Read Sidney Chambers and the Shadow of Death for Free Online Page A

are so fond of football,’ his friend replied. ‘It always leads to disappointment. Cricket is the game . . .’
    ‘Not in the winter . . .’
    ‘Then Rugby Union. Perhaps even hockey . . .’
    ‘Hockey!’ Inspector Keating exclaimed. ‘You think I should start taking an interest in hockey? Next thing it will be bloody badminton. Why are you on the telephone, man?’
    ‘There is something I wish to discuss with you.’
    ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
    ‘It could but I don’t want it to ruin our game of backgammon . . .’
    The inspector let out a long slow sigh. ‘You had better pay a visit to my office, then. If you can fit me in between services . . .’
    ‘I think you are rather busier than me.’
    ‘Come to St Andrews Street, then.’
    Sidney had never been invited into the inner sanctum of the police station and had been expecting something altogether more organised, modern and scientific than the sight that greeted him on arrival. Inspector George Keating’s private space was not the methodical hub of an organised crime-fighting force but a mass of manila files and papers, notes, diagrams, paper bags and old cups of tea that covered every conceivable space: desks, chairs and bookcases. The windows were lightly steamed from the heat of a two-bar electric fire, the ashtray was full and the desk-light had blown. The whole interior could easily have been mistaken for the rooms of a university don, an effect the inspector would not have intended.
    Sidney often wondered whether he should say something about his friend’s demeanour. He was a man who was two inches shorter than he wanted to be, which was not his fault, and his suit needed pressing, which was. His tie was askew, his shoes were scuffed and his thinning sandy-coloured hair was not as familiar with a comb as it should have been. The demands of the job, three children at home and a wife who kept a tight control on the family finances were perhaps beginning to take their toll. There were times when Sidney was glad that he was still a bachelor.
    He knew that his visit was something of an imposition and felt increasingly guilty, but his suspicions were on his conscience and he needed to share them. He reported what he had discovered and conveyed his concerns about the whisky.
    ‘Stephen Staunton’s wife specifically told me that he only drank Bushmills, which, as you may know, has a distinctive smoky, vanilla and bitter-toffee taste. However, the whisky in the office was of the more common or garden variety. Johnnie Walker, I suspect . . .’
    ‘Which leads you to conclude?’
    ‘That the whisky was placed on Stephen Staunton’s desk to give the illusion of Dutch courage but that he never drank any of it . . .’
    ‘Nor, I suppose you are about to tell me, did he put his revolver in his mouth and shoot himself?’
    ‘I seem to remember that there were no fingerprints on the revolver, Inspector?’
    Sidney was not going to call his friend by his Christian name in the office.
    ‘None. We did check.’
    ‘And do you not think that is suspicious too?’
    ‘You’re suggesting the gun was wiped clean?’
    ‘It’s a possibility. Did you examine the decanter?’
    Geordie Keating was now, if such a thing were possible, even more irritated. ‘Not especially closely. We didn’t really see the need. You’ll have to provide more evidence than this, Sidney. What you have told me just won’t do. Who would have killed Stephen Staunton, anyway? What was the motive? He didn’t have any enemies as far as we can make out. He was simply a hard-drinking and depressed solicitor from Northern Ireland. That is the beginning and the end of it.’
    ‘Yes, Inspector, only I don’t think that it is.’
    ‘Well, you’ll have to find more information from somewhere if you want me to do anything about it . . .’
    ‘But if I do so then you will investigate?’
    ‘If further evidence comes to light of course we will investigate; but in the meantime