankle-length black skirt and rather sensible chunky-heeled shoes.
    She dialled a number and waited with the handset close to her ear. ‘Janet, how are you?’ Pause. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m always fine. Is Geordie there?’
    She waited, idly swirling the mouse around on its rubber pad, watching the pointer on the screen as it highlighted the icons on Word’s standard toolbar. ‘Geordie, have you shaved that terrible moustache off yet?’ Pause. ‘Well, you should. It looks awful. Did you see Sam today?’ She tapped her finger. ‘Oh, really, what a charmed life you lead. Who won?’ She listened patiently as he described a game of snooker.
    ‘Little problem,’ she continued when Geordie had potted the last black. ‘Sam rang me from the police station. Helping with a murder inquiry. He wants me to contact his solicitor, George Forester, and said to ask if you can think of anyone who saw you and him walking Barney along Gillygate yesterday afternoon?’
    ‘He wasn’t here yesterday,’ Geordie said.
    ‘Must’ve been if you and he took Barney for a walk along Gillygate.’
    ‘No, he was in Nottingham, Celia. You know he was.’ Celia had been an English teacher all her previous working life. She assumed the tone of voice that had stood her in good stead throughout that career. ‘Geordie, are you listening to what I’m saying?’
    ‘Yes, but...’
    ‘It’s quite simple. There’s no doubt that you and Sam went for a walk along Gillygate yesterday with your little dog. Reading between the lines, it seems our employer didn’t go to that other town you mentioned. He was here all the time, especially yesterday. Now, we know that you saw him and we wonder if anyone else can corroborate that, OK?’
    Pause.
    Geordie said, ‘Oh, yes. I see.’
    Celia hung up and dialled another number. ‘Mr Forester, please.’ She waited, shifting the handset away from her ear when the ‘Dam Busters’ March’ kicked in.
    ‘George, it’s Celia. Listen, Sam’s down at the police station helping with enquiries into a murder. Can you get him out?’
    ‘I’m on my way,’ the solicitor said.
    ‘Just a hint of relief in your voice there, George. Does it get you out of something else?’
    ‘Jocelyn will be arriving in a minute to take me to our dance-class.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘I won’t be here.’
    Celia smiled. ‘You don’t like dancing?’
    ‘What I’d like,’ George Forester explained, ‘is Flamenco or Tango, maybe some Salsa, something with passion. But Jocelyn’s into ballroom. I hate it. It’s like eating dry biscuits. Makes me feel as if I’ve got a number on my back.’
    ‘You should consider rebellion,’ she told him.
    She looked at the phone. George Forester was one of those quiet, unassuming men who had become entangled with a woman who wanted to direct every aspect of his life. Freud or Darwin might