A Reason to Kill Read Online Free

them my gun,’ Mrs Freer told him.

Four
    S everal thoughts skidded through Mac’s mind at that point.
Does she mean a real gun?
Should he call for back up?
Where is it now?
He settled for voicing that final thought.
    â€˜Um, Mrs Freer, where is the gun? Can I see it?’
    She started to get up but then flopped back down in the chair. ‘Oh, be a dear and get it for me, will you? I don’t feel so good today; it’s taking a lot of getting around. I expect it’s because I had such an interrupted night.’
    â€˜Of course,’ Mac told her. ‘Where …?’
    She flapped a bony, fragile-looking hand back towards the hall. ‘In the other room, dear. Under my pillow.’
    â€˜Under your …’
This is surreal
, Mac thought. A sudden worry struck him that, if by some quirk the gun was real, he might have to arrest this fragile pensioner. Reluctantly, he made his way into the living room, now converted into a bed-sitting room. The curtains were half open, allowing only a slant of grey light to infiltrate. Mac took in the threadbare carpet and the ageing furniture. The television resembled the one his parents had nursed through years of faithful service before its final demise. The old lady’s bed was tucked between the window and the couch and draped with a crocheted blanket and, somewhat to his surprise, a thick and puffy duvet dressed in a very smart purple cover.
    For a moment, Mac was taken aback by the very clean nature of the crisp white linen sheets and pillowcases. ‘Clean linen and winter pansies,’ Mac muttered. ‘Who takes care of that, then?’ He twitched the pillows aside and stepped back.
    â€˜Oh boy.’
    Gingerly he lifted the very real revolver from its place beneath the plump white pillow and checked the chamber. To his profound relief it was empty. Mac’s knowledge of guns was not vast, but he reckoned the snub-nosed little revolver was probably a .38 and, holding it up to what light managed to get in through the window, read the Smith & Wesson name, much worn but still clearly engraved.
    Returning to the kitchen, he laid it down gently on the table. ‘You do know that it’s illegal to own this, don’t you?’
    Again that airy wave of the hand. ‘Oh, stuff and nonsense, my dear. My husband had it decommissioned long ago. Filed through a pin or some such, I don’t really remember what he said.’
    â€˜I’ll have to take it away, have it examined, just to make sure,’ Mac told her gently. ‘Mrs Freer, tell me, have you threatened anyone else with this?’
    â€˜Not for years,’ she told him. ‘There’s never really been the need.’
    Mac needed a cup of tea the next time it was offered. The same type of pansies as he had seen in Mrs Freer’s garden were growing happily in large terracotta pots by the door to Peverill Lodge and the pin-neat woman who greeted him at the door had Mac guessing that she must be the provider of clean sheets as well. She looked vaguely familiar, Mac thought, but he couldn’t place where he might have seen her before.
    â€˜Mrs Martin?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜DI McGregor. I’ve just come from speaking with Mrs Freer.’
    She raised an eyebrow and then took his identification from him, inclining it towards the daylight, the better to see.
    â€˜Come in,’ she ordered, standing back from the door. ‘I hope you don’t mind talking in the kitchen but we’re getting lunch. Would you like some tea?’
    â€˜Thank you, I would.’ Rina Martin led him through a spotless hall and into a large and sparkling kitchen. The scent of herbs and what his hungry stomach identified as fresh tomato sauce reminded him that he had eaten very little at breakfast and it was now well after one o’clock.
    From somewhere off the hall he could hear a piano being played and two pretty if slightly wavery voices singing. A tall man