The Deer Leap Read Online Free Page A

She appeared to be addressing the Scotch egg. “Mum’s dead. And Da—” She shrugged. “Who knows? Anyway, I can’t even remember him.” She said it matter-of-factly.
    â€œI’m sorry. But you must have some family.”
    Her deep blue eyes looked up, slightly puzzled. “Why? There’s lots don’t. Do you?”
    â€œNot much of a one. A cousin. Lives in Newcastle. How’ve you been getting by, Carole-anne?”
    Again, those blue eyes regarded him, this time with a sparkle. “You kiddin’?”
    Jury said nothing.
    She sighed. “Oh, okay. I’m not into that. What I want to be is a dancer or actress.”
    â€œThought you were one,” he said.
    â€œGod, you’re wors’n a dozen mums. I mean a real actress. Tried out for Chorus Line. Almost got a part, too.”
    â€œWell, if you didn’t, the casting director must have a Seeing-Eye dog.”
    She hesitated and then laughed. “Thanks.”
    â€œThat’s your ambition, then? West End musicals?”
    â€œWest-bloody-End musicals? Well, it’d do for a start. What I’m really good at is the straight stuff. You know. Like that Judith Anderson or Shirley MacLaine, maybe.”
    â€œYou sweep the board, that’s for sure. Had any lessons?”
    â€œSome. Need a bit of training.” Her look was quite serious as she scrutinized her Scotch egg.
    â€œA little, at least. I’ve got to get to work. I’ll see you back to the house. I’m keeping an eye on you, Carole-anne.”
    Shrugging a creamy shoulder toward the bar, she said, “So what else is new?”

    â€œPolly? Polly Praed? In a phone booth — ?” Jury had left Carole-anne’s flat after checking the dead-bolt lock and fixing the loose chain. (“ You going to bolt me in, Super?” )
    Just as he entered his own flat, the phone rang. He wasn’t on rota, so it shouldn’t be New Scotland Yard, but, knowing his chief superintendent’s tendency to ignore who was first,second, third down, he fully expected one of Racer’s late-night calls-to-arms. That didn’t mean anything was happening in criminal London that demanded Jury’s attention, only that Racer’s club and the pubs were closed.
    So Jury was pleasantly surprised to hear the voice of his old friend Melrose Plant on the other end.
    â€œSure, I’m working on a case. Racer makes certain my hands are either full or tied behind my back. Where is this place?”
    Jury wrote it down. “Okay. What else did she tell you? . . . Hmm. Well, you must bring out the best in her.” Jury smiled. “I’ll see you there tomorrow. Unofficially, that is. The Hampshire police wouldn’t appreciate my coming along uninvited.”
    Hung up on him, had she? Jury shook his head, looked at the dull paperwork in his hand, tossed it back on the desk. From his memory of Polly Praed, getting her to talk about anything at all was like being stuck at a party of clams. She struck him as extremely shy, unless the subject got around to murder.

Five
    U na Quick, according to Dr. Farnsworth, had died of cardiac arrest.
    It was the storm and Ida Dotrice’s account of Una’s habit of calling her doctor, who signed the death certificate, that provided the Hampshire police with a reason for the accident. Dr. Farnsworth, whose practice was in the nearby town of Selby, examined Una Quick every month, like clockwork. It was unfortunate (Farnsworth had told police) that Miss Quick had not had a clockwork heart. Could go at any time.
    Una had told Ida Dotrice that Dr. Farnsworth insisted she call him once a week — every Tuesday after office hours to report on her condition. How the latest medication was affecting her, or how the old ticker was doing, or whether she’d been going against his orders and drinking more than her limit of two cups of tea, and so forth.
    But the storm Tuesday