“Do you know who he is?”
I nodded. “Yeah, don’t shed any tears. Can I leave you to it?”
“Of course. Any requests?”
“A couple of photos, that’s all. It’s straightforward. And about twenty names and addresses. Get the traffic going. My car’s up there.” I pointed. “Thanks for your assistance.”
“Do you want a lift round?”
“No, it’s OK. The exercise will do me good.”
Because I had some mountains to climb, and I’d fallen behind with the training. I set off down the empty road, walking in the middle of the slow lane just for the hell of it, already thinking about the questions I needed to ask Fletcher’s woman. When and where did she meet him? That was the burning one. The answer to that would determine her involvement with the early murders. I’d leave the fancy stuff, like why did the killings start and how come Fletcher was so influenced by Tim Roper, to Dr Foulkes.
Because he was stark staring mad
was probably as near as we’d ever get to an answer. I’d done about fifty yards when I realised that my left ankle was hurting and stooped to rub it. I wasn’t wearing socks and there was a graze and a lump just above the bone, where it must have taken a knock during the
struggle
.
That’s when I remembered Geordie grabbing me as I held Fletcher, his leg banging against mine just before Fletcher’s toes slipped off the ledge. And later, I saw him rubbing his
own ankle. But maybe it was only my imagination.
Yes, that’s what it was: my imagination. It had been
playing
tricks on me, lately. The lorry’s big engine juddered into life and I turned to see a cloud of smoke come from its exhausts. Beyond it a streak of silver marked the sunrise, like a trap door opening. A panda did a U-turn in the road and came towards me. I moved to one side but it stopped and the passenger door opened.
“Hop in, Mr Priest,” the driver said. “I’ll run you round.”
It was churlish to refuse so I climbed in beside him. I’d accept that ride, after all.
What the heck, I deserved it.
S
TUART
P
AWSON
had a career as a mining engineer, followed by a spell working for the probation service, before he became a full-time writer. He lives in Fairburn, Yorkshire, and, when not hunched over the word processor, likes nothing more than tramping across the moors, which often feature in his stories. He is a member of the Murder Squad and the Crime Writers’ Association.
www.stuartpawson.com
I
N THE
DI C
HARLIE
P
RIEST SERIES
The Picasso Scam
The Mushroom Man
The Judas Sheep
Last Reminder
Deadly Friends
Some by Fire
Chill Factor
Laughing Boy
Limestone Cowboy
Over the Edge
Shooting Elvis
Grief Encounters
A Very Private Murder
Allison & Busby Limited
13 Charlotte Mews
London W1T 4EJ
www.allisonandbusby.com
Hardback published in Great Britain in 2002.
Paperback published in 2003.
This ebook edition first published in 2011.
Copyright © 2002 by
S
TUART
P
AWSON
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1170–3