Read Online Little Triggers by Martyn Waites - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martyn Waites
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fronting the windows, but failed to pierce the mood of the silent group.
Everyone in the office had heard about Houchen, either from the TV or from Larkin. And everybody’s response had been the same; initial disbelief, then excitement that one of their own was actually making the news, then a kind of numbness as they realised that someone they knew – irrespective of whether they liked him or not – had died an horrific death.
After leaving the blaze, Larkin had phoned Bolland, filling him in on what had happened. Once Bolland had recovered from the shock (which hadn’t taken long) he had suggested that Larkin might want to write a first-hand account and sell it to
The Journal
, before their own reporters produced second-hand eyewitness accounts. Larkin had put forward a token argument on ethical grounds but Bolland smoothly countered with, “I’m sure it’s what Ian would have wanted,” finally adding, without a trace of irony, “If the positions had been reversed, it’s what he would have done.”
Larkin had given in and written it. He had treated it as an opportunity to get the events straight in his head, make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Of course, he didn’t tell the whole story: the answerphone messages he kept to himself.
Now Bolland had his staff’s full attention. Joyce’s eyes were red-rimmed and her face puffy from crying; without doubting the sincerity of her grief, Larkin reckoned there was something of the professional wailer about her. He could imagine her crying on cue when coffins appeared and brides floated down aisles; he didn’t know what that said about her life. Carrie Brewer, on the other hand, occasionally darted glances of a sort in Larkin’s direction which made him think she would happily set fire to a building with a friend of hers in it if it meant she ended up with an eyewitness story.
Bolland had finished relating the facts of Houchen’s death; he was now gearing up to deliver a eulogy that would give full rein to his effusive vocabulary. Larkin tuned out, his mind replaying the inevitable visit he had received earlier that morning.
He had just faxed his piece to
The Journal
and crashed out on the bed when the doorbell rang. He ignored it and turned over. It rang again. And again. The insistency gave him a fair idea of who it was. He got up, shrugged himself into his dressing gown and went down to answer it.
As expected, it was the police: two of them. The older one, who looked to be in his early forties, spoke first.
“Mr Larkin?” The man brandished his warrant card. “We’re— ”
“The Sweeney, and you haven’t had any dinner?” Larkin interjected.
The older man’s lips briefly flicked into a pained expression that could have passed for a smile. “Detective Inspector Umpleby. This is Detective Sergeant Grice.” The younger one bobbed his head. “May we come in?” he said, not waiting to be invited.
They all moved into the front room and sat down as Larkin sized his two guests up. Umpleby wore a black and white checked jacket, crisp shirt and tie and razor-creased black trousers, with thinning hair cut short and combed back and a neatly-clipped moustache sitting on his top lip. He reminded Larkin of a retired professionalfootballer, poured into his Sunday best and begging to be a pundit for Sky TV. A slight paunch was beginning to make its presence felt just above his belt. Just like a striker turned commentator, it looked like his glory days were behind him. And he carried the air of never having made it to the Premier League.
Grice was younger, rigged out in a smart three-button charcoal grey suit, black polo shirt, highly polished black boots. Hair cropped close to his skull. He resembled a pampered Rottweiler, or perhaps a failed Darwinian experiment into species regression: intelligent enough not to go looking for trouble, neanderthal enough to be in the thick if something kicked off.
The two policemen stared at Larkin, unsmiling, waiting
Everyone in the office had heard about Houchen, either from the TV or from Larkin. And everybody’s response had been the same; initial disbelief, then excitement that one of their own was actually making the news, then a kind of numbness as they realised that someone they knew – irrespective of whether they liked him or not – had died an horrific death.
After leaving the blaze, Larkin had phoned Bolland, filling him in on what had happened. Once Bolland had recovered from the shock (which hadn’t taken long) he had suggested that Larkin might want to write a first-hand account and sell it to
The Journal
, before their own reporters produced second-hand eyewitness accounts. Larkin had put forward a token argument on ethical grounds but Bolland smoothly countered with, “I’m sure it’s what Ian would have wanted,” finally adding, without a trace of irony, “If the positions had been reversed, it’s what he would have done.”
Larkin had given in and written it. He had treated it as an opportunity to get the events straight in his head, make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Of course, he didn’t tell the whole story: the answerphone messages he kept to himself.
Now Bolland had his staff’s full attention. Joyce’s eyes were red-rimmed and her face puffy from crying; without doubting the sincerity of her grief, Larkin reckoned there was something of the professional wailer about her. He could imagine her crying on cue when coffins appeared and brides floated down aisles; he didn’t know what that said about her life. Carrie Brewer, on the other hand, occasionally darted glances of a sort in Larkin’s direction which made him think she would happily set fire to a building with a friend of hers in it if it meant she ended up with an eyewitness story.
Bolland had finished relating the facts of Houchen’s death; he was now gearing up to deliver a eulogy that would give full rein to his effusive vocabulary. Larkin tuned out, his mind replaying the inevitable visit he had received earlier that morning.
He had just faxed his piece to
The Journal
and crashed out on the bed when the doorbell rang. He ignored it and turned over. It rang again. And again. The insistency gave him a fair idea of who it was. He got up, shrugged himself into his dressing gown and went down to answer it.
As expected, it was the police: two of them. The older one, who looked to be in his early forties, spoke first.
“Mr Larkin?” The man brandished his warrant card. “We’re— ”
“The Sweeney, and you haven’t had any dinner?” Larkin interjected.
The older man’s lips briefly flicked into a pained expression that could have passed for a smile. “Detective Inspector Umpleby. This is Detective Sergeant Grice.” The younger one bobbed his head. “May we come in?” he said, not waiting to be invited.
They all moved into the front room and sat down as Larkin sized his two guests up. Umpleby wore a black and white checked jacket, crisp shirt and tie and razor-creased black trousers, with thinning hair cut short and combed back and a neatly-clipped moustache sitting on his top lip. He reminded Larkin of a retired professionalfootballer, poured into his Sunday best and begging to be a pundit for Sky TV. A slight paunch was beginning to make its presence felt just above his belt. Just like a striker turned commentator, it looked like his glory days were behind him. And he carried the air of never having made it to the Premier League.
Grice was younger, rigged out in a smart three-button charcoal grey suit, black polo shirt, highly polished black boots. Hair cropped close to his skull. He resembled a pampered Rottweiler, or perhaps a failed Darwinian experiment into species regression: intelligent enough not to go looking for trouble, neanderthal enough to be in the thick if something kicked off.
The two policemen stared at Larkin, unsmiling, waiting
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