A Good Year for the Roses (1988) Read Online Free Page A

I've got money too. I'm not a poor man.’ He said with a certain dignity. He produced his cheque book, which he opened and placed on the table in front of him. We looked at everything but each other. Then I noticed that he was crying.
    Although I was not fond of the man, I felt intensely sorry for him.
    ‘Alright,’ I said, ‘I give in. I'll tell you what, give me a kite for a hundred quid and I'll take a look round. I'll talk to the police and get back to you after the weekend, is that alright?’
    George pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. I was always a sucker for a hard luck story. Besides, I knew how I'd feel if Judith had disappeared.
    ‘Thank you,’ said George. He fumbled around in his briefcase for a pen and wrote a cheque out for the amount agreed, tore it out of the book and slid it in front of me.
    ‘I'll have the box back, too,’ I said.
    He retrieved it from his pocket and passed it to me.
    ‘What do you do, George?’ I asked, leaning back in my chair. ‘For a living I mean.’
    ‘Leisure,’ he replied. ‘I'm in the leisure business. Juke boxes and fruit machines. I'm well known in the trade. I've got a showroom in Herne Hill. I'd better give you my card.’
    He produced a printed card from his pocket like a magician. I put it in the envelope with the photographs, then carelessly pushed the cheque into the back pocket of my jeans.
    And that was how I obtained my first paying customer on an August morning that neither of us would ever forget.
    I should have asked George why I was his last chance.
    I should have listened to my instincts.
    I should have just let him cry.

Chapter Four
    After George left. I drank another beer. I kept an eye on the office through the pub door, but no one else stopped by with any little jobs that I didn't want. If the telephone rang, I didn't hear it. When I had finished my drink I walked back to the office carrying the photos of Patsy Bright and her lacquered box.
    At last the weather seemed to have broken. The sun was still shining brightly. I was grateful. In the warmth I walked with hardly any trace of a limp.
    I sat down at my desk and put the box in the bottom drawer and locked it. I kept the envelope on the desk top. I looked at my watch, it said almost twelve.
    I thought about the implications of telephoning John Reid. When I was on the force, we'd been as thick as thieves. In my case, quite literally. I'd been going to pieces for a while, drinking up a storm and hanging around with the kind of people police officers shouldn't.
    John had covered me for months. He was a few years older than I was, and we had struck up a close friendship as soon as we had met. He liked a drink and we'd had some very good times together. Then I'd gone too far even for him. I ripped off some cocaine from a drugs bust.
    I still went hot and cold thinking about it.
    I was far down the river of no return at the time. I didn't even care that John was responsible for the evidence that I had misappropriated. The morning after my little heist both John and I had been on a target mission for a suspected armed robber. I was as high as a kite on the coke, drunk and hadn't slept for three or four days.
    Perhaps you know what it's like. Everything takes on a translucent look. Nothing is real. Nobody matters, and paranoia scuttles around your feet like a hunchbacked, slimy rat. Too many cigarettes are smoked, too many drinks are drunk and the inside of your mouth is chewed to a bloody mess. Food is forgotten and families are ignored in the quest for speed. Speed is of the essence.
    Just as we went in on the raid, who should turn up, but the regional crime squad from somewhere out in the sticks after the same guy on another fire-arms related charge. None of us knew what was going on, what with everyone tearing around dressed like extras from Minder and screaming at the top of their voices. Someone had fired his gun and an inter-officer gun fight started. The only person who knew