Read Online Owning Jacob - SA by Simon Beckett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Simon Beckett
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pneumatic dril s vibrated through Ben's skul as he walked past, each decibel a punishment for the beer, joints and final y vodka he had worked his way through the night before. The street was a run-down line of shuttered shop windows and disappearing smal businesses. He slowed as he reached the number he was looking for. A disreputable-looking second-hand jewel er's was on the ground floor, but the row of buzzers by the doorway at the top of the three cracked steps indicated the presence of other occupants in the building. The sun bore down on the top of Ben's head like a Klieg light, making him squint. He shuddered as a clammy wave of nausea left him prickling with sweat The air was ful of diesel and dust from the roadworks.
He took deep breaths of it anyway and went up the steps.
There was a smal , clear plastic strip containing a name next to each of the buzzers. The one that said 'IQ. Investigations' was right above the jewel er's. Ben hoped that meant it was on the first floor. He didn't think he could make it any higher than that. He pressed the buzzer and waited. There was a crackle of static and then a woman's voice said simply, 'Hel o?'
'I've an appointment with Mr Quil ey.' He waited for a
response. After a second the door hummed as it was unlocked.
Ben pushed it open and went inside.
The hal way was lit with a flickering fluorescent strip light, redundant with the sunshine coming from windows on the stairway and at the far end. It added another notch to his headache as he passed underneath. Little fluff bal s of dust were gathered in the angle of each linoleum-covered stair, and the banister wobbled beneath his hand. The first-floor landing was smal , with only a single door. 'I. Quil ey Investigations' was stencil ed on it in scratched white paint, apparently put there before the introduction of the snappier abbreviation. Ben tapped on the glass and heard a distant 'Come in'.
The office was long, dark and narrow. A girl and a desk were crammed into an alcove to one side, together with a battered computer monitor and a fax machine that looked as though its owners had beaten their money's worth out of it.
The girl glanced up from the computer screen, unsmiling.
'Hi,' Ben said. His head thudded. I'm Ben Murray. I spoke to Mr Quil ey yesterday-' A door that Ben had assumed led into a cupboard opened and a man poked his head around it.
'Come in, Mr Murray.' The head disappeared. The girl went back to her typing.
Ben went through the door into the next room. The man was already sitting behind an old teacher's desk. He was in his fifties.
His hair was brushed straight back, mostly dark but receding in two deep bays above his temples. It had the oily sheen of Brylcreem. He waved Ben to sit down in the chair opposite with a hand that held a half-smoked cigarette and continued to write on a notepad. Ben sat down, glancing around. It was smal er but brighter than where the receptionist sulked, with a large sash window overlooking the street. The window was closed, muting the rattle of the pneumatic dril s from outside but doing little to air the cramped space. The room was sour with stale cigarette smoke. Ben watched a curl of it drifting up
from the stub tucked between the man's brown-stained ringers and felt queasy again.
The detective finished writing with an emphatic ful stop and gave Ben a smile. 'Sorry about that.' He had a southern Irish accent. His teeth were smal and the same yel ow as his fingers. Rising half out of his seat he reached across the desk and offered the hand not gripping the cigarette. He was tal er than Ben would have thought, with a heavy frame folded with office flab. His palm was damp and hot when Ben shook it.
'Don't mind if I smoke, do you?' he asked, waving the cigarette with little inclination of putting it out., , f )„
'No, go ahead.' Quil ey was dragging on the filter before Ben finished speaking, the request clearly a formality. His cheeks hol owed as the tip of ash raced
He took deep breaths of it anyway and went up the steps.
There was a smal , clear plastic strip containing a name next to each of the buzzers. The one that said 'IQ. Investigations' was right above the jewel er's. Ben hoped that meant it was on the first floor. He didn't think he could make it any higher than that. He pressed the buzzer and waited. There was a crackle of static and then a woman's voice said simply, 'Hel o?'
'I've an appointment with Mr Quil ey.' He waited for a
response. After a second the door hummed as it was unlocked.
Ben pushed it open and went inside.
The hal way was lit with a flickering fluorescent strip light, redundant with the sunshine coming from windows on the stairway and at the far end. It added another notch to his headache as he passed underneath. Little fluff bal s of dust were gathered in the angle of each linoleum-covered stair, and the banister wobbled beneath his hand. The first-floor landing was smal , with only a single door. 'I. Quil ey Investigations' was stencil ed on it in scratched white paint, apparently put there before the introduction of the snappier abbreviation. Ben tapped on the glass and heard a distant 'Come in'.
The office was long, dark and narrow. A girl and a desk were crammed into an alcove to one side, together with a battered computer monitor and a fax machine that looked as though its owners had beaten their money's worth out of it.
The girl glanced up from the computer screen, unsmiling.
'Hi,' Ben said. His head thudded. I'm Ben Murray. I spoke to Mr Quil ey yesterday-' A door that Ben had assumed led into a cupboard opened and a man poked his head around it.
'Come in, Mr Murray.' The head disappeared. The girl went back to her typing.
Ben went through the door into the next room. The man was already sitting behind an old teacher's desk. He was in his fifties.
His hair was brushed straight back, mostly dark but receding in two deep bays above his temples. It had the oily sheen of Brylcreem. He waved Ben to sit down in the chair opposite with a hand that held a half-smoked cigarette and continued to write on a notepad. Ben sat down, glancing around. It was smal er but brighter than where the receptionist sulked, with a large sash window overlooking the street. The window was closed, muting the rattle of the pneumatic dril s from outside but doing little to air the cramped space. The room was sour with stale cigarette smoke. Ben watched a curl of it drifting up
from the stub tucked between the man's brown-stained ringers and felt queasy again.
The detective finished writing with an emphatic ful stop and gave Ben a smile. 'Sorry about that.' He had a southern Irish accent. His teeth were smal and the same yel ow as his fingers. Rising half out of his seat he reached across the desk and offered the hand not gripping the cigarette. He was tal er than Ben would have thought, with a heavy frame folded with office flab. His palm was damp and hot when Ben shook it.
'Don't mind if I smoke, do you?' he asked, waving the cigarette with little inclination of putting it out., , f )„
'No, go ahead.' Quil ey was dragging on the filter before Ben finished speaking, the request clearly a formality. His cheeks hol owed as the tip of ash raced
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