BooksBarbecue
Back The Widow
Chapters (92)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. PART I
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. PART II
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. 82
  87. 83
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. MORE FROM VALERIE KEOGH
  90. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  91. The Murder List
  92. About Boldwood Books

She carried it casually, conspicuously, it being the easiest way to avert suspicion. At home, she made space in the middle of her living room floor, spread sheets of newspaper out and emptied the contents of the bag onto it.

The books, three of them, were relatively recent releases. Crime thrillers, not her favourite genre but beggars, like herself, couldn’t afford to be choosy. Putting them on the sofa, she sifted through the rest. A diary! She picked it up, eyes gleaming with excitement that quickly died when she discovered it was two years old. The only interesting thing written in it was the name on the details page: Peter Fellowes.

Jo sat back on her haunches. This was Peter’s stuff. An unopened box of condoms gave her a clue where it had come from. She’d have bet money, if she had any, that it was the contents of his bedside locker. There was nothing of any interest among the jumble of items. Pieces of what looked like a coaster grabbed her attention. Hoping there was something scribbled on it, she gathered the pieces and reassembled them. But there was nothing written on it. It was simply a coaster from an upmarket wine bar. Why had Peter kept it? And if he had, why had he torn it into pieces? Or had it been Allison who’d found it and, for reasons of her own, ripped it up?

A minor mystery Jo might never solve. The contents of the bag, however, did solve the question of why Allison was desperate to get rid of it. She wouldn’t have liked anyone to have seen how soon she was clearing her beloved late husband’s belongings from the house. It didn’t fit with the grieving widow mantle she’d laid about her shoulders.

Tossing the torn coaster back on top of the remainder of rubbish – the old receipts, keys, pens, timetables for buses that probably no longer ran – she folded the edges of the newspaper over the lot and shoved the untidy parcel back into the black bag.

Poor Allison. Really, she needed to be much more careful.

Somebody could get the wrong idea.

40

Jo opened the door of her apartment. It was late and the corridor outside was dark. She flicked the switch, blinking when the space filled with light. The black bag hung from one hand; she swung it gently, then harder and let it go, the bag sailing along the corridor to land with a flat flump against the wall further along. She waited till the light, on a timer, switched out before softly shutting her door.