CHAPTER 19
‘Mrs Munroe!’
The last person I expected to see at my front door during a thunderstorm, Shirley Munroe looked like the proverbial ‘drowned rat’; a very well fed rat it was true but sodden and bedraggled nonetheless. Had I have known it was her I wouldn’t have answered but that’s the problem with a flat in a converted house like mine, no intercom system simply separate doorbells.
‘Annalee, I have to speak with you.’ Water dripped off her wobbling chin resurrecting the disturbing memory of her husband, Inspector Munroe when he’d stood in my family’s lounge at the start of his investigations into Addie Baxter’s death. I recalled that on that occasion he too was soaking wet from a sudden downpour. As a child I’d counted, in fascinated silence, as rain droplets fell from the end o
