Wings over the Watcher Read Online Free
could she really do to stop her?
Answer – the logical one. She would ask her to come in during surgery time, explain that she was deluded, that she, Corinne, was a happily-married woman, still in love with her husband, who felt no love for her patient, apart from the responsible feeling appropriate for a doctor towards her patient. She would encourage her to develop new interests outside the home and to adopt a more healthy attitude.
Finally she would suggest she consult another doctor in the future.
There. That was that.
She felt cleansed.
Until.
She dropped the letter in the bottom drawer of her desk and for some reason locked it, removing the key and threading it onto her own personal bunch of keys.
That was when she was aware of a cold feeling, ice-cold enough to paralyse her.
Because the letter had been dropped on a pile high enough to graze the roof of the drawer.
There was no room for any more.
Chapter Three
Thursday, 24th June, 8 a.m.
Sunshine poured in through the window of Waterfall Cottage and skimmed across the dark, oak table, nothing on it except a white notepad, closed, a plain white envelope and a retractable ballpoint pen, all sitting by a vase containing drooping, dead red roses. The room was empty. In fact the cottage was empty. At 8 a.m. Joanna was already pedalling across the road north towards Grindon Moor then turning into Onecote and down into Leek. On such a blue, bright morning, she felt depressed, confused and angry. Only the rhythmic pedalling healed her until by the time she arrived at the station her mind was calmed and her legs aching.
Korpanski was scowling over the letter he’d received in the morning post.
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your letter of May 27th. We note that your car was parked on an incline with the gears not engaged. We note also that it appears that the handbrake was not adequately applied. Could you let us have the following information.
When did a mechanic last check the handbrake? And to your knowledge was the handbrake in any way faulty or needing adjustment?
Korpanski swore, flung the letter down on the hall table and left for work.
It is a hawthorn hedge, newly christened with fresh, green leaves, still iced with the late, white flowers of May. But the scent is not so pretty – it is that of a decomposing carcase. Maybe a badger has died, a fox or a rabbit, a dog or cat run over by a car or caught by a predator. Or perhaps it is something else. Something larger. Whatever it is it is attracting flies.
It had been the last straw – that appeal, the familiar blue envelope at the top of the pile of her morning’s mail, sticking out of her pigeonhole.
“Don’t you think it is time to come out into the open? We have been discreet for long enough. However our families might be hurt – sooner is better than later and time is ticking by.
I cannot hide beneath the umbrella of concealment any longer. Corinne. I want the world to know.”
Deluded she may be but Corinne’s hand shook as she read through the words twice over.
In the bottom drawer of a desk the blue notepaper and envelopes lie silent. At last.
“Someone to see you, Joanna.”
She looked enquiringly at the young PC. “I don’t like mysteries, Cumberlidge,” she said crisply. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, Ma’am.” He’d caught the uncharacteristically sharp edge in her voice and adopted a more formal tone. “He asked for you by name.”
“Description?” she asked lightly, ashamed that she had allowed her poor humour to leak into her dealings with a junior officer.
“Middle-aged man.” He thought for a moment. “Balding.”
No one sprang to mind. “Thank you. Then show him in.” She stood up and watched as a tall, awkward man bumped into the door frame. He was slim and angular, with thinning, greying hair, a shining bald patch on his crown. He was around six foot tall, wearing a Harris tweed jacket – badly fitting over round shoulders and loose
Answer – the logical one. She would ask her to come in during surgery time, explain that she was deluded, that she, Corinne, was a happily-married woman, still in love with her husband, who felt no love for her patient, apart from the responsible feeling appropriate for a doctor towards her patient. She would encourage her to develop new interests outside the home and to adopt a more healthy attitude.
Finally she would suggest she consult another doctor in the future.
There. That was that.
She felt cleansed.
Until.
She dropped the letter in the bottom drawer of her desk and for some reason locked it, removing the key and threading it onto her own personal bunch of keys.
That was when she was aware of a cold feeling, ice-cold enough to paralyse her.
Because the letter had been dropped on a pile high enough to graze the roof of the drawer.
There was no room for any more.
Chapter Three
Thursday, 24th June, 8 a.m.
Sunshine poured in through the window of Waterfall Cottage and skimmed across the dark, oak table, nothing on it except a white notepad, closed, a plain white envelope and a retractable ballpoint pen, all sitting by a vase containing drooping, dead red roses. The room was empty. In fact the cottage was empty. At 8 a.m. Joanna was already pedalling across the road north towards Grindon Moor then turning into Onecote and down into Leek. On such a blue, bright morning, she felt depressed, confused and angry. Only the rhythmic pedalling healed her until by the time she arrived at the station her mind was calmed and her legs aching.
Korpanski was scowling over the letter he’d received in the morning post.
Dear Sir,
Thank you for your letter of May 27th. We note that your car was parked on an incline with the gears not engaged. We note also that it appears that the handbrake was not adequately applied. Could you let us have the following information.
When did a mechanic last check the handbrake? And to your knowledge was the handbrake in any way faulty or needing adjustment?
Korpanski swore, flung the letter down on the hall table and left for work.
It is a hawthorn hedge, newly christened with fresh, green leaves, still iced with the late, white flowers of May. But the scent is not so pretty – it is that of a decomposing carcase. Maybe a badger has died, a fox or a rabbit, a dog or cat run over by a car or caught by a predator. Or perhaps it is something else. Something larger. Whatever it is it is attracting flies.
It had been the last straw – that appeal, the familiar blue envelope at the top of the pile of her morning’s mail, sticking out of her pigeonhole.
“Don’t you think it is time to come out into the open? We have been discreet for long enough. However our families might be hurt – sooner is better than later and time is ticking by.
I cannot hide beneath the umbrella of concealment any longer. Corinne. I want the world to know.”
Deluded she may be but Corinne’s hand shook as she read through the words twice over.
In the bottom drawer of a desk the blue notepaper and envelopes lie silent. At last.
“Someone to see you, Joanna.”
She looked enquiringly at the young PC. “I don’t like mysteries, Cumberlidge,” she said crisply. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, Ma’am.” He’d caught the uncharacteristically sharp edge in her voice and adopted a more formal tone. “He asked for you by name.”
“Description?” she asked lightly, ashamed that she had allowed her poor humour to leak into her dealings with a junior officer.
“Middle-aged man.” He thought for a moment. “Balding.”
No one sprang to mind. “Thank you. Then show him in.” She stood up and watched as a tall, awkward man bumped into the door frame. He was slim and angular, with thinning, greying hair, a shining bald patch on his crown. He was around six foot tall, wearing a Harris tweed jacket – badly fitting over round shoulders and loose
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