A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) Read Online Free Page B

easygoing manner hardened, demonstrating just why all his ‘customers’ behaved in his shop even when they were losing the week’s rent.
    ‘Come through if you like.’ He slipped off his stool to flip open the end of the jump, unlocking the half door beneath, to create a man sized gap.
    ‘But anything you wanna say to me, say it out front.’
    The radio came to life, dully informing of yet another non-runner at rainsoaked Kempton. Irish sprung from her seat to chalk it up, patting Crombie’s arm as she passed.
    ‘I’ll put the kettle on, we’ll have a cuppa.’ She said diplomatically, trotting into the small washroom where tea making facilities were kept.
    Bill plucked the lid off a tin of Golden Virginia, positioned a pinch of tobacco onto a rizla and rolled up. Settling himself on Irish’s vacated stool, Crombie waited patiently watching Bill concentrate on getting the tobacco just so; at times he thought the guy might be a little autistic, the speed at which he settled complicated bets scorning a calculator, his refusal to accept new routine or change all pointed that way.
    Finally Bill seemed satisfied with his efforts. ‘What’s up?’
    With one eye on the door, Crombie explained he wanted information on Mike Stern’s son, Mikey.
    ‘Saw him last Friday week, other than that, he hasn’t been in.’ Bill said, rattling his paper, turning his attention back to the film review page.
    ‘Was he winning? Losing? With anyone? Did he seem agitated?’ Crombie asked with a touch of impatience.
    ‘Do you take sugar?’ Irish interrupted returning with two mugs, both equally chipped and tea stained. Crombie shook his head no, wondering how Bill Palmer would react to an invitation to accompany him back to the station. Almost gagging as he sipped at the stewed bitter brew, Crombie decided against it. You could lead a horse to water, but you couldn’t make a man remember what he didn’t want to tell you. Not unless you used electrodes anyway. Irish nudged his shoulder, wrestling her cardi from the stool’s back.
    ‘Usual Bill?’
    ‘Usual Irish.’ Bill didn’t look up from the paper as Irish ducked under the jump and hurried out the door, almost colliding with two heavy set gents in shiny suits.
    ‘Won’t be a mo Sid, Bernie, just popping to get Bill’s lunch.’
    ‘Get us a couple of cream buns while you’re out I,’ the men joshed, Irish waved a fist mock threatening. Her Bill was the only one she ran errands for.
    ‘Mr. Palmer?’ Crombie tried a more formal approach.
    Bill leaned across him to take a couple of betting slips from Sid, laying them by the side of the till ready for Irish’s return.
    Sid and Bernie pretended to study the day’s form, although they’d already written their bets and placed their money.
    ‘Detective Inspector Crombie; I’ve had half of Notting Hill in here since I last clapped eyes on the bloke. I can’t remember, even if I could, I wouldn’t tell you.’ Bill’s lips clamped around his rollie.
    Crombie backed down, both he and Bill knew he could make things very awkward for several members of this cosy little shop, not least the owner, the seldom seen AA Draines. But Bill was straight up and down, and held the moral high ground. A man’s losses or gains on the track or in a betting shop was between himself and his turf accountant, Crombie respected that. He realised suddenly that Irish was an awfully long time purchasing a couple of bacon sarnies. Especially as she imperiously jumped queues.
    ‘I understand. Thanks Bill.’
    ‘Sorry to hear about Mike Stern. How’s his grandson taking it?’ Now the standoff was over, Bill thawed. Crombie ducked under the shelf back to the shop floor, signifying his official questioning had finished.
    ‘Grandson?’ Noting Bill didn’t bother to enquire about the son’s feelings, wanting to get away to see if his intuition was correct, vaguely annoyed Bill wanted to chat now.
    ‘That little blond kid – that’s his