The Killing Season Read Online Free Page A

it as a deadly weapon when I set up in private practice.
    I turned left into a drive that ran alongside the immaculately maintained front garden of a small but very pretty clapboard-fronted bungalow that was painted in white with a seaside blue trim. It had been built, by the looks of it, in the 1930s and it made a change from all the pebble-and-flint buildings that were strung along the coast, pretty as they were.
    I parked my car behind an old but spotless Morris Minor and rang the doorbell. The door was answered by a sprightly woman who also looked like she’d been built in the 1930s. Helen Middleton. A widow. Five foot six, platinum-white hair, a smart two-piece black suit and facial bone structure that had probably launched a thousand ships back in her day. Her eyes were bright and intelligent and she looked like she weighed about six stone in the pouring rain.
    ‘Mr Delaney,’ she said with a completely disarming smile. ‘I’m Helen Middleton. No relation. We spoke on the phone.’
    I nodded. ‘Indeed we did. Call me Jack.’ I would have shaken her hand but both of hers were busy. She was holding a small dog who was watching me with alert, suspicious eyes. It looked like some kind of terrier crossed with something else. I’m not great on dog types.
    ‘I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want Bruno running out into the road,’ she said, as if reading my mind. ‘I hope you don’t mind dogs?’
    ‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘I’m an Irishman.’ As if that explained everything. Maybe it did.
    ‘What brand is it?’
    ‘Brand?’
    ‘Sorry, breed.’
    ‘Border Terrier with a bit of Jack Russell in him. Anyway, come in, come in,’ she said. ‘We’re letting all the heat out.’
    I did as I was told and followed her into a small hallway that had framed pictures on the wall and a small occasional table with a vase and flowers in it. I could feel the warmth immediately and unzipped my jacket. Helen Middleton opened a door and we turned left into the lounge of the bungalow.
    There was a pleasant smell of wood polish in the air as we entered. It was quite a large room but in immaculate order with not a speck of dust anywhere. Which was remarkable considering the number of small tables and other surfaces in the room. All covered with
objets d’art
. Statuettes, toby jugs, miniature figures. Collectible bottles of brandy that were shaped like books. Boxes. An antique gaming table with some Royal Doulton china on it. A log-burner was blazing cheerily in the middle of the wall to my left. Close to it was a very comfortable-looking leather recliner facing a corner of the room where you might have expected to see a television. But instead of a TV there was a high-end audio set-up. Separates with a CD player, receiver and matching amplifier. To the right and left of them some tall expensive-looking speakers. I could just about make out the strains of some classical music playing – she had obviously turned the volume down on my arrival. On a small sherry table to the left of the armchair was a precariously balanced pile of books. A notepad and pen lay on top of them.
    ‘Mozart?’ I enquired.
    ‘Not close and no cigar, I am afraid.’ She smiled. ‘Mahler’s fourth. In G major.’
    I nodded. Classical music wasn’t really my thing. Unless you counted Johnny Cash, which a lot of purists at the Royal Academy of Music didn’t.
    ‘Music is one of my passions, Detective Delaney,’ she continued. ‘You may note that I do not have a television.’
    ‘I did that, ma’am.’
    ‘Life is to short to waste on . . . what is it they call it? “Moving wallpaper”?’
    ‘I’m not such a big fan myself, truth be told.’ I smiled at her. ‘And I don’t get a lot of time for it nowadays.’
    ‘The strictures of the job?’
    ‘That and a newborn baby, and an eight-year-old daughter and a wife who’s a doctor who is also called upon sometimes to work irregular hours.’
    ‘Ah. That would be Doctor Walker,