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

that everyone was after him was our target. As long as he didn't top his mum, who shared the house with him, he was alright.
    He didn't know if we were the law or not, and cared even less. It was like the ending of ‘Butch Gassidy and the Sundance Kid’. The villian came out of his bedroom wearing just his Y-fronts, brandishing two single action .45 Colt revolvers. He was blasting at anything that moved. The only thing we knew to our advantage was that he had no spare ammunition. There was no room in his jockeys.
    I was stoned, I hadn't even drawn my gun. I was well out of position when it all happened, halfway up a metal fire escape at the back of the house. The target jumped straight over me from the first floor landing window. John Reid stepped out from the back porch and fired upwards. The bullet went straight through the sole of my Bass Weejun, broke several tiny bones and exited through the leather upper of the shoe in a shower of blood, skin and Argyll sock. I'll never forget looking down at the red mess as it burst all over my trouser leg. I felt no pain at the time. I was too well anaesthetized. John didn't even stop to see how badly I was hurt. It was another two officers who prised my fingers from the metal of the ladder to which I was clinging and carried me to a Transit van and away to hospital. Luckily, the slug flew off at an angle. If it had carried straight on it would have blown my balls off too. It was also fortunate that John was using standard home-office issue ammunition. No Teflon coatings or dum-dum cuts, and the bullets hadn't been dipped in shit or strychnine to make the wound go bad.
    The target got clean away. Two other policemen were slightly wounded. The only result that we got was that we did the mum for receiving stolen goods. Not much to show for three weeks work.
    I hadn't spoken to John since that day. He came close to losing his seniority, if not his job over the missing drugs. And now, here I was sticking my nose into something that was strictly his business. I pulled the ‘phone in front of me and dialled the familiar number. When the officer on the switchboard identified himself, I asked for Detective Sergeant John Reid. I recognised his voice when he answered.
    ‘Reid,’ he said.
    ‘Hello, John. It's Nick, Nick Sharman.’
    ‘Fuck me, what do you want?’
    ‘A little help.’
    ‘What's the matter. Lost your walking stick?’
    ‘Very amusing,’ I said.
    ‘I must say we never thought we'd hear your name again, but what happens, there you are in the local press this week. Can't you get a proper job?’
    ‘Leave the jokes out, John, I'm not in the mood. I need to know about Patricia Bright.’
    I went straight to the offensive. Whether or not that was the right attitude to take, I didn't know.
    He was silent for a moment, and I listened to the echos on the line. Then he asked, ‘Who?’
    ‘Patricia Bright, she's one of your cases. A missing person.’
    I read him some of the details from the back of the photograph.
    ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘What's it to you?’
    ‘Her father has hired me to look for her.’
    He was silent again for so long that I thought he'd cut me off. Finally he said ‘Jesus, he must he hard up.’
    ‘If he is mate, it's because he's lost faith in your lot to find her.’
    ‘Don't give me that shit, Nick. The little slut's hopped it to join her junkie mates.’
    ‘How do you know she's a junkie?’ I asked. ‘Have you seen her?’
    ‘No, but I've collated a report. I'm not stupid, Nick. It's obvious.’.
    ‘What put you onto drugs?’ I asked. ‘I didn't think her father had mentioned anything about them.’
    ‘He didn't, but he did tell me she mixed with a bunch of undesirables. I made some enquiries and found out she was into all sorts.’
    ‘What enquiries?’ I asked. ‘Who did you speak to?’
    ‘I don't think I should be talking to you,’ replied John
    ‘What you mean is, you haven't pushed yourself to find Patsy. Is that what