Killing Ground Read Online Free
Author: Gerald Seymour
what brought Americans from their embassy down to this God-forgotten corner of nowhere.
Mrs Daphne Farson saw them from behind her lace curtains, then lost them when her view was obscured by the sign in her front garden that advertised bed-and-breakfast accommodation. She knew Americans.
The retired clergyman, the occasional gardener, the crab fisherman, the retired librarian, the District Nurse, everyone who lived in that community at the end of the lane beside the sea shore saw the big Cherokee Jeep edge down over the last of the tarmacadam, pause in the car park for summer visitors, reverse, turn, come back up the lane and stop just short of David and Flora Parsons' bungalow. All of them heard the engine stilled, saw the lights doused.
All eyes on the Cherokee Jeep and all eyes on the front door of David and Flora Parsons' bungalow. The waiting time ... A small collective shiver of excitement held the community.
'You sure it's right?'
'It's what I was told, a white singled storey in a crap place,' Axel said.
'We got here, so when you going to shift yourself?'
'She's not here.'
'You know that? How do you know that?'
'Because her scooter's not parked in the driveway.'
'Maybe she put it in the garage.'
'Her father's car is in the garage, she leaves the scooter in the driveway, if it matters to you . . .'
'You haven't been within a thousand miles of here before, you've never met this woman before . . . How come you know that sort of detail, or am I getting bullshit?'
'I had it checked.'
'You had it checked, down to whether she put a scooter into the garage or left it out in the driveway?'
'Checked.' Axel said it sharply, dismissive, like it was obvious that such a detail would be checked. The headquarters in Exeter of the Devon and Cornwall police, through their liaison officer, had provided information on the progress of an airmail letter through the city's sorting service, information on the hours worked by a young woman teacher, information on the nighttime parking of a scooter. He believed in detail. He thought that with detail people more easily stayed alive.
It had been the idea of Axel Moen. It was the operational plan of Axel Moen. What he wanted most, right now, was to smoke a cigarette. He opened the door beside him, felt the cool of the air, the grip of the sharp wind coming up off the pebble beach, heard the rustle of waves on stones. He reached back and grabbed for a windcheater. He stepped down onto the grass beside the road. Ahead of him, behind a low fence and a trimmed hedge, was the bungalow and the light was on over the door. He lit the cigarette,
I L
ucky Strike, dragged on it, coughed and spat. He saw the shadowed bungalows and cottages, with their lights in the windows, stretching as a haphazard ribbon away up the lane to the bend round which the young woman would come on her scooter.
II It was the sort of place he knew. He wondered where the letter would be-in her room and on her bed or on her dressing table, on a stand in the hall, in the kitchen. He wondered whether she would tear the envelope open before she discarded her coat or her anorak, whether she would let it lie while she took herself to the bathroom for a wash or a pee. He heard Dwight Smythe open his door behind him, then slam it shut.
This young woman, does she know you're coming?'
Axel shook his head.
'You just walking in there, no invite?'
Axel nodded his head, did not turn.
'You feel OK about that?'
Axel shrugged.
He watched the top of the lane, where it emerged from the bend. The woman with the dog stared down the lane at him, and he could
make out the man in the window with the small binoculars aimed at him, and he saw the flicker of movement behind the curtains of the house that advertised bed-and-breakfast. It was as it would have been for a stranger driving on a lane on the Door Peninsula, the scrutiny and suspicion. Where the finger of the Door Peninsula cut out into Michigan Bay. And, going north from Egg
Mrs Daphne Farson saw them from behind her lace curtains, then lost them when her view was obscured by the sign in her front garden that advertised bed-and-breakfast accommodation. She knew Americans.
The retired clergyman, the occasional gardener, the crab fisherman, the retired librarian, the District Nurse, everyone who lived in that community at the end of the lane beside the sea shore saw the big Cherokee Jeep edge down over the last of the tarmacadam, pause in the car park for summer visitors, reverse, turn, come back up the lane and stop just short of David and Flora Parsons' bungalow. All of them heard the engine stilled, saw the lights doused.
All eyes on the Cherokee Jeep and all eyes on the front door of David and Flora Parsons' bungalow. The waiting time ... A small collective shiver of excitement held the community.
'You sure it's right?'
'It's what I was told, a white singled storey in a crap place,' Axel said.
'We got here, so when you going to shift yourself?'
'She's not here.'
'You know that? How do you know that?'
'Because her scooter's not parked in the driveway.'
'Maybe she put it in the garage.'
'Her father's car is in the garage, she leaves the scooter in the driveway, if it matters to you . . .'
'You haven't been within a thousand miles of here before, you've never met this woman before . . . How come you know that sort of detail, or am I getting bullshit?'
'I had it checked.'
'You had it checked, down to whether she put a scooter into the garage or left it out in the driveway?'
'Checked.' Axel said it sharply, dismissive, like it was obvious that such a detail would be checked. The headquarters in Exeter of the Devon and Cornwall police, through their liaison officer, had provided information on the progress of an airmail letter through the city's sorting service, information on the hours worked by a young woman teacher, information on the nighttime parking of a scooter. He believed in detail. He thought that with detail people more easily stayed alive.
It had been the idea of Axel Moen. It was the operational plan of Axel Moen. What he wanted most, right now, was to smoke a cigarette. He opened the door beside him, felt the cool of the air, the grip of the sharp wind coming up off the pebble beach, heard the rustle of waves on stones. He reached back and grabbed for a windcheater. He stepped down onto the grass beside the road. Ahead of him, behind a low fence and a trimmed hedge, was the bungalow and the light was on over the door. He lit the cigarette,
I L
ucky Strike, dragged on it, coughed and spat. He saw the shadowed bungalows and cottages, with their lights in the windows, stretching as a haphazard ribbon away up the lane to the bend round which the young woman would come on her scooter.
II It was the sort of place he knew. He wondered where the letter would be-in her room and on her bed or on her dressing table, on a stand in the hall, in the kitchen. He wondered whether she would tear the envelope open before she discarded her coat or her anorak, whether she would let it lie while she took herself to the bathroom for a wash or a pee. He heard Dwight Smythe open his door behind him, then slam it shut.
This young woman, does she know you're coming?'
Axel shook his head.
'You just walking in there, no invite?'
Axel nodded his head, did not turn.
'You feel OK about that?'
Axel shrugged.
He watched the top of the lane, where it emerged from the bend. The woman with the dog stared down the lane at him, and he could
make out the man in the window with the small binoculars aimed at him, and he saw the flicker of movement behind the curtains of the house that advertised bed-and-breakfast. It was as it would have been for a stranger driving on a lane on the Door Peninsula, the scrutiny and suspicion. Where the finger of the Door Peninsula cut out into Michigan Bay. And, going north from Egg
Readers choose
Robert Cormier
Kylie Ladd
B. B. Haywood
Christine M. Butler
authors_sort
Hope Welsh
William J. Coughlin
Hazel Holt
Viola Grace