Normal: The Most Original Thriller Of The Year. Graeme Cameron

Чтение книги онлайн.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      I wasn’t expecting a knock at the door so early in the morning. And if I had been, I certainly wouldn’t have expected a pair of thirtysomething strangers in polyester suits. I don’t get too many visitors.

      She stood a step behind him; both had their hands folded behind their backs. Their suits were identical—navy, double-breasted, showing signs of bobbling—though his didn’t feature a pencil skirt. Hers reached just below the knee, affording a view of sporty calves clad in sheer black nylon running directly into sensible lace-up shoes that swallowed her ankles. Her face was dusky and exotic-looking, her hair jet-black and tidied into a businesslike knot. Turkish? Iranian, maybe.

      Her colleague stood within inches of the doorstep, implausibly large feet firmly together, all five-o’clock shadow and a dutiful half smile.

      I almost had them pegged as Jehovah’s Witnesses until I spotted the big Ford on the drive, poverty blue with a whip antenna and cable-tied wheel trims. And then I was confirming my name to a black leather wallet, flipped open right in front of my nose and snatched away too fast to allow me to focus. Not that I really needed to.

      “I’m Detective Inspector Fairey, CID.”

      Shit. No, really—shit. Shit shit shit. Don’t flinch. Whatever you do, don’t narrow your eyes. Keep your hands still. Look him in the eye. Smile. Not like that—smile nicely.

      “This is Detective Sergeant Green.” He shot her a nondescript glance; her expression didn’t change. Her name didn’t sound very Turkish, either. I smiled at her, anyway. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

      As a matter of fact, I do mind. “Of course.” That’s enough, stop smiling now. It’s not reaching your eyes. “What can I help you with?”

      He took one of his ridiculous clown feet and placed it firmly inside the door. “Okay if we come in?”

      You already fucking did. “I guess so.” I stood stock-still in the doorway. “This isn’t going to take long, is it? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

      It was his turn with the false smile. “I’m sure it’ll only take a minute.” He nodded. And just stood there. Staring. Nodding. I wondered how long he’d stand there, head bobbing up and down like a plastic dog on a parcel shelf, smile turning to a grimace, waiting politely for me to step aside. A minute? Two? Five maybe? Place your bets now.

      Actually, no, I haven’t got time for that. I told him okay and waved him into the hall; he held me in a defiant stare as he passed. The one called Green bowed her head and followed silently. I left the door open.

      “Nice house,” Fairey remarked as he scanned the blank walls of the entrance hall. Obviously highly skilled in the art of small talk.

      I led him through to the kitchen and pointed to a chair at the breakfast table. Green fared a little better; I pulled one out for her. “So, Mr. Fairey—sit down, make yourself comfortable. What is it exactly that you’d like to ask me?”

      “I’ll stand,” he said bluntly. He considered me for a moment; a lingering leer I found vaguely suggestive. I hoped he was merely waiting for me to offer him a cup of tea, though whatever he wanted, he’d have a long wait. And then, finally, he spoke. “We’re here,” he said, “because we’re investigating the disappearance of Kerry Farrow.”

      The ceiling fell down. Crockery jumped from the racks, shattering across the floor. The boards undulated beneath my feet, pitching me off balance. Blood pounded through my temples, spots of white light dancing around my eyes to the staccato beat in my head. I felt my palms moisten and my pupils dilate. Every hair on my body stood on end. The windows rattled. The door flew off its hinges. I reached out to steady myself but my fingers just grasped at thin air, the same air that was whistling out of me like I’d taken a kick to the stomach.

      This is the other reason I stay away from hookers: there’s always some knitworn do-right from the Prostitutes’ Collective taking down numbers. Decades without a glitch, and then I’m undone by a needless whim in a moment of weakness. It’s an age-old story, and one of those things that always happens to someone else. Fuck me, I’m an idiot.

      Gun. I can get to the gun, no problem. In the time it takes this Fairey to cross the kitchen, I’ll have torn open the cupboard and swiped aside the oven cleaner and the bin bags and he’ll be staring down a twelve-gauge barrel, eyes widening, trying to shake his head, trying to form the word no with his cotton-wool tongue and his cracked lips while his mind clouds with terror and despair and thoughts of his plump wife and gurgling babies and everything he didn’t tell them before he left for work today. And his accomplice will make it to her feet in time to take a faceful of blood and skull and brain, and she’ll raise her hands to shield her eyes and let out a shriek of fear and surprise, and she’ll trip on the chair as she runs for the door, and I’ll stand on her neck as she sprawls on the floor, and she’ll look up at me like a stunned rabbit, and her breathing will turn shallow and frantic and she’ll whimper, “Please, no,” and I’ll think about the floor and what it’ll cost to repair and I might let her get to her feet. I might haul her up and escort her out to the fields behind the house where the topsoil’s loose and the stains won’t show. I may even let her run for the car, see if her comfortable shoes offer any practical advantage. Or to hell with the floor, I can be in Belgrade by nightfall.

      Okay, breathe. Slow down. Think it through. They’re only a pair, and drones to boot. Whatever they suspect, they only suspect. There’s no mob with machine guns abseiling from the roof. No one’s kicking down doors or crashing through the windows. They’ve got nothing to go on. It’s just a man with a cheap suit and fucking great feet asking a single, simple question. For Christ’s sake, he hasn’t even asked it yet. And if the question’s that hard to answer, well, there’s room for them both under the barn.

      Keep calm. Keep smiling. Eye contact. No sudden movement. Maybe raise an eyebrow, as though listening intently. Which one? The right. No, the other one. All right, then, Ronald McFuckingdonald. I’m ready for you.

      “And we think you’re potentially an important witness,” he said.

      Oh?

      * * *

      “You own a white Ford Transit,” he informed me, a statement with which I could only reasonably agree. “Showed up on cctv on Queen Street at 3:11 a.m. That’s about two hundred yards and fifteen minutes from where Kerry was last seen,” which certainly made me Idiot of the Week, but was far from a smoking gun. Fairey flipped a seven-by-five print from his jacket pocket: СКАЧАТЬ