Christine Ashton, aged seventeen, was the victim of a brutal hatchet murder recently.”
The bulletin continued as the three at the table tackled their meal.
“From traces found so far, the police believe the killer is carrying the dismembered head and legs of his victim around with him in a suitcase with a broken handle. The public is warned that this maniac is dangerous. As near as can be estimated he is nearly six feet tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed, with a deceptively pleasing manner. His conversation is queer at times, but otherwise may be regarded as normal. Anybody winking at him may cause him to lose control. The same effect is produced by uttering the word ‘Asparagus’.
“Anybody seeing or encountering such a person should call Whitehall 1212, or any police station.”
Trudy looked up, smiling broadly. “Lovely, isn’t it? I love murders—especially the juicy ones!”
“Trudy, how can you!” Ruth protested. “It’s put me right off my meal.”
“From the north of England,” the radio announcement continued, “there is still no further news of Arthur Smart, the young man who astonished theatrical circles recently with—”
George got up suddenly and switched off the radio. “That’s enough of that! Chopping up bodies. It’s especially horrible when we happen to live in Uphill ourselves. It must be over a week since that girl was murdered on the wasteland back of Forsythe’s chip shop. Time something was done!”
He resumed his seat at table.
Trudy ate heartily. “Well, I didn’t see any man about six feet and carrying a suitcase with a broken handle, otherwise I’d have been home a lot quicker! Incidentally, where’s Fay? Oughtn’t she to be in?”
“She ought to be, yes, but there’s no sign of her.” Ruth looked worried. “George, I don’t want to say it, but do you think—?”
“No, I don’t,” George said firmly. “Now don’t start worrying or you’ll get one of your attacks of nerves.”
“By the way, when do we get the telly back?” Trudy asked plaintively. “Seems ages since the engineer took it away for repair.”
George glanced at her. “He says the tube’s gone, and it’s going to cost something like a week’s wages to put things right. Of course, that won’t matter much if a certain bright idea of your mother’s comes off.”
“What bright idea?” Trudy asked. “What’s been going on, mum?”
“Well, as a matter of fact—”
Ruth broke off as there came the unmistakable sounds of Fay, their younger daughter coming into the house—and also stumbling over the mat.
“Oh, bother it! If I felt energetic I’d fix that thing!” She laid her coat carefully on the hanger behind the door, before entering the dining room.
“Hello, chain gang! Sorry I’m late.”
“We’re not,” Trudy remarked.
“Oh come now, Trudy,” her father admonished, “is that any way to greet your sister?”
“Course it is,” Trudy said blandly. “Can’t think of a better.” She eyed Fay sitting dreamily at the table, and added: “As a matter of interest, Fay Carter, where have you been until this time?”
Fay looked up. “Does it matter?”
“Not really.” Trudy shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
Once again Ruth Carter went into the kitchen in search of more stew.
“I haven’t been anywhere, really,” Fay said, as Trudy continued to look at her. “At least not anywhere in particular. I’ve been hunting for an ‘Evening in Paradise’.”
“You’re not likely to find it in Uphill,” her father remarked dryly.
“So I’ve discovered,” Fay sighed, as her mother placed the stew before her. “Thanks, mum.… Oh, I did so want to hear Lanny Bilgraves’ latest song.”
“Lanny Bilgrave?” George raised an eyebrow. “What’s he got to do with an evening in Paradise?”
Fay looked her surprise. “Why, everything! He sings it!”
“Lanny Bilgrave is a pop singer, George,” Ruth pointed out patiently.
Her husband gave an expression of mock disgust: “Oh, another of those groaners. Perhaps it’s as well you didn’t find the record. We’ve enough hardships without listening to those dirging Romeos.”
“All right!” Fay snapped. “No need to pitch into me just because I like Lanny Bilgrave.”
“Not only Lanny Bilgrave, either,” Trudy remarked. “You’d like anything with trousers on.”
“Now look here, Trudy—”
“Oh, stop it, you two,” Ruth Carter admonished. “Get on with your meal.”
Trudy gave her a glance. “Mum, you were saying something about something when Curly Locks here burst in on us.”
“Something about something?” her mother looked vague.
George finished his meal, rose, and headed to his armchair to read the newspaper: “You know! About my workroom.”
“About dad’s workroom?” Trudy frowned. “But what’s that got to do with getting the telly tube repaired? That’s what I was talking about.”
George picked up his paper and settled into his seat. “According to your mother, my workroom solves the problem.”
Fay looked surprised. “Great Scot, you don’t mean a—lodger?”
“I certainly do,” Ruth said flatly. “Any objections?”
“None at all.” Fay beamed. “Might be a nice young man!”
Trudy pushed her cleared plate aside. “Good Lord, don’t you ever think of anything else but males?”
“Yes.” George Carter peeped around his newspaper. “Pop singers.”
“All right, all right.” Fay sighed heavily. “I’m not the only one with faults.” She rose from the table. “Thanks, mum, that was smashing. I wish I had time to eat it all, but I’ve got to dash!”
As she headed for the hall door, she spoke over her shoulder: “I’ve got to meet Dick at 7:30.”
George lowered his paper. “You’re not going out again?”
“Of course. No sense in stopping in, especially when there’s no telly.”
“Doesn’t it occur to you that there might be something more important to do than entertaining yourself? How about giving your mother a hand for a change?
“Oh,
