Read Online Cry for Help by Steve Mosby - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Mosby
Tags: 03 Thriller/Mistery
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yeah? Do tell.'
'You're here about those girls.' Carroll sniffed dismissively. 'I saw you on the television. Talking about them. I recognised you from there.'
'That's very observant. Once a cop always a cop, eh?'
'I'm not a policeman anymore.'
'Yeah, we know that.' He glanced around, taking in the details of the living room. Not much of a decorator, either. He looked back at the old man. 'Doesn't explain why you might be expecting to see us, though.'
Carroll just looked at him, the faintest trace of amusement flashing in his eyes. Currie flicked through a list of mental images to locate the one he was reminded of, found it quickly. The sly old man holding court; one who'd seen it all. You don't impress me, son.
'We were interested in your file. There are some peculiar similarities there. But then - you'll have realised that, won't you? Being so observant, and all.'
Carroll smiled, and his lips all but disappeared. 'Doesn't explain why you might be looking through my file, though. Get a phone call, did we?'
Swann moved over to one wall and nudged a stack of magazines with his foot. Carroll's gaze shot to him, quick as that spider Currie had imagined. Swann smiled.
'Anything we should know about in here, Frank?'
'Lots of news.' He rolled the word as though it might be unfamiliar to them.
'News is fascinating,' Swann agreed. 'The older the better. Are you planning on doing some papier mache, or something?'
'There's nothing illegal in there, if that's what you mean,' Carroll said. 'Why would there be?'
Currie said, 'Because you like little girls. Or at least, you did. Fifteen years, reduced to ten. I was quite appalled when I read the file. Your own daughter, Frank.'
He had seen a photograph of Mary Carroll in the file as well. She looked considerably younger than fifteen. When the picture had been taken, she was dressed in a white T-shirt, and her face was gaunt and hollow, with dark rings around haunted eyes. One of them was swollen almost shut. Her straggly blond hair looked like it hadn't been washed or combed in a week.
'I don't have a daughter,' Carroll said.
'Unfortunately for her, you do,' Currie said. 'And a son as well. Although I doubt you get birthday cards from either of them. Does that happen often?'
'They're dead to me.'
'Well, we all know what you did to her.'
Carroll turned to him slowly. 'Lots of things.'
Currie made an effort to smile pleasantly. He'd become accustomed to dealing with that kind of filth, but sometimes it still shocked him. The things people did, and the way they managed to feel about it.
'We're thinking of one in particular,' he said. 'You used to tie her to the bed, didn't you? Leave her for days on end without food or water.'
'That's one of the less interesting ones.'
Swann nudged the magazine stack again, not even looking over. 'You were released two years ago, Frank. Coincidentally, some similar things started happening to girls just afterwards. We're very interested in those things, even if you're not.'
The whole time, Carroll just kept staring at Currie. The expression on the man's face was utterly blank.
'Did somebody call you?' he asked again.
'No,' Swann said. 'We have a computer that throws up names for us. And I do mean that literally . . .' The magazines spilled out across the floor. 'Whoops.'
Carroll glanced over, then shook his head and looked down at the floor in front of him. His hands twittered together - like birds with broken wings - and he steepled them before his face, bony elbows resting on bony knees.
'Do you know what they do to police in prison?' he said.
'I guess you can tell us,' Swann said.
'They break you,' Carroll said. 'My left eye is glass, and that side of my face is paralysed. I'm registered disabled. It takes me time just to walk across the room. And you think I could hurt someone?'
He had a point, Currie thought. The victims all appeared to have been subdued by hand, and Carroll looked as though he could barely lift his arms. So
'You're here about those girls.' Carroll sniffed dismissively. 'I saw you on the television. Talking about them. I recognised you from there.'
'That's very observant. Once a cop always a cop, eh?'
'I'm not a policeman anymore.'
'Yeah, we know that.' He glanced around, taking in the details of the living room. Not much of a decorator, either. He looked back at the old man. 'Doesn't explain why you might be expecting to see us, though.'
Carroll just looked at him, the faintest trace of amusement flashing in his eyes. Currie flicked through a list of mental images to locate the one he was reminded of, found it quickly. The sly old man holding court; one who'd seen it all. You don't impress me, son.
'We were interested in your file. There are some peculiar similarities there. But then - you'll have realised that, won't you? Being so observant, and all.'
Carroll smiled, and his lips all but disappeared. 'Doesn't explain why you might be looking through my file, though. Get a phone call, did we?'
Swann moved over to one wall and nudged a stack of magazines with his foot. Carroll's gaze shot to him, quick as that spider Currie had imagined. Swann smiled.
'Anything we should know about in here, Frank?'
'Lots of news.' He rolled the word as though it might be unfamiliar to them.
'News is fascinating,' Swann agreed. 'The older the better. Are you planning on doing some papier mache, or something?'
'There's nothing illegal in there, if that's what you mean,' Carroll said. 'Why would there be?'
Currie said, 'Because you like little girls. Or at least, you did. Fifteen years, reduced to ten. I was quite appalled when I read the file. Your own daughter, Frank.'
He had seen a photograph of Mary Carroll in the file as well. She looked considerably younger than fifteen. When the picture had been taken, she was dressed in a white T-shirt, and her face was gaunt and hollow, with dark rings around haunted eyes. One of them was swollen almost shut. Her straggly blond hair looked like it hadn't been washed or combed in a week.
'I don't have a daughter,' Carroll said.
'Unfortunately for her, you do,' Currie said. 'And a son as well. Although I doubt you get birthday cards from either of them. Does that happen often?'
'They're dead to me.'
'Well, we all know what you did to her.'
Carroll turned to him slowly. 'Lots of things.'
Currie made an effort to smile pleasantly. He'd become accustomed to dealing with that kind of filth, but sometimes it still shocked him. The things people did, and the way they managed to feel about it.
'We're thinking of one in particular,' he said. 'You used to tie her to the bed, didn't you? Leave her for days on end without food or water.'
'That's one of the less interesting ones.'
Swann nudged the magazine stack again, not even looking over. 'You were released two years ago, Frank. Coincidentally, some similar things started happening to girls just afterwards. We're very interested in those things, even if you're not.'
The whole time, Carroll just kept staring at Currie. The expression on the man's face was utterly blank.
'Did somebody call you?' he asked again.
'No,' Swann said. 'We have a computer that throws up names for us. And I do mean that literally . . .' The magazines spilled out across the floor. 'Whoops.'
Carroll glanced over, then shook his head and looked down at the floor in front of him. His hands twittered together - like birds with broken wings - and he steepled them before his face, bony elbows resting on bony knees.
'Do you know what they do to police in prison?' he said.
'I guess you can tell us,' Swann said.
'They break you,' Carroll said. 'My left eye is glass, and that side of my face is paralysed. I'm registered disabled. It takes me time just to walk across the room. And you think I could hurt someone?'
He had a point, Currie thought. The victims all appeared to have been subdued by hand, and Carroll looked as though he could barely lift his arms. So
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