Read Online Come Clean (1989) by Bill James - Free Book Online

of picture.’
    ‘Don’t we all?’
    ‘Yes, well – She’s a delightful girl, full of grace and vim. We’re all bothered about Sarah. I wouldn’t want her landing herself in anything dark.’
    ‘Your Francis Garland used to . . . have a stake, didn’t he? It looked a very happy thing.’
    ‘Francis? Only room for one ego long-term there, I’m afraid. But she’s a grand girl, Jack.’
    ‘I can believe it. Listen, this Aston –?’
    ‘Nothing known – like
your
Justin,’ Harpur said. ‘We’ve never been able to work out how he lives. He’s not short of money, has some style. He takes a
job now and then, either selling, or a bit of exterior decorating. Pays his taxes, rarely draws dole. But he couldn’t dress the way he does or drive what he does on his earnings.’
    ‘Perhaps I’ll make an inquiry or two,’ Lamb said.
    Harpur shrugged. ‘If you like. Be careful. Do you suppose that somebody suspected Justin was talking to you, and that’s why he’s been taken out?’
    ‘Could be. Could easily be.’
    More bird cries came from the flats. ‘What’s that one, Jack?’
    He looked out over the mud again. ‘Oyster-catchers. Easy: they fly in dozens.’
    After dark that evening, Harpur drove up to the address Lamb had given him for Justin Paynter. When Jack said something, you’d better believe it, even if the tip seemed all instinct and
guess, because his instincts and guesses usually turned out more spot-on than supposed hard fact from minor league narks. For a time, Harpur sat in his car and watched the house, a small, old,
pretty, stone-built place with a minute front garden, in a grubby, long road, not far from where Harpur lived himself. No lights showed and all the curtains seemed to be across. He gave it an hour,
keeping an eye on the street around him, as well as the cottage. In that time, there were no callers and all rooms remained unlit. As far as he could make out, nobody else had observation on the
place though plenty of other parked cars stood near, and in the darkness he could not be sure none was occupied. He certainly would not have bet big money on it. Leaving his old Viva, he walked to
the end of the terrace and down a lane, to look at the house from the rear. It backed on to a railway line and had a decaying wooden fence at the end of another small yard or garden. He could see
no light in the house from here, either.
    Forcing apart a couple of planks in the fence he pushed into the garden and stood still, watching and listening. A palsied-looking brown cat yawed away from near two bulging, black plastic
refuse bags, one of which had split and dribbled cheerless items on to the rough grass, where rotting cardboard boxes and a scatter of empty beer cans lay. Christ, wasn’t this the life,
though? To think he might have been wasting his time at home with his feet up, or in bed with Ruth Cotton. Instead, here he was, stalking – stalking what? A grass’s grass, or someone
who answered the phone, but didn’t. Thin stuff? He would concede that.
    As he picked his way through the garden to what he guessed would be the kitchen window, a sprinter train charged past behind him, obviously sauced by its own publicity. A roller blind was down
but age must have weakened it near the cord and there were a couple of gaping tears. He had no light with him and the room beyond was dark, but he peered through the holes and thought he could make
out, scattered on the floor, broken crockery, a frying pan and some other utensils, as though shelves or a cupboard had been cleared in a rapid, crude search. Perhaps Jack Lamb’s telephone
call to here had come while it was happening.
    For half a minute he stood in the shadow of the house, trying to check that he had not been followed. Then, feeling reasonably safe, he tried the kitchen window and a rear door but neither
shifted. Every bugger was security-conscious these days, even villains. It could be a right pain. Luckily, someone had been