Death of an Expert Witness [antikvár]

The call had come at 6.12 precisely. It was second nature to him now to note the time by the illuminated dial of his electric bedside clock before he had switched on his lamp, a second after he had felt for and silenced the raucous insistence of the telephone. || i It seldom had to ring more than once, but every time he dreaded that the peal might have woken Nell. The caller was familiar, the summons expected. It was Detective-Inspector Doyle. The voice, with its softly intimidating suggestion of Irish burr, came to him strong and confident, as if Doyle's great bulk loomed over the bed. 'Doc Kerrison?' The interrogation was surely unnecessary. Who else in this half-empty, echoing house would be answering at 6.12 in the morning? He made i no reply and the voice went on. 'We've got a body. On the wasteland - a clunch 4] field - a mile north-east of Muddington. A girl. Strangulation by the look of it. It's probably pretty straightforward but as it's close / 'All right, I'll come.' The voice expressed neither relief nor gratitude. Why should it? Didn't he always come when summoned? He was paid well enough for his availability, but that wasn't the only reason why he was so obsessively conscientious. Doyle, he suspected, would have respected him more if he had occasionally been less accommodating. He would have respected himself more. 'It's the first turn off the A142 after you leave Gibbet's Cross. I'll have a man posted.' He replaced the receiver, swung his legs out of bed and, reaching for his pencil and pad, noted the details |