Read Online In for the Kill by Pauline Rowson - Free Book Online Page A

answered the door of a second floor maisonette in a run-down area not far from the football ground. She was balancing a small child on her hip. The little girl looked as though she’d just eaten her way through a Cadbury’s chocolate factory. Her mouth, fingers and jumper were covered with the brown stuff.
    She was whining softly and the woman looked decidedly cross.
    ‘Yes?’ she snapped.
    A shapeless beige cardigan hung off her squat figure like a sack; her long denim skirt trailed to her feet, which were bare and dirty, her toenails were too long and she stank of nicotine. Her fingers were yellow and her nails bitten.
    ‘Is Darren there?’ I tried to peer around her, but all I could see was a narrow hall with peeling wallpaper and all I could hear was a television set.
    ‘No, he ain’t. Who the hell are you?’ Her eyes narrowed with suspicion; her lips were like a crack in the pavement.
    ‘His mates from work said I could find him here,’ I replied, trying to win her over with my smile. It didn’t work.
    ‘They lied then.’ She made to shut the door on me but I slammed my hand on it.
    ‘Where is he?’ I demanded roughly, recognising that charm school stuff was wasted on her.
    ‘You the filth?’ she spat at me.
    ‘Where is he?’
    ‘I don’t know. If I did I’d go there and let him deal with his brat.’
    The child, as if sensing the woman’s hatred, started snivelling louder, which earned her a
    ‘Shut your face.’ It only served to make the child cry more. If I could have spared the time I would have felt sorry for the little girl.
    ‘He buggered off down that bleeding pub last night and hasn’t been home since,’ the woman moaned. ‘Probably picked up a slag and is sleeping off a hangover. You wait till I get my hands on him, bloody idle bastard, just like his father.’
    ‘Which pub?’ I shouted, above the child’s wailing.
    ‘The Whippet and if you find him tell him he’s a useless wanker.’
    I had passed the Whippet on my way here.
    Now I headed back there with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I pushed open the door and wondered if I’d stumbled into a smokers’
    convention. If smoking had been banned in public places then no one had told the landlord and occupants here. I had to part the air before I could reach the bar and by then I must have passively smoked about five cigarettes.
    The barman, a skinny, small man with thinning brown hair and a face like a ferret, was engaged down the far end of the bar. I glanced around wondering if Darren was here, and if so which of the ten men he might be: one of those with a foot resting on the rail round the bottom of the bar and watching the horse racing on a large flat-screen TV to my right; or perhaps that young one perched on the stool beside them. I ruled out a couple of men playing the gaming machines on account of their fluorescent jackets; they were either binmen or roadmen. Then there was a group playing pool in the far left-hand corner.
    ‘Yes?’ the barman said laconically.
    ‘I’m looking for Darren.’
    ‘Don’t think we sell that in here. What is it? A new drink?’ He gazed around smiling, searching for his audience. Nobody responded.
    ‘Joker, are you?’ I said roughly, moving in a little closer and surprising him. Prison had taught me how to act big and menacing. It had also taught me not to show fear. Not that this skinny little runt frightened me. ‘Where is he?’
    ‘What’s it to you?’
    ‘None of your fucking business. Now, have you seen him?’
    The barman hesitated, glancing around as if seeking support, but nobody was the slightest bit interested. ‘Not since last night. Probably sleeping off a hangover. He was in here chucking it about as if he’d won the bloody lottery.’
    Was he now? I held the barman’s stare a moment, then seeing he was telling the truth, I left. I walked slowly back into town. Where was Darren? Would he show up at home, or was he more likely to appear on the mortuary