Off the Record (Jack Haldean Murder Mystery)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The new entry in the popular ‘Jack Haldean’ series, set in the Roaring Twenties - Charles Otterbourne’s New Century company should have been the perfect partner for Professor Alan Carrington’s radical new gramophone. After all, Charles was not only a leading manufacturer, but also a noted philanthropist. But when murder is the result of their meeting, Jack Haldean takes up the case, in a desperate bid to save a man from the gallows. But what led to the crime? The answer is Off the Record . . .
don’t honestly know,’ he said seriously. ‘On the one hand, it’s a good case. It’s circumstantial, but sound.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s something though, Jack. I said as much to the Chief but, given the evidence, we had no choice but arrest Carrington. He didn’t do himself any favours, I must say. He’s an argumentative devil.’ He puffed his cheeks out in discontent. ‘What can I say? I’ve got that niggling feeling there’s something wrong and I can’t put my finger on what it is.’ He looked at his
hand. He was sure the man had turned away to hide his emotions. He had a good idea that with a little careful probing he could draw those emotions out into the open. It would be as easy, pointless and cruel as pinning a struggling butterfly to a card. Poor devil. Carrington put his glasses back on and, sitting upright, straightened his pullover, and drew a deep breath. ‘Anyway, perhaps you can see why my father was such easy game for a shark like Dunbar.’ ‘Was he really such a shark?’ asked
be so sure?’ Her mouth quivered ominously. ‘I just know it. I . . . I sensed it.’ She burst into tears. ‘Gerard Carrington must be the man,’ she said between sobs, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I felt sorry for him, of course I did. Andrew could be very difficult.’ She swallowed noisily. ‘Or . . . Don’t you think Andrew must have killed himself ? After all, he wrote a note to say he killed himself. Can’t we all just say that’s what happened? It’d be so much better if we could simply
future is not ours to apprehend. Sometimes, I – foolish as women are, swayed by a desire to pierce this veil which clouds us – sometimes I have yearned to see beyond, to see further than the few steps which the Merciful All-Knowing illuminates for us.’ Hector Ferguson gave a short sigh. ‘The last time you saw my stepfather was the afternoon he returned from Stoke Horam. That’s what? Nine or ten weeks ago now. It was the day Charles Otterbourne and Professor Carrington died.’ ‘So it was,’ she
Horam Woods, crossed the stepping-stones over the river Lynn at the bottom of the valley and up the gentle slope to the unremarkable Hertfordshire hamlet of Stoke Horam. Neither the village, with its twenty-two agricultural labourers’ cottages, or the green with its grazing geese pecking beneath the washing hung out to dry, had anything to detain him, so Charles continued up the slope to the thirteenth century and mercifully unrestored church of St Joseph of Arimathea. The church itself made