A Fatal Obsession: A gripping mystery perfect for all crime fiction readers. Faith Martin
after one of her dad’s sisters, who had died young in the war, Trudy had always insisted on the diminutive, practically from the time she had first learned to talk. And teasing from her schoolmates when they’d discovered her proper Christian name had only reinforced her determination to remain strictly – and only – Trudy.
Now she shot her mum a sharp glance.
‘And don’t give me that look, neither,’ Barbara Loveday shot back crisply. ‘You were out chasing villains, weren’t you? That’s how you got that shiner, my girl. Do you think I’m stupid?’
Trudy resisted the urge to slump over the table and hold her head in her hands. ‘Mum, that’s my job,’ she wailed helplessly. ‘That’s what the police do.’
Barbara sniffed. ‘I daresay it is,’ she agreed stiffly. ‘But why are you one of the ones that’s doing it, that’s what I can’t understand. Silly, I call it. I thought when you went to college to learn to do typewriting and shorthand, you’d become a secretary.’ Her mother ploughed on, with the now all-too-familiar lament. ‘You’d have been the first in either my family or your dad’s to do that! Us Butlers and Lovedays have always worked in shops or factories, or on the buses, like your dad. You’d have been the first one to work in a nice office. Even our Martin works with his hands.’
‘He’s a carpenter, Mum,’ Trudy said wryly. ‘He’s earning good money and always will. He’s got a trade.’
‘Yes, that’s true enough,’ Barbara said, taking time off from berating her daughter to beam with pride at the contemplation of her firstborn. ‘I wish he was still living at home, though.’
Trudy smiled. Martin had moved out of the family home over a year ago, to lodge with a friend of the family nearer his work up in Cowley. And, like any other young, fit and good-looking man, very glad he’d been to get out from under his parents’ watchful eyes too. Not that Trudy would ever tell them so! While she had a good idea what the rascal got up to of a Saturday night, she rather thought her mum and dad were still in blissful ignorance.
‘And you could have been a secretary.’ Predictably her mum went straight back on the attack as she heaped three spoonfuls of tea leaves into the kettle and poured boiling water over them. ‘Instead of sitting there now, looking like someone who’s been dragged through a hedge backwards.’
Trudy bit back a groan. No matter how many times she’d tried to explain to her mother that working in a boring office, doing boring, meaningless clerical work, wasn’t for her, Barbara Loveday had never accepted it.
Which was rather ironic really, Trudy thought, fighting back the urge to laugh. For once she’d finished her police training at Eynsham Hall, and been stationed at St Aldates, she’d spent more time typing up reports, filing and making cups of tea for her superiors than any secretary.
It had all been so far removed from what she had thought of as proper police work that she’d despaired of ever being given more responsibility.
So now, just when she’d finally made it onto the beat, and had even managed to get one or two nice little arrests to her name (two shoplifters and a case of minor arson), this disaster with the bag-snatcher had to go and happen! It just wasn’t fair!
She could still see the rather guilty look on Sergeant O’Grady’s face when he’d seen her black eye, and the uncomfortable look on DI Jennings’s face when he’d read her report.
As men, they didn’t like to see women get hurt – especially as a result of violence. And while she understood it (and in a way even appreciated the gallantry of it), she also knew, with a growing sense of frustration, that while they maintained that attitude it was going to be almost impossible for her to advance her career.
Because once she’d finished her two-year probationary period in uniform, walking the beat and doing her general duties, the first chance she got she was going to sit her exams and apply to be a TDC – or Temporary Detective Constable.
It wouldn’t happen at once, of course. Nor would it be a case of working just another two years or so. More likely she’d have to get in a good four or five years before that could happen. But she was determined it would. And no man was going to stop her, superior officers or….
‘Trudy!’
Her head shot up as she realised her mother had been giving her the usual lecture, and she’d been caught out, letting her mind wander.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ she muttered.
Barbara sighed wearily. ‘What’s wrong with settling down with a nice young man and having a couple of young ’uns, that’s what I’d like to know?’ she added stubbornly.
Trudy was about to tell her roundly that there would be plenty of time for all that, but then her mother’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, Trudy, love, it just scares me so, you being out there on your own, walking down dark streets and dressed in that uniform. There are plenty of louts out there who don’t care for the police sticking their noses in their business. What if you get really hurt next time?’
Trudy got up and hugged her mother hard. ‘Please, try not to worry, Mum,’ she said uselessly. ‘They train us how to cope with stuff like that. And besides, I’ve got my truncheon.’
But of course her mother worried – how could she not? And her dad did too. Although more easy-going and tolerant than his wife, and less inclined to lecture her, she was well aware he would have preferred her to find another job. Any other job – even if it was only as a clippie on one of his beloved buses.
She could still remember how he’d laughed when, as a little girl listening to his stories of life as a bus driver for the City of Oxford Motor Services, she’d told him she wanted to drive buses too, when she grew up.
Not that that was an option either, Trudy thought with a brief grin. Who’d ever heard of a woman bus driver?
Still, she knew both her parents agreed anything would be better than their ‘little girl’ working as a serving WPC.
And although she sometimes felt conscience-stricken that she was causing them so much worry and grief, she also knew there was little she could realistically do about it. She’d just have to wait for their anxiety and fears to wear off – which they would have to do eventually, right? And who knew – maybe a little further down the line, when she’d got her sergeant’s stripes and they were feeling as proud as punch of her, they’d look back on days like this and laugh.
Dr Clement Ryder reached for the claret jug and swore loudly as his hand began to twitch.
It was dark outside, it had been a long and tiring day, and after going out for a quick and rather unsatisfying meal of sausages and mash in his local pub, he felt like he deserved a decent nightcap by his own fireside. Having a nightcap at all was a rare occurrence for him, since he seldom drank alone. Now he realised he probably shouldn’t have bothered, since he couldn’t seem to hold the glass straight, damn it.
At least, he thought grimly, the shakes hadn’t started until after he’d left the office. And so far, praise be, he’d never had an attack of them while actually in court. Which meant the humiliating moment when he’d have to come clean about his condition to his staff and superiors could be put off a while longer yet.
Which was just as well. Clement had no intention of telling anyone anything, if he could help it.
At fifty-seven, Clement was beginning to feel the cold more and more, he’d noticed. Luckily, his thick-walled Victorian house overlooking South Parks Road was relatively draught-proof, and as he carefully poured out a small measure of his third-best claret, he was pleased to note that he didn’t spill a drop.
He smiled sourly, but knew he should be grateful for even small victories.
So