Read Nine Lives for Free Online Page B

two things. He never swore, and he never complained.
    ‘Port, get on the horn to Cobb. Let him know,’ said Mac.
    Porter nodded. ‘Yes, Sarge.’
    Turning, he disappeared out of sight as the rest of the team convened in the living room.
    ‘This doesn’t change anything, lads,’ Mac said. ‘Find me something we can use. We still need to get this guy.’
    The officers nodded and separated, preparing to tear the apartment apart to find any clue on Farha’s whereabouts.
     
    In a semi-detached house not too far away, an elderly lady was just beginning her morning routine. Since the sudden death of her husband the year before, she had taken great comfort in knowing roughly what was going to happen each and every day. Wake up. Run a hot bath. Get dressed. Feed Tigger. Make a cup of tea. Read the newspaper delivered to the porch. Routine, routine, routine. What was mundane to the younger generation served as a loyal and reassuring friend to the old lady, unwavering and reliable.
    Having just added the right amount of milk to a mug of tea poured to the perfect level, she shuffled through to her living room and took her place in a comfy armchair by the window. Placing the mug carefully on a coaster on the small table beside her, she leaned back with a sigh and looked outside.
    It was a bright but chilly December morning. Frost from the previous night had clamped itself to the edges and corners of the window pane, leaving tiny white whorls and swirling patterns like intricate calligraphy. As she gazed outside, she noticed that the red rosebushes in the front garden hadn’t been pruned properly in the autumn. She frowned; she’d have to do that when the weather warmed up in the spring.
    But she also noticed something else.
    Something odd.
    Across the street, a young teenage boy was pacing down the pavement in a hurry. He was so focused on getting somewhere, the lad didn’t seem to have noticed that the back of his coat had ridden up, catching on something jammed into the back of his waistband.
    Frowning again, the lady looked closer then gasped.
    Even from this distance, she could see what the object was.
    The youngster stopped outside a house across the street, and her suspicions were confirmed. Walking up and knocking on the front door, he reached behind him and pulled the black shape from his belt.
    It was a gun.
    She knew her duty. Forgetting her cup of tea, she pushed herself up from the armchair and moved to the other side of the window. Scooping up the receiver to a telephone sitting on the table, she dialled three numbers and waited.
    The call connected as a voice arrived on the other end, asking a question through the receiver held to the woman’s ear.
    ‘Police, please,’ the elderly lady answered.
     
    In contrast to the lady’s home, the interior of the house across the street couldn’t have been more different.
    It was dimly lit, the air reeking of stale cigarette smoke. With the curtains drawn, the lights low, three men sat at a kitchen table, playing cards. Two of them were smoking cigarettes while the other munched on some breakfast cereal from a bowl. Several small bags of cocaine were scattered carelessly on the kitchen table amongst the cereal and cards, joined by a nine-millimetre pistol. The gun had been dumped on the table so that the barrel was currently aimed at one of the men’s chest, the safety catch on the weapon off. None of them seemed to have noticed.
    The pistol was a Beretta. There was another one somewhere in the house, but they couldn’t find it. A third gun was leaning against the wall, within reach of one of the two men playing cards. It was a Remington 870 shotgun, twelve-gauge, a fearsomely powerful weapon. Some firearms had to be aimed carefully to have the desired effect, but the Remington wasn’t one of them. All a man had to do was aim at the central mass and pull the trigger. Whoever was unfortunate enough to be standing in front of it would be getting stuck back together