Chapters (37)
- Cover
- Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Rhys Bowen
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Historical Note
This time I did not present myself to Frederick at the front entrance to Bobo’s building. Instead I went skulking around until I found an alley leading past the dustbins to a back way in. What’s more, the outer door opened without a key and I found myself in a narrow, dark hallway, facing a small service lift. Up I went and let myself into Bobo’s flat without anybody seeing me. I was feeling rather proud of myself. I was going to take my gloves off, but then decided I should leave no fingerprints. I went through the sitting room, finding nothing. In the bathroom I found a syringe and what must have been some kind of drug. But then, the police knew about her habit. I expected they’d found out by now who supplied it to her. I hoped so, as that was certainly something I didn’t want to look into. Dealing with drug gangs was out of my league.
I’d managed to put Darcy from my mind until I went through into the bedroom. There was that dressing gown hanging behind the door, thick navy blue wool with his initials on it. And my insides clenched themselves into knots again. Had he been visiting her all the time he’d professed he loved me? And then the second thought—had he gone to her because I had refused to sleep with him? I didn’t know whether to be glad the police were now grilling him and giving him an unpleasant time, or frightened that they might really try to pin this murder on him.
I turned my back on that door and forced him out of my mind. I had to work quickly and thoroughly. There was a small modern writing desk by the window. I went through it but it contained nothing revealing. No checkbook. No personal letters. Of course the police had probably taken them away. It was silly of me really to think I could find anything of value here. I was about to walk away from the desk when I noticed the blotter. It hadn’t been changed and there was the faintest imprint of writing on it. I lifted it up and carried it over to the mirror. Holding it up, I read with some difficulty:
Mary Boyle, 14 Edward Street, Deptford, London