Read Online Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) by Kerry Wilkinson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kerry Wilkinson
Ads: Link
two bags of prawn cocktail crisps and
a packet of flaming hot Monster Munch on the table between them.
Niall’s face lit up like Fat Pat with an iced bun. ‘Jess, I’m so glad you came.’
‘I even brought tea. You should be grateful – I don’t usually share crisps.’
Jessica tore open the first packet of prawn cocktail and split it along the side, splaying it onto the
table in front of them and putting three in her mouth.
Niall took a crisp and sniffed it, before biting it in half. ‘It’s not like the old days. Back then, we’d be in the boozer straight after lunch, getting pissed with the journos and hoping nothing happened.
Even if it did, we’d get in the car anyway and head off. I know it sounds alien to you young ones but it worked in its own way. Somewhere like this place would’ve been drowning in smoke, reeking of
booze . . .’ The older man tailed off but it was clear he was pining for the past. ‘Now, it’s the
grandkids, of course. They keep me busy since my wife died. You don’t have children, do you?’
He realised instantly from Jessica’s expression that it was the wrong question. ‘Sorry, I didn’t
mean—’
‘It’s fine.’
As Niall took another sip of his drink, Jessica launched into the Monster Munch, eating one of
those and a crisp at the same time. Sod your celebrity chefs – how many of them could create a
flaming hot prawn cocktail corn-and-potato-based snack?
She didn’t expand on the children comment, so Niall picked up where he left off. ‘Poppy and Zac
are my little ’uns – seven and five. My son Brendan usually brings them around with his wife on
Sundays and we’ll go out for lunch and then do something if it’s not raining.’
He didn’t have to spell it out but Jessica could see it in his face; aside from the odd times he was at
the station, it was the one day a week he got to do something with his life. No wonder he didn’t mind
working on cold cases for free.
Jessica stretched forwards for a crisp but her sleeve snagged on the table, exposing her wrist and
the mishmash of red gouges. She felt Niall’s eyes run across them and then he tried to catch her gaze
as she picked up another crisp and rolled the material down again, deliberately avoiding looking at
him.
‘Something you want to talk about?’ he whispered.
Suddenly, Jessica knew what it was to be like to be opposite DSI Hambleton in an interview room.
She could feel his eyes boring into her and the silence from the other side of the table as the sound of clinking glasses, laughs, burps and faint pop music reverberated around the rest of the pub. He waited
for the reply, allowing the suspect to begin sweating and incriminate themselves. It never worked on
people familiar with an interview room, of course, although most people couldn’t help themselves but
fill the gaps in a conversation. Jessica knew the rules; she played the game herself and yet . . .
‘They’ve not healed properly. I keep picking at them.’
‘Where did they come from?’
‘I was in a stately home for a case, helping out another force. The people there used cable ties on
my wrists, then they handcuffed me not long afterwards. It was too tight – like we’d do if we wanted
to hurt someone.’
Glasses continued to clink, people were still chatting to each other, laughing, the jukebox flicked
onto another tune, but still DSI Hambleton said nothing, knowing there was more. All she had to do
was remain silent herself, but . . .
‘I had to twist one of my wrists to free myself. I didn’t even realise how badly I’d hurt it until
everything seized up a few days later. The doctor said I’d done something to the tendons. He said I
blocked it out at first because of the shock. It’s been healing but . . .’
Pick, pick, pick. That psychologist was having another mucky dream.
Finally, DSI Hambleton became Niall again. ‘I saw the newspapers – some cult they were saying –
plus people
a packet of flaming hot Monster Munch on the table between them.
Niall’s face lit up like Fat Pat with an iced bun. ‘Jess, I’m so glad you came.’
‘I even brought tea. You should be grateful – I don’t usually share crisps.’
Jessica tore open the first packet of prawn cocktail and split it along the side, splaying it onto the
table in front of them and putting three in her mouth.
Niall took a crisp and sniffed it, before biting it in half. ‘It’s not like the old days. Back then, we’d be in the boozer straight after lunch, getting pissed with the journos and hoping nothing happened.
Even if it did, we’d get in the car anyway and head off. I know it sounds alien to you young ones but it worked in its own way. Somewhere like this place would’ve been drowning in smoke, reeking of
booze . . .’ The older man tailed off but it was clear he was pining for the past. ‘Now, it’s the
grandkids, of course. They keep me busy since my wife died. You don’t have children, do you?’
He realised instantly from Jessica’s expression that it was the wrong question. ‘Sorry, I didn’t
mean—’
‘It’s fine.’
As Niall took another sip of his drink, Jessica launched into the Monster Munch, eating one of
those and a crisp at the same time. Sod your celebrity chefs – how many of them could create a
flaming hot prawn cocktail corn-and-potato-based snack?
She didn’t expand on the children comment, so Niall picked up where he left off. ‘Poppy and Zac
are my little ’uns – seven and five. My son Brendan usually brings them around with his wife on
Sundays and we’ll go out for lunch and then do something if it’s not raining.’
He didn’t have to spell it out but Jessica could see it in his face; aside from the odd times he was at
the station, it was the one day a week he got to do something with his life. No wonder he didn’t mind
working on cold cases for free.
Jessica stretched forwards for a crisp but her sleeve snagged on the table, exposing her wrist and
the mishmash of red gouges. She felt Niall’s eyes run across them and then he tried to catch her gaze
as she picked up another crisp and rolled the material down again, deliberately avoiding looking at
him.
‘Something you want to talk about?’ he whispered.
Suddenly, Jessica knew what it was to be like to be opposite DSI Hambleton in an interview room.
She could feel his eyes boring into her and the silence from the other side of the table as the sound of clinking glasses, laughs, burps and faint pop music reverberated around the rest of the pub. He waited
for the reply, allowing the suspect to begin sweating and incriminate themselves. It never worked on
people familiar with an interview room, of course, although most people couldn’t help themselves but
fill the gaps in a conversation. Jessica knew the rules; she played the game herself and yet . . .
‘They’ve not healed properly. I keep picking at them.’
‘Where did they come from?’
‘I was in a stately home for a case, helping out another force. The people there used cable ties on
my wrists, then they handcuffed me not long afterwards. It was too tight – like we’d do if we wanted
to hurt someone.’
Glasses continued to clink, people were still chatting to each other, laughing, the jukebox flicked
onto another tune, but still DSI Hambleton said nothing, knowing there was more. All she had to do
was remain silent herself, but . . .
‘I had to twist one of my wrists to free myself. I didn’t even realise how badly I’d hurt it until
everything seized up a few days later. The doctor said I’d done something to the tendons. He said I
blocked it out at first because of the shock. It’s been healing but . . .’
Pick, pick, pick. That psychologist was having another mucky dream.
Finally, DSI Hambleton became Niall again. ‘I saw the newspapers – some cult they were saying –
plus people
Similar Books
