Read Online Bitter Wash Road by Garry Disher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Garry Disher
Ads: Link
It had an agency of his building society and it had a phone shop. He visited the building society first, withdrawing $2500 in hundred-dollar bills, leaving himself with $164.65 until payday. Then he went to the phone shop.
Hirsch had bought his present phone there three weeks ago on Kropp’s advice. ‘The first thing you need to know is we get shit mobile reception up here,’ the sergeant had said. ‘As much as I find it amusing to think of you stranded in the middle of nowhere with a flat tyre and no signal bars, the department would take a dim view, so get yourself a decent phone, all right?’
‘Maybe the department could spring for a satellite phone, Sarge.’
‘Don’t push your luck with me, sunshine.’
What Hirsch remembered about the phone shop was the box of parts behind the counter: old GSM phones, cracked touch-screens, scarred plastic cases, dead batteries, iPhones with the guts stripped out.
He drove back to Tiverton with the cash and an iPhone 4 that wouldn’t power past the boot logo. Cost him a completely outrageous $150, and now he had $14.65 to his name.
Half-expecting officers from Internal Investigations to jump him, half-fearing to learn they’d already carried out their search, he reached into the Nissan, found the first-aid box exactly where he’d left it, and stowed the broken phone and his hard-earned cash inside it.
~ * ~
7
HIRSCH PINNED HIS mobile number to the front door and headed back down the valley to Redruth. Forty minutes of wheat and canola crops spread between the distant blue ranges and finally signs of habitation, then he was drawing into a town of pretty stone buildings folded through a series of hillocks. Started as a copper-mining town in the 1840s, it was a pastoral centre now. The Cornish Jacks were long gone, leaving behind flooded mine shafts, some cottage rows and a legacy of names like Redruth and Truro. Hirsch had explored the old mine when he first arrived. Bottomless pools of water in an enchanted shade of blue; mine batteries, sheds and stone chimneys sitting licheny and eroded on the slopes above the town.
Soon he was making a shallow descent to the town centre where the shops, a pair of pubs and a garage were arranged around an oblong square containing a statue to the war dead and a tiny rotunda on a stone-edged lawn. The building frontages were nineteenth century but the hoardings and signage were purely modern, a mishmash of corporate livery in different colours and fonts. Then he was through the square and entering an abbreviated side street, directed to the police station by a sign and an arrow. At the kerb on both sides of the street were police vehicles: two four-wheel-drives, Kropp’s Ford and two patrol cars.
The time was eleven-forty-five. He parked and went in. This station was no converted house, it was a dedicated red-brick building with a lockup, several rooms and a large rear yard, but inside its foyer-cum-waiting room Hirsch found a front counter like his own: scarred wood, wanted posters and out-of-date notices on the wall, a couple of desks and filing cabinets in the dim corners.
The counter was staffed by a middle-aged man in civilian clothing, an auxiliary support officer whose job it was to greet the walk-ins, hand out forms, take reports, do the filing. A dull, sleepy man, he emitted a quiver of interest when Hirsch gave his name. ‘Ah, Constable Hirschhausen. Through that door.’
He pointed, and Hirsch found himself in a region of cramped rooms at the rear of the station: Kropp’s office, a small tea room, a briefing room, an interview room, storage area, files. At the end of the corridor was a steel door leading to the lockup. Drawn by voices, movement, a spill of light, Hirsch headed for the tea room.
It fell silent the moment he appeared in the doorway. Two men stared at him stonily: the Redruth constables, Nicholson and Andrewartha. Hirsch gave a
Hirsch had bought his present phone there three weeks ago on Kropp’s advice. ‘The first thing you need to know is we get shit mobile reception up here,’ the sergeant had said. ‘As much as I find it amusing to think of you stranded in the middle of nowhere with a flat tyre and no signal bars, the department would take a dim view, so get yourself a decent phone, all right?’
‘Maybe the department could spring for a satellite phone, Sarge.’
‘Don’t push your luck with me, sunshine.’
What Hirsch remembered about the phone shop was the box of parts behind the counter: old GSM phones, cracked touch-screens, scarred plastic cases, dead batteries, iPhones with the guts stripped out.
He drove back to Tiverton with the cash and an iPhone 4 that wouldn’t power past the boot logo. Cost him a completely outrageous $150, and now he had $14.65 to his name.
Half-expecting officers from Internal Investigations to jump him, half-fearing to learn they’d already carried out their search, he reached into the Nissan, found the first-aid box exactly where he’d left it, and stowed the broken phone and his hard-earned cash inside it.
~ * ~
7
HIRSCH PINNED HIS mobile number to the front door and headed back down the valley to Redruth. Forty minutes of wheat and canola crops spread between the distant blue ranges and finally signs of habitation, then he was drawing into a town of pretty stone buildings folded through a series of hillocks. Started as a copper-mining town in the 1840s, it was a pastoral centre now. The Cornish Jacks were long gone, leaving behind flooded mine shafts, some cottage rows and a legacy of names like Redruth and Truro. Hirsch had explored the old mine when he first arrived. Bottomless pools of water in an enchanted shade of blue; mine batteries, sheds and stone chimneys sitting licheny and eroded on the slopes above the town.
Soon he was making a shallow descent to the town centre where the shops, a pair of pubs and a garage were arranged around an oblong square containing a statue to the war dead and a tiny rotunda on a stone-edged lawn. The building frontages were nineteenth century but the hoardings and signage were purely modern, a mishmash of corporate livery in different colours and fonts. Then he was through the square and entering an abbreviated side street, directed to the police station by a sign and an arrow. At the kerb on both sides of the street were police vehicles: two four-wheel-drives, Kropp’s Ford and two patrol cars.
The time was eleven-forty-five. He parked and went in. This station was no converted house, it was a dedicated red-brick building with a lockup, several rooms and a large rear yard, but inside its foyer-cum-waiting room Hirsch found a front counter like his own: scarred wood, wanted posters and out-of-date notices on the wall, a couple of desks and filing cabinets in the dim corners.
The counter was staffed by a middle-aged man in civilian clothing, an auxiliary support officer whose job it was to greet the walk-ins, hand out forms, take reports, do the filing. A dull, sleepy man, he emitted a quiver of interest when Hirsch gave his name. ‘Ah, Constable Hirschhausen. Through that door.’
He pointed, and Hirsch found himself in a region of cramped rooms at the rear of the station: Kropp’s office, a small tea room, a briefing room, an interview room, storage area, files. At the end of the corridor was a steel door leading to the lockup. Drawn by voices, movement, a spill of light, Hirsch headed for the tea room.
It fell silent the moment he appeared in the doorway. Two men stared at him stonily: the Redruth constables, Nicholson and Andrewartha. Hirsch gave a
Similar Books
