Read Online Cherringham--Death on a Summer Night by Neil Richards - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Neil Richards
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wasn’t …
“Fine,” she said. “Great. See you at the concert Rik, lovely to meet you.”
And she turned and walked away down the street. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was still watching her.
Jack’s technique of throwing a “curved ball” at the end of the interview had worked.
Whatever he was up to that night — he doesn’t want to talk about it, she thought.
And she headed back to the office — to so many looming deadlines.
12. Ghost Train
Jack picked up a stick of candyfloss and made his way through the funfair. Midday and most of the rides hadn’t set up yet. The only ones he could see open were the small joints selling cheap candy or hot dogs, or offering games for the little kids.
Those games.
Looked so easy, but always with a gimmick that made them impossible to win.
The big rides with the thumping music and gut-twisting spinning seats were closed. Aimed at the teen crowd who wouldn’t be hitting the fair until dark.
The floss took him back thirty years to fairs back home — always did.
Watching his own daughter’s face as she took that first sticky bite.
He looked around and tried to imagine this fair twenty-five years ago, when Dinah was her with her two pals. Flashing lights, pop music blaring from every ride, kids laughing and screaming — and somewhere in the crowds …
A killer waiting for the right moment.
Tim Bell, maybe.
But Jack now doubted that very much.
He rounded the Super Waltzer and there ahead of him — right in the centre of the fair, the prized location — was the Ghost Train.
The spooky ride wasn’t lit yet — but the bright painted sign that ran thirty feet across the front in lurid, blood-dripping letters, made the theme clear: Ghost Train — the only way out of Dodge City …
Every Ghost ride had a theme, Jack guessed — and this one was westerns.
Jack scanned the front of the ride: shotguns poked from phony windows; a skeleton in full cowboy outfit stood outside the gaol; vampire saloon dancing girls lined up, fangs protruding, their legs kicking high, bullet-holed coffins leaned against the entrance.
Jack walked closer — and saw a guy with a cigarette dangling from his mouth lying under one of the cars, hitting a wheel with a hammer and cursing.
“Hi,” said Jack.
“We’re not open,” said the guy, not looking up.
“I’m looking for Charlie Kite.”
“Your lucky day, mate. You found him.”
The ticket seller at the entrance knew just where to send Jack.
“Hi Charlie. My name’s Jack Brennan. And I’ve been told you might be able to help me.”
Jack watched as the guy kept hammering.
“It’s about Dinah Taylor.”
The hammering stopped.
Jack watched as the man put the hammer down and sat up slowly.
In his mid-forties, Charlie was thin, with long, stringy hair and hollow cheekbones. His leather jacket and jeans hung loose from his wiry frame.
Jack had seen this haggard look many times before and usually it told of a lifetime’s relationship with drink — or drugs.
“What do you want … Jack Brennan?”
“Friendly chat, that’s all,” said Jack.
He watched as the man looked around at the other stalls, as if checking who was watching this meeting.
“All right,” he said. “But not here.”
He turned and opened a small door set into the Dodge City Gaol: Jack followed him and ducked into the darkness of the Ghost Ride.
*
Jack looked around the dark, cramped room, embedded in the heart of the Ghost Ride.
Spooky place for an interrogation, that’s for sure.
“Quite a little hidey-hole,” he said, leaning back against a timber support. From here he looked down on Charlie Kite, who sat, arms folded, at a dirty table.
“It’s the office.”
“And you’re the boss now?”
“Of this creepy ride? Yeah — all mine.”
“And back in eighty-nine — you were what — the ride boy?”
“Ran it for my dad.”
“Family business.”
“Something like that.”
Jack nodded at a gap in the boards
“Fine,” she said. “Great. See you at the concert Rik, lovely to meet you.”
And she turned and walked away down the street. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was still watching her.
Jack’s technique of throwing a “curved ball” at the end of the interview had worked.
Whatever he was up to that night — he doesn’t want to talk about it, she thought.
And she headed back to the office — to so many looming deadlines.
12. Ghost Train
Jack picked up a stick of candyfloss and made his way through the funfair. Midday and most of the rides hadn’t set up yet. The only ones he could see open were the small joints selling cheap candy or hot dogs, or offering games for the little kids.
Those games.
Looked so easy, but always with a gimmick that made them impossible to win.
The big rides with the thumping music and gut-twisting spinning seats were closed. Aimed at the teen crowd who wouldn’t be hitting the fair until dark.
The floss took him back thirty years to fairs back home — always did.
Watching his own daughter’s face as she took that first sticky bite.
He looked around and tried to imagine this fair twenty-five years ago, when Dinah was her with her two pals. Flashing lights, pop music blaring from every ride, kids laughing and screaming — and somewhere in the crowds …
A killer waiting for the right moment.
Tim Bell, maybe.
But Jack now doubted that very much.
He rounded the Super Waltzer and there ahead of him — right in the centre of the fair, the prized location — was the Ghost Train.
The spooky ride wasn’t lit yet — but the bright painted sign that ran thirty feet across the front in lurid, blood-dripping letters, made the theme clear: Ghost Train — the only way out of Dodge City …
Every Ghost ride had a theme, Jack guessed — and this one was westerns.
Jack scanned the front of the ride: shotguns poked from phony windows; a skeleton in full cowboy outfit stood outside the gaol; vampire saloon dancing girls lined up, fangs protruding, their legs kicking high, bullet-holed coffins leaned against the entrance.
Jack walked closer — and saw a guy with a cigarette dangling from his mouth lying under one of the cars, hitting a wheel with a hammer and cursing.
“Hi,” said Jack.
“We’re not open,” said the guy, not looking up.
“I’m looking for Charlie Kite.”
“Your lucky day, mate. You found him.”
The ticket seller at the entrance knew just where to send Jack.
“Hi Charlie. My name’s Jack Brennan. And I’ve been told you might be able to help me.”
Jack watched as the guy kept hammering.
“It’s about Dinah Taylor.”
The hammering stopped.
Jack watched as the man put the hammer down and sat up slowly.
In his mid-forties, Charlie was thin, with long, stringy hair and hollow cheekbones. His leather jacket and jeans hung loose from his wiry frame.
Jack had seen this haggard look many times before and usually it told of a lifetime’s relationship with drink — or drugs.
“What do you want … Jack Brennan?”
“Friendly chat, that’s all,” said Jack.
He watched as the man looked around at the other stalls, as if checking who was watching this meeting.
“All right,” he said. “But not here.”
He turned and opened a small door set into the Dodge City Gaol: Jack followed him and ducked into the darkness of the Ghost Ride.
*
Jack looked around the dark, cramped room, embedded in the heart of the Ghost Ride.
Spooky place for an interrogation, that’s for sure.
“Quite a little hidey-hole,” he said, leaning back against a timber support. From here he looked down on Charlie Kite, who sat, arms folded, at a dirty table.
“It’s the office.”
“And you’re the boss now?”
“Of this creepy ride? Yeah — all mine.”
“And back in eighty-nine — you were what — the ride boy?”
“Ran it for my dad.”
“Family business.”
“Something like that.”
Jack nodded at a gap in the boards
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