Amphetamines and Pearls Read Online Free

stayed outside it. Easy money and good times just for the asking. Just for turning an eye in the other direction, just for overlooking a piece of evidence, just for picking up a guy and shaking him down hard. A guy walking along a darkened street one November night, a guy who had been looking at the murdered body of a girl he might once have loved, who had been sapped and booted, then hit and hit again.
    The room I was sitting in held no surprises. By the door stood a uniformed constable, his mind firmly on other things. Across the table from me a C.I.D. Inspector was checking through my statement. The only sound was a steady hum which seemed to come from nowhere and fill the heavy air.
    Since the law had found out that what I had told them about Candi being dead was true they had been treating me a little more carefully and a lot more seriously. The two heavies who had picked me up first had obviously been working on a quick tip-off that I might be worth turning over and a request that they did it hard. But murder made it all different. Maybe.
    At least the Inspector had asked my name first.
    A call to Tom Gilmour at West End Central had brought me a certain credence, even a little grudging respect. What it didn’t bring me was any love. Cops who left the force and opened newsagents shops they could understand, cops who crossed the line and went bent full-time even, but a cop who wanted to do the same work by himself and probably for less money … ?
    He had finished reading my statement—for the second time. A methodical man: or maybe he just didn’t read too well.
    He was not far off retiring age, I guessed. Maybe he even had a little calendar somewhere on which he ticked off the final months. He had a small moustache of the kind that had long since gone out of fashion, one eye was slightly runny and he dabbed at it from time to time with a handkerchief. He looked tired: he had been tired for a long time now.
    When he spoke his voice sounded far away, beneath the hum that still permeated the room.
    â€˜You’ve made a full statement, Mr Mitchell, and what we have been able to check so far substantiates it. The marks which the police doctor found on your body correspond to your assertion that you were attacked by persons unknown after leaving Miss Carter’s flat.’
    The phrases peeled from his lips like dead skin.
    â€˜You say that you were shocked by what you found in the flat and did not think to call the police from there. That you were on your way downstairs for help when you were struck from behind. All that is not necessarily admitted by us to be so. Not yet. So you see, Mr Mitchell, it is most likely that we shall want to speak to you again.
    â€˜However, I can see no reason for holding you here any longer at present and you may return to London as soon as you wish. I must ask you to report to West End Central police station in the morning and to keep them informed of your daily whereabouts until further notice.’
    He paused and looked up at me, till a stream of rheumy fluid caused him to turn his head away.
    â€˜You have been very co-operative. Thank you for that. There is still a train for London tonight, if you don’t mind travelling up with the mail. If you ask at the desk, there may be a patrol car going towards the station. You could get a lift.’
    I hesitated for a moment, thinking he was about to stand up. He was not. When I turned again at the door, he was still sitting behind the table, notebook open in front of him, eyes open, staring at the blankest of bare walls.
    I went out of the station without talking to anyone. I had had enough rides in police cars, had spoken to enough policemen, had seen enough of humanity for one night.
    I crossed the empty square where the fountain no longer played and headed for the railway station. It was still cold.
    There was a guy once who told his wife that sleep was the balm of hurt minds. Well, it didn’t do too much