Read Online Cry for Help by Steve Mosby - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Mosby
Tags: 03 Thriller/Mistery
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When they got out, Currie could hear music drifting down from one of the open windows in the tower block behind them.
'So,' he said. 'Frank Carroll. Remind me again why we're here?'
'Because we're good cops who follow up every lead.'
'Oh yeah. That's it.'
Swann closed the car door.
'And desperate,' he said.
According to the Sex Offenders Register, Frank Carroll now lived in the house they were standing outside: a flat-roofed, single-storey council flat, with a mucky, overgrown garden. Someone had daubed the words 'sick fuck kids bewear' in large white letters on the front door. Beneath it, earlier slogans appeared to have been rubbed off.
'Do you think it's the right place?' Currie said.
Swann shot him a wry smile as they opened the gate.
On the surface, this lead wasn't promising. Carroll's name had come in from an anonymous phone call the evening after Alison had been found, but the scant detail provided had kept the information away from their desk until yesterday. Having skimmed the basics of Carroll's file, Currie had been interested, but quietly unconvinced. They were good cops, though. And they were desperate.
At the front door, Currie could hear a loud television from within. It sounded like someone was being murdered: screams seeping out through the gaps in the bricks and panels.
They knocked, and the television immediately went silent.
And that was when Currie started to feel it. There was no sensible reason to be, but he was nervous. Not afraid, exactly, but not far off either. The speed with which the TV had gone quiet reminded him of a spider going still as a fly snagged on its web. He could almost imagine the man inside, equally motionless. Listening.
After a minute, the door opened. They were faced by a tall, thin man. He was wearing a white shirt too large for him, and old, rubbery tracksuit bottoms.
Currie didn't even recognise him at first. The photograph in the file had shown a man in his late thirties with a good-looking, symmetrical face. There had been a hint of cruelty in the strong angles at his jaw, but it was the eyes that gave him away: full of intelligence and hate. Twelve years ago, Frank Carroll - an ex-cop of only a few hours - had stared out at the world, looking like he understood a hundred ways to take you apart and was picturing them right then, enjoying each, one by one. By all accounts, he'd been a powerfully built man, equally as capable of carrying out those acts in the flesh as he was in his mind.
But prison clearly hadn't been kind to him. His skin was old and weathered, and his hair had gone grey and receded. He'd lost a great deal of weight, too. That solid, strong man now looked pigeon-chested and frail: hunched over slightly, like something in his back had gone. The old muscles hung down like slack, useless cords. His eyes still held that cruelty, but even there one of them seemed dislocated and wrong, as though it had been taken out and replaced at an odd angle.
Currie's unease intensified.
'Mr Carroll?' He held up his badge. 'Detective Currie, Detective Swann. We'd like to ask you a few questions.'
Frank Carroll stared at him.
Currie felt an absurd urge to scratch himself.
'Come in.'
He shot Swann a glance as they followed Carroll into his flat, closing the door behind them - then grimaced as the stench of the place hit him properly. It was like someone had dabbed ammonia under his nose. The small corridor reeked of old sweat.
In front of them, the man moved slowly and carefully into the lounge. The room was in a disgusting state. The carpet was covered with dust - probably jumping with fleas too, Currie thought - and the old wallpaper was stained yellow. There was an ashtray on a dirty table, full of cigarette butts, while piles of tattered newspapers and magazines lined the walls. The air felt hazy, grey.
Carroll sat down awkwardly on a two-seater settee, his bony knees poking up against the greasy tracksuit.
'I know why you're here,' he said.
'Oh
When they got out, Currie could hear music drifting down from one of the open windows in the tower block behind them.
'So,' he said. 'Frank Carroll. Remind me again why we're here?'
'Because we're good cops who follow up every lead.'
'Oh yeah. That's it.'
Swann closed the car door.
'And desperate,' he said.
According to the Sex Offenders Register, Frank Carroll now lived in the house they were standing outside: a flat-roofed, single-storey council flat, with a mucky, overgrown garden. Someone had daubed the words 'sick fuck kids bewear' in large white letters on the front door. Beneath it, earlier slogans appeared to have been rubbed off.
'Do you think it's the right place?' Currie said.
Swann shot him a wry smile as they opened the gate.
On the surface, this lead wasn't promising. Carroll's name had come in from an anonymous phone call the evening after Alison had been found, but the scant detail provided had kept the information away from their desk until yesterday. Having skimmed the basics of Carroll's file, Currie had been interested, but quietly unconvinced. They were good cops, though. And they were desperate.
At the front door, Currie could hear a loud television from within. It sounded like someone was being murdered: screams seeping out through the gaps in the bricks and panels.
They knocked, and the television immediately went silent.
And that was when Currie started to feel it. There was no sensible reason to be, but he was nervous. Not afraid, exactly, but not far off either. The speed with which the TV had gone quiet reminded him of a spider going still as a fly snagged on its web. He could almost imagine the man inside, equally motionless. Listening.
After a minute, the door opened. They were faced by a tall, thin man. He was wearing a white shirt too large for him, and old, rubbery tracksuit bottoms.
Currie didn't even recognise him at first. The photograph in the file had shown a man in his late thirties with a good-looking, symmetrical face. There had been a hint of cruelty in the strong angles at his jaw, but it was the eyes that gave him away: full of intelligence and hate. Twelve years ago, Frank Carroll - an ex-cop of only a few hours - had stared out at the world, looking like he understood a hundred ways to take you apart and was picturing them right then, enjoying each, one by one. By all accounts, he'd been a powerfully built man, equally as capable of carrying out those acts in the flesh as he was in his mind.
But prison clearly hadn't been kind to him. His skin was old and weathered, and his hair had gone grey and receded. He'd lost a great deal of weight, too. That solid, strong man now looked pigeon-chested and frail: hunched over slightly, like something in his back had gone. The old muscles hung down like slack, useless cords. His eyes still held that cruelty, but even there one of them seemed dislocated and wrong, as though it had been taken out and replaced at an odd angle.
Currie's unease intensified.
'Mr Carroll?' He held up his badge. 'Detective Currie, Detective Swann. We'd like to ask you a few questions.'
Frank Carroll stared at him.
Currie felt an absurd urge to scratch himself.
'Come in.'
He shot Swann a glance as they followed Carroll into his flat, closing the door behind them - then grimaced as the stench of the place hit him properly. It was like someone had dabbed ammonia under his nose. The small corridor reeked of old sweat.
In front of them, the man moved slowly and carefully into the lounge. The room was in a disgusting state. The carpet was covered with dust - probably jumping with fleas too, Currie thought - and the old wallpaper was stained yellow. There was an ashtray on a dirty table, full of cigarette butts, while piles of tattered newspapers and magazines lined the walls. The air felt hazy, grey.
Carroll sat down awkwardly on a two-seater settee, his bony knees poking up against the greasy tracksuit.
'I know why you're here,' he said.
'Oh
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