Read Online Cannonbridge by Jonathan Barnes - Free Book Online Page A

Sergeant?”
    “GCSE English, sir. I know the basics.”
    “Hasn’t anything ever struck you as odd about them?”
    “In what way, sir?”
    “They’re too consistent. Don’t you think? Too neat. And, frankly, nowhere near good enough. As though they’ve been made up by one man over the course of a month and not over a lifetime.”
    “Can’t say it’s ever occurred to me, sir.”
    “Think about it, Sergeant. Read them again. Look at the details of his life.” Toby, intense, makes eye contact. “ We are being lied to .”
    Cudden clears his throat, evidently a signal of some kind to her sergeant. “Well, thank you for your time, sir.”
    Both officers get to their feet.
    “Can I ask?” says Toby. “How did he die?”
    The police exchange glances again.
    “Found in a hotel room, sir. A Holiday Inn. Cut his own throat. Messy. No note.”
    “I see.” Toby nods, more nauseous than ever. “Well, that’s very sad.”
    Cudden, unsmiling: “Isn’t it?”
    Toby swallows and murmurs, “Let me show you out.”
    From the doorstep, Cudden strides towards the car, Angeyo hangs back, just long enough to lean in to speak to Toby the following words: “There were some... irregularities about the death, sir.”
    “What are you saying?”
    Sergeant Angeyo looks at him levelly for a moment. “I’m just saying be careful, sir.”
    A shout. “Sergeant!”
    Before Toby can respond, Angeyo nods once and strides off. The two police officers climb inside the car.
    The engine starts and they drive away.
    Toby watches, sick at heart and trembling. He is about to return to the sanctuary of his bedroom when he notices, from across the street, a sudden gleam of light, as of sunshine glinting on metal.
    There is a car. A Saab. A dark, sleek, expensive machine. The slender silhouette of a man within. Toby squints against the sunlight but cannot make out the stranger’s features.
    Again, a flash of light. Toby stares, his skin prickling, and in a moment of recklessness, considers running over to the vehicle, wrenching open the door and challenging the occupant to explain himself.
    But then the car starts up and begins to pull away. Toby stares, still unable to make out the driver’s features. There is only a shadow behind the wheel.
    The Saab disappears and the street is empty once more. Feeling very cold in spite of the warmth of the day, Toby, shivering, goes back inside, double locks the front door, pulls the chain across and goes to bed where he falls, eventually, into an uneasy sleep and dreams of shadows and dead men and impossible things.

 
     
    1835
    THE KITTIWAKE HOTEL
    BOSTON
     
     
    I T IS AUTUMN in Massachusetts. Cornhill has a sombre aspect as if it is in mourning. Tall, grey buildings. Everywhere, brown leaves and mud. Fine, resentful rain.
    Nobody lingers out of doors. It has begun to darken and folk are hurrying home, their heads bowed, their collars turned up against the asperity of the weather, the gas lamps, fitful and fickle, serving less to illuminate the sidewalk than to render more complete those shadows which lie beyond the limitations of the light. All is subtle, quiet, discreet. All is order here and sullen peace. It is a world arranged according to the principles of the ruler and the compass, a city of the new, far from the murk and corruption of London. Looking upon it today, one would be hard pressed to imagine that it was ever the birthplace of revolution or that it once provided the spark for war.
    Yet, there is something also, amidst the scene to suggest that the violence of the place is hidden only barely, that the carapace of civilisation is thin and prone to cracking. The first sign of it is this: a young woman, moving swiftly down the street, glancing repeatedly behind her, her face set in an expression of barely-stifled terror.
    A pale creature—oh, so very pale; pale like china; pale like marble—her hair long and black, streaked prematurely with grey. Her clothes are ragged and too