The Dragon's Tale: A Jack Lauder Thriller Read Online Free
Author: Clive Hindle
was jovial, “there’s nowt wrang wi’ a bevy or two [1] .” He was joined now by a policewoman. “Did you see anyone in the headlights?” the male officer asked her.
Jack looked on, intrigued to hear her answer. She shook her head and looked at him askance. “No one,” she replied. Hmm, Jack thought, but he gladly accepted the offer of a lift home. He had that kind of relationship with the police. He didn’t drink with them, didn’t consort with them, didn’t exchange titbits of information, but he had their grudging respect. He was lost in thought on the way, however, because, unless he had been much mistaken, his assailant had mentioned Gerry Montrose.
When he got in he rang Gerry’s land line in Hong Kong and when that didn’t pick up he rang his mobile only for the number to ring out incessantly until an automatic voice interrupted to say he should call back another time. On the table in front of him was his chess board and, the way he had left the pieces, an attack was developing which was too offensive too soon with too little firepower. There were many open lines with white already castled. Launching an offensive without proper preparation will often backfire. He wondered if that is what Gerry had done, closed his eyes and hoped his friend was okay.
Nothing wrong with a drink
CHAPTER 3
Jack finally got to sleep only to be called out of bed in the early hours of the morning to represent a man who had been arrested for murder. “Who did you say?” he asked groggily because he thought he’d misheard the name as it sounded so strange. The custody officer, whose voice he recognised, claimed he couldn’t pronounce it properly so he spelled it out. “Russian, you say?” The realisation dawned that the call hadn’t been made because his reputation had travelled half way across the world but because it was his turn on the duty roster. The caller told him the Russian was a sea captain.
“I think I saw that boat come in.” The memory loomed dimly through the fog. The custody officer on the other end laughed at his sleepiness and reminded Jack that he had been up all night.
“You get paid for being on the night shift. Not me. Anyway, what’s the evidence?” He knew this custody officer well and he wasn’t the type to be secretive for the sake of it.
“The best there is, Jack. The murder weapon’s his. Sawn-off shotgun.”
“Ah. What was he doing with a sawn-off?”
“That’s what we’re asking.”
“Could it be connected with his work?”
“Ship captain needs a sawn-off. What? To stop the crew mutinying? That’s a new one on me.”
“Seal gun?”
That knocked him sideways. “Why’s it sawn off?” The response was pugnacious.
“Yeah, okay.” There was a point to it but it wasn‘t worth going into unless that was the defence. “Has he said anything?”
“Not a word. Claims to know no English.”
“Great! I guess you’ve sent for an interpreter?”
“Jack, we’re ahead of you. He’s on his way.”
“Check, so am I.”
Petrov (Peter) was indeed the skipper of the Russian factory-fishing vessel and he had become embroiled in a fish quay feud in which a local smuggler, Geordie Armstrong, had been murdered. The murder weapon just happened to be Peter’s shotgun and it was double bad news that it was a sawn-off. That counted heavily against him: criminals tend to saw off the barrel for ease of concealment and for the scattergun effect, which makes up for poor marksmanship. The plods couldn’t see any innocent explanation. The officer in charge of the case, Detective Superintendent Lowther, was an old adversary. He had also read the report from the two uniformed officers who said they had found him “spark out
Jack looked on, intrigued to hear her answer. She shook her head and looked at him askance. “No one,” she replied. Hmm, Jack thought, but he gladly accepted the offer of a lift home. He had that kind of relationship with the police. He didn’t drink with them, didn’t consort with them, didn’t exchange titbits of information, but he had their grudging respect. He was lost in thought on the way, however, because, unless he had been much mistaken, his assailant had mentioned Gerry Montrose.
When he got in he rang Gerry’s land line in Hong Kong and when that didn’t pick up he rang his mobile only for the number to ring out incessantly until an automatic voice interrupted to say he should call back another time. On the table in front of him was his chess board and, the way he had left the pieces, an attack was developing which was too offensive too soon with too little firepower. There were many open lines with white already castled. Launching an offensive without proper preparation will often backfire. He wondered if that is what Gerry had done, closed his eyes and hoped his friend was okay.
Nothing wrong with a drink
CHAPTER 3
Jack finally got to sleep only to be called out of bed in the early hours of the morning to represent a man who had been arrested for murder. “Who did you say?” he asked groggily because he thought he’d misheard the name as it sounded so strange. The custody officer, whose voice he recognised, claimed he couldn’t pronounce it properly so he spelled it out. “Russian, you say?” The realisation dawned that the call hadn’t been made because his reputation had travelled half way across the world but because it was his turn on the duty roster. The caller told him the Russian was a sea captain.
“I think I saw that boat come in.” The memory loomed dimly through the fog. The custody officer on the other end laughed at his sleepiness and reminded Jack that he had been up all night.
“You get paid for being on the night shift. Not me. Anyway, what’s the evidence?” He knew this custody officer well and he wasn’t the type to be secretive for the sake of it.
“The best there is, Jack. The murder weapon’s his. Sawn-off shotgun.”
“Ah. What was he doing with a sawn-off?”
“That’s what we’re asking.”
“Could it be connected with his work?”
“Ship captain needs a sawn-off. What? To stop the crew mutinying? That’s a new one on me.”
“Seal gun?”
That knocked him sideways. “Why’s it sawn off?” The response was pugnacious.
“Yeah, okay.” There was a point to it but it wasn‘t worth going into unless that was the defence. “Has he said anything?”
“Not a word. Claims to know no English.”
“Great! I guess you’ve sent for an interpreter?”
“Jack, we’re ahead of you. He’s on his way.”
“Check, so am I.”
Petrov (Peter) was indeed the skipper of the Russian factory-fishing vessel and he had become embroiled in a fish quay feud in which a local smuggler, Geordie Armstrong, had been murdered. The murder weapon just happened to be Peter’s shotgun and it was double bad news that it was a sawn-off. That counted heavily against him: criminals tend to saw off the barrel for ease of concealment and for the scattergun effect, which makes up for poor marksmanship. The plods couldn’t see any innocent explanation. The officer in charge of the case, Detective Superintendent Lowther, was an old adversary. He had also read the report from the two uniformed officers who said they had found him “spark out
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