“All right, Dave, so they went on up to the flat. Or started to, anyway.”
“Yes? But isn’t this getting a bit far away from what Poole told us? Think of Poole’s position. He must’ve realised that Connolly had to die. When the investigation started, as it’d have to, then Connolly was going to say that he’d driven away from that flat in his own car. And from then on things were going to get very tricky for Poole. George, that trip into the quarry wasn’t any mistake, and it wasn’t suicide. It was murder. Poole, rounding things off. Connolly was probably unconscious when he went over.”
“That’s our taxi.” But George made no move towards the doors. “You sure of this, Dave?” he asked quietly.
But I didn’t need to reply. He headed for the doors, and I followed him out to the taxi.
“The police station,” said George, and we climbed in.
That was about the end of it for us, apart from all the statements and things you don’t want to hear about. Oh, and the awkward bit regarding our report to Marcia Connolly. She didn’t really want to know, and expressed no interest in our offer to go back and run the Sceptre home for her. The car held too many memories of her husband.
In fact, George made her an offer for it, and it became his property after the insurance claim was cleared, though that was much later, after we had discovered from the pathological evidence that Flossie had not, after all, died from a blow on the head.
Sad, really. He had been only unconscious when Poole put him in the boot, and he’d died from exposure and suffocation.
Maybe he’d recovered consciousness, but out there, when they’d all left, he could’ve shouted his head off to no good effect. In that way, he’d only have used up his precious air. A kind of withdrawal symptom, I suppose.
I don’t like to think about Flossie’s death. Not very often, anyway.
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Cart Before The Hearse (David Mallin Detective Book 14) Page 13
