Blood Relatives. Stevan Alcock
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Название: Blood Relatives
Автор: Stevan Alcock
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780007580859
isbn:
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
Copyright © Stevan Alcock 2015
The right of Stevan Alcock to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Cover photographs © Evening Standard/Getty Images (boys); Jack Hickes/Keystone/Hulton Archive/Getty Images (Arndale bus stop)
Source ISBN: 9780007580842
Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007580859
Version: 2015-12-02
For Peg
Contents
Jean Royle (also known as Jean Jordan)
30/10/1975
The milkman found her. On Prince Philip Playing Fields. He crossed the dew-soaked grass toward what he took to be a bundle of clothes, but then he came across a discarded shoe, and then t’ mutilated body.
Her name wor Wilma McCann.
An hour earlier, wi’ t’ daybreak a mere streak across t’ Leeds skyline, Wilma McCann’s two kids wor found by t’ police, waiting in their nightclothes at a bus stop in t’ Scott Hall Road, hoping to see their mother on t’ next bus from town.
Later on t’ morning the milkman made his gruesome discovery, after he’d told the police, made a statement, phoned his missus from a box on Harehills Lane, the milk float wor working almost parallel wi’ our Corona Soft Drinks wagon up and down Harehills’ red-brick back-to-backs. It worn’t usual for him to be in this street at the same time as us. He wor running way late. Eric, my driver, parped the horn. The milk-float driver beckoned us over, his face taut and joyless.
‘Stay here, Rick. Watch the van. Summat’s up.’
This irked me. My mind wor already racing ahead to t’ end of t’ working day, to t’ terraced house in t’ cul-de-sac where t’ Matterhorn Man lived, and now Eric wor blathering on wi’ СКАЧАТЬ