Read Online Chosen by Bill Kitson - Free Book Online Page A

whiskers studded with grey would have been better shaved off. His nose had been broken, obviously on more than one occasion, and had set crookedly. A jagged white scar ran down one cheek giving him a permanently sinister leer. His hair, streaked with grey like his beard, hung in lank, greasy profusion down to the grimy collar of his T-shirt.

    â€˜Mr Parkinson?’
    â€˜No,’ the man smirked.
    â€˜You’re not the landlord, then?’
    â€˜Course I’m the bloody landlord.’
    â€˜So what’s your name?’
    â€˜Rawlings, Joe Rawlings,’ the man’s attitude was immediately beginning to irritate Nash.
    â€˜Are you aware, Mr Rawlings, that it’s an offence under The Licensing Act for the licensee to fail to display their name over the door to the premises?’
    â€˜So what?’
    â€˜So I’d be within my rights to shut you down, and apply to the licensing magistrates to have your licence revoked.’
    The regulars had been enjoying Joe’s verbal sparring with authority. This was more fun than Match of the Day. At Nash’s last sentence, however, they stirred uneasily.
    â€˜You wouldn’t do that.’
    â€˜Don’t try me.’
    Nash and the landlord stood eye to eye, optical arm wrestling. ‘Okay, okay; follow me.’
    Nash turned to Mironova. ‘Stay here. Make sure none of these characters does a runner. Get on the radio, tell Tom what’s happened. We need Pearce and SOCO here, PDQ.’
    The yard was piled high with beer kegs and crates of empty bottles. A second officer was standing by the back gate. The woman was lying in the middle of the concrete. The cause of death was easy enough to establish. The long-handled knife sticking out of her chest gave it away.
    The paramedics had checked for signs of life, shook their heads sorrowfully and departed. ‘Who is she, Rawlings?’
    â€˜Name’s Lizzie Barton; off the Westlea estate.’ Rawlings, it appeared, had decided to cooperate.
    â€˜Known to us, do you reckon?’
    For the first time, Nash saw a glint of genuine humour in Rawlings’s eyes. ‘Isn’t everyone from that estate?’
    â€˜It isn’t compulsory, but most of them are.’
    â€˜Listen, Inspector—?’
    â€˜My name’s Nash.’

    â€˜Oh yes. I heard about you on the radio yesterday, about the missing girl. Have you found her yet?’
    â€˜No, we haven’t. Anyway, about this one, Lizzie Barton, you said her name is. Was she married?’
    This time there was no doubt the laughter was genuine. ‘Not formally, at least not that I know of. She’s half a dozen kids, all by different blokes. They used to tease her in there,’ he jerked his thumb in the direction of the pub. ‘Said she was after her own football team and every player would have a different name on his shirt. She won’t make it now.’ Rawlings’s humour turned mordant. ‘Ah well, there’s always six-a-side.’
    Nash turned to look at the dead woman. Lizzie Barton looked probably just the wrong side of forty, or maybe that was a result of her lifestyle. She was attractive enough in a bold, slightly second-hand way. It looked as if she’d been around a bit and the journey hadn’t been an easy one. She was dressed in jeans, sweat shirt and trainers, almost a uniform for those frequenting the pub. Her handbag lay alongside the body. It had tipped over on its side and her purse had spilled out. Even without touching it, Nash could see the purse contained a quantity of notes. That in itself was a minor miracle. ‘Who found the body?’
    â€˜The barman. He had to change a keg and there’s not much room in the cellar, so we bring the empties straight out here.’
    Looking closer, Nash noticed the ankle bracelet. He could never remember the significance of which ankle the bracelet was worn on. ‘Was she a pro?’
    â€˜On the game? If she