Read Bob Skiinner 21 Grievous Angel for Free Online Page A

matter-of-fact about my job when I discussed it with my daughter. I didn’t believe in euphemism . . . not that she’d let me get away with any since she was five, and she’d forced me to use the ‘D’ word when I tried to explain why her mother wouldn’t be coming back from the hospital. For almost a year after the accident, that’s where I’d said she was, but with kids such deceits don’t survive a week at a village primary school.

    ‘You mean a murder?’ she persisted.

    ‘We don’t know yet. Nothing’s ruled out till we can prove it couldn’t have happened.’

    ‘So what happens now?’ She seemed excited by the situation.

    Good question, kid. If I’d been any good at delegation, I could have given my three subordinates orders and taken Alex home; but I’m not, and never have been. I wanted to be the one who did what had to happen next; I wanted to see the expression on Bella Watson’s face when I told her that her second son had died a violent death.

    I took a few steps away, nodding to Alison to follow. ‘Would you do me a big favour,’ I whispered, ‘one that’s completely unfair of me to ask a colleague of your rank? And don’t fucking call me “sir” when you answer.’

    A faint grin touched the corners of her mouth. ‘Sure, Bob. I’ll do it.’

    ‘You know what it is?’

    ‘Of course. You want me to take your daughter home and wait till you get back there.’

    ‘You don’t mind?’ I said.

    ‘No, but so what if I did?’ The grin became a wide smile, reminding me of how attractive she could be. ‘You can hardly send her home with a uniformed cop, and I wouldn’t trust my mother’s cat with Andy Martin.’

    I didn’t expect Alex to make a fuss when I told her what was happening, but neither did I expect her to be quite as enthusiastic as she was. She’d met Alison once before, by accident, when we were on a clothes shopping expedition in the junior designer section of John Lewis, and for a while after that she’d looked at me curiously.

    The two of them headed off towards Alison’s car, which was parked at the top of the street, leaving me with Martin and McGuire. ‘You were in this at the start,’ I told the PC, ‘so you can stay for the ride. You and DC Martin are both seconded to Serious Crimes . . . temporarily, I stress . . . so you can lose that uniform for a while.’

    The Irish Italian beamed. ‘Yes, boss. What do you want me to do?’

    ‘What you’re told, and no more. You are not CID yet, so don’t let it go to your head.’ I checked my watch: twenty minutes to nine. ‘There’s a mugshot of Marlon Watson in the drugs squad office at headquarters. Have it faxed to St Leonards, then take it into all the pubs in the area, not just that one across the road. There’s the cellar bar in Chambers Street, the Irish pub along South Bridge, and a couple more; you’ll have time to check them all before last orders. Show it to the staff and any regulars they point you at. Ask whether anyone saw him on Tuesday, or even Monday. We shouldn’t rule that out, he may have died earlier than we think.’

    ‘What if someone saw him on Wednesday?’ McGuire asked. (He was flippant from the start; it’s one of his strengths, funnily enough, for it encourages people to underestimate him.)

    ‘Then arrest him, because he fucking killed him! Report to me at headquarters tomorrow morning, in the SCU office. Andy, while Mario’s doing that, you and I are going to find the mother, to break the bad news.’

    Martin looked back at me. ‘What about the father?’

    ‘He hasn’t been around for donkeys. He was a seaman; worked the trawlers, they said. As far as I know he sailed away twenty years ago and never came back. I doubt if he even knows that Ryan’s dead. That’s if he isn’t himself.’

    ‘Wife?’

    ‘Marlon? Not that I’ve heard of; last time he was lifted he gave Bella’s address.’

    ‘Do you know her?’

    ‘Oh yes,’ I said, heavily.