Read Online A Poison Tree (Time, Blood and Karma Book 3) by John Dolan - Free Book Online
Authors: John Dolan
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and Claire together.
Katie had fallen asleep on her bed. Her study notes were strewn around her, and Aerosmith’s ‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’ was playing on her music system.
I tucked her into bed, kissed her and switched off the music and the lights. S he didn’t stir. Katie looked so much like Claire sometimes, it was uncanny. She didn’t seem to have acquired any of my features at all. Lucky girl.
The house was quiet. It was gone eleven and Claire had another late dinner.
I opened the French windows from my study and wandered out into the garden. The sky was black and starless, but the night was unseasonably warm. I lit a Marlboro and took a long draw on it. I had recently confessed to my family my return to the ranks of smokers, and they were not happy about it. I consoled them with the promise that I would only smoke a few cigarettes a day and I would never smoke in their presence. Claire had bought a large bottle of mouthwash and left it by my sink in our bathroom.
Somehow over the weeks I had managed to push my suspicions about Claire into the back of my mind. She was going out a lot, but I knew that Jael Construction was doing brisk business and that the big, new estate development at Kettering must be taking up a lot of time. Claire, unlike many CFOs, got involved in some of the commercial negotiation aspects of the building projects, and that meant out-of-hours meetings. The wheels of capitalism continued to turn outside of the Monday to Friday routine. I remembered Jim Fosse telling me the international power business was ten times worse. With time zones to consider, ludicrous power plant build times and twenty-four-hour-seven-days-a-week operations, it was amazing anyone managed to sleep at all. But perhaps he exaggerated.
Jim Fosse.
I finished my cigarette and lit another one.
It was a while since I’d spoken to the American. I s aw him briefly at the last Chamber of Commerce meeting, but he was deep in discussion with a rather depressed-looking Mat Hoggard of Leicester Wheels Auto Limited, and I did not feel inclined to interrupt.
The real truth was that I was avoiding Jim.
Since I’d received the vindictive phone call and anonymous letter, and with the universe sending me coded messages about murder conspiracies, the last thing I needed was a conversation with Jim – especially one about killing his wife, even if it was in jest.
When midnight struck I had a whisky and went to bed.
I double-checked the address that Harry had given me before ringing the doorbell.
The house was in Hillfields, an area of Coventry redeveloped after the bombing of World War II had flattened much of the city. It is one of the most disadvantaged places in England, and this house had certainly seen better days. Grubby net curtains hung at the windows and the roof looked like it needed serious repairs. Tracksuit-clad teenagers wandered the street and gave me curious glances. Barely serviceable cars rusted at the curb. I was glad I was visiting during daylight hours.
One of the downstairs curtains twitched and a few moments later the peeling front door opened a few inches. Mark peered at me.
“David? What do you want?”
“Just to talk. Can I come in?”
“How did you get my address?”
“From Harry.”
With reluctance, he stood aside to let me enter and I followed him into the living room. There was little furniture and the room was dusty and smelled of male sweat. A television muttered and a half-eaten carton of Chinese takeaway sat on the floor beside an old armchair whose stuffing was spilling out. Mark slumped into the chair and picked up the carton.
“Excuse me while I finish lunch,” he said. Then, remembering his manners, he asked me if I’d like a cup of tea. I declined, and sat down on a straight-backed wooden chair next to the non-functioning fireplace.
Mark shovelled the noodles into his mouth with a pair of plastic chopsticks and waited for me to say something. He looked
Katie had fallen asleep on her bed. Her study notes were strewn around her, and Aerosmith’s ‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’ was playing on her music system.
I tucked her into bed, kissed her and switched off the music and the lights. S he didn’t stir. Katie looked so much like Claire sometimes, it was uncanny. She didn’t seem to have acquired any of my features at all. Lucky girl.
The house was quiet. It was gone eleven and Claire had another late dinner.
I opened the French windows from my study and wandered out into the garden. The sky was black and starless, but the night was unseasonably warm. I lit a Marlboro and took a long draw on it. I had recently confessed to my family my return to the ranks of smokers, and they were not happy about it. I consoled them with the promise that I would only smoke a few cigarettes a day and I would never smoke in their presence. Claire had bought a large bottle of mouthwash and left it by my sink in our bathroom.
Somehow over the weeks I had managed to push my suspicions about Claire into the back of my mind. She was going out a lot, but I knew that Jael Construction was doing brisk business and that the big, new estate development at Kettering must be taking up a lot of time. Claire, unlike many CFOs, got involved in some of the commercial negotiation aspects of the building projects, and that meant out-of-hours meetings. The wheels of capitalism continued to turn outside of the Monday to Friday routine. I remembered Jim Fosse telling me the international power business was ten times worse. With time zones to consider, ludicrous power plant build times and twenty-four-hour-seven-days-a-week operations, it was amazing anyone managed to sleep at all. But perhaps he exaggerated.
Jim Fosse.
I finished my cigarette and lit another one.
It was a while since I’d spoken to the American. I s aw him briefly at the last Chamber of Commerce meeting, but he was deep in discussion with a rather depressed-looking Mat Hoggard of Leicester Wheels Auto Limited, and I did not feel inclined to interrupt.
The real truth was that I was avoiding Jim.
Since I’d received the vindictive phone call and anonymous letter, and with the universe sending me coded messages about murder conspiracies, the last thing I needed was a conversation with Jim – especially one about killing his wife, even if it was in jest.
When midnight struck I had a whisky and went to bed.
I double-checked the address that Harry had given me before ringing the doorbell.
The house was in Hillfields, an area of Coventry redeveloped after the bombing of World War II had flattened much of the city. It is one of the most disadvantaged places in England, and this house had certainly seen better days. Grubby net curtains hung at the windows and the roof looked like it needed serious repairs. Tracksuit-clad teenagers wandered the street and gave me curious glances. Barely serviceable cars rusted at the curb. I was glad I was visiting during daylight hours.
One of the downstairs curtains twitched and a few moments later the peeling front door opened a few inches. Mark peered at me.
“David? What do you want?”
“Just to talk. Can I come in?”
“How did you get my address?”
“From Harry.”
With reluctance, he stood aside to let me enter and I followed him into the living room. There was little furniture and the room was dusty and smelled of male sweat. A television muttered and a half-eaten carton of Chinese takeaway sat on the floor beside an old armchair whose stuffing was spilling out. Mark slumped into the chair and picked up the carton.
“Excuse me while I finish lunch,” he said. Then, remembering his manners, he asked me if I’d like a cup of tea. I declined, and sat down on a straight-backed wooden chair next to the non-functioning fireplace.
Mark shovelled the noodles into his mouth with a pair of plastic chopsticks and waited for me to say something. He looked
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