Read Online Suffer the Children by Adam Creed - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adam Creed
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air.
‘He was a good worker, Colquhoun. Wouldn’t have left the place in a state like this.’ The manager takes hold of a broom.
‘How did he get on with your boys?’ says Staffe.
‘All right, till Ross Denness came.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘A new lad. Knew Karl from the estate he lived on.’
‘And where might I find our friend Denness?’
The manager has begun to sweep up and says, ‘Pound to a penny he’ll be in the Rag.’
‘The Ragamuffin!’
‘You know it?’
‘No. But I know someone who does.’
The landlord of the Ragamuffin points a gnarled, badly re-set finger in the direction of a tall, gangling late-twenties man with lank hair and a sneering smile.
Ross Denness is in the far corner of the pub, leaning against the pool table with a young girl rubbed up against him.
The Ragamuffin would have been a good boozer at some point, until they knocked all the vaults and tap rooms and snugs into one and painted the walls blue and replaced the last beer pump for yet another brand of premium lager. There are more girls than men, drinking alcopops and showing their backsides with impossibly low trousers or obscenely high skirts. The men strut round with their pumped-up chests and shaven heads and there is quite definitely something in the air.
Staffe sips his Diet Coke and watches Denness. The girl shows her face and looks barely sixteen. It’s a thin line, he thinks, that separates Denness from his work colleague, Karl Colquhoun.
He gets the landlord’s attention again and nods to the pool table. ‘Monday afternoon. Was Denness in here?’
‘He’s in most every afternoon.’
‘And Monday?’
‘He was here. Got in about half four, five, I’d say.’
‘For how long?’
The landlord laughs. ‘Till shut. Same ole, unless he pulls.’ He looks across at Denness. ‘Reckon he’ll be havin’ an early one today. He’s a boy!’
‘And what about Rob? Rob Boxall.’
‘Rob’s not been in for ages.’
‘He know Denness?’ asks Staffe.
‘You’d best ask him that.’
‘I’m asking you.’
The landlord shrugs and picks up a glass from the glass-washer tray, starts to wipe it dry.
Across the room, Denness must have said something lewd as the girl puts the bottle of blue fluorescence in her mouth. She pretends to be offended and punches him in the chest. He falls backwards on the table and she moves up against him so his knee is between her thighs. When he comes back upright, he puts a hand up her practically non-existent thin white cotton skirt and she kisses him.
Staffe decides enough is enough and by the time he gets to the table their heads are circling manically. She clocks Staffe while she necks open-eyed with Denness, pushing his hand away from whatever base they call it in these parts.
‘Ross,’ says Staffe, tapping him on the shoulder.
‘What the fuck …?’ Denness looks up, a smear of lipstick all around his stubbled mouth.
‘I’m DI Wagstaffe, just wanted a few words.’
‘If it’s about that kid-fiddler Colquhoun, I say good riddance to bad shit.’
Staffe looks at the girl, says, ‘Shouldn’t you be doing your homework?’
‘I’ve got ID,’ she says, playing with her streaked hair extensions .
‘I’m sure there’s a story behind that, too. I could look into it, if you want.’
Denness is taller than Staffe and a couple of mates have come across, half laughing, half snarling, holding bottles. Staffe’s heart beats fast and his palms begin to sweat. Even after twenty years in the game, there are places where the law doesn’t wash, people it doesn’t know how to touch any more. ‘On your way,’ he says to the girl.
She looks at Denness and he shrugs. As she gathers up her handbag and cigarettes, Denness slaps her bottom. She laughs and runs her tongue around her lips.
‘The fuck do you want?’ says Denness. ‘You done your job in the first place no one would have needed to top that piece a shit.’
‘How do you know Colquhoun did
‘He was a good worker, Colquhoun. Wouldn’t have left the place in a state like this.’ The manager takes hold of a broom.
‘How did he get on with your boys?’ says Staffe.
‘All right, till Ross Denness came.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘A new lad. Knew Karl from the estate he lived on.’
‘And where might I find our friend Denness?’
The manager has begun to sweep up and says, ‘Pound to a penny he’ll be in the Rag.’
‘The Ragamuffin!’
‘You know it?’
‘No. But I know someone who does.’
The landlord of the Ragamuffin points a gnarled, badly re-set finger in the direction of a tall, gangling late-twenties man with lank hair and a sneering smile.
Ross Denness is in the far corner of the pub, leaning against the pool table with a young girl rubbed up against him.
The Ragamuffin would have been a good boozer at some point, until they knocked all the vaults and tap rooms and snugs into one and painted the walls blue and replaced the last beer pump for yet another brand of premium lager. There are more girls than men, drinking alcopops and showing their backsides with impossibly low trousers or obscenely high skirts. The men strut round with their pumped-up chests and shaven heads and there is quite definitely something in the air.
Staffe sips his Diet Coke and watches Denness. The girl shows her face and looks barely sixteen. It’s a thin line, he thinks, that separates Denness from his work colleague, Karl Colquhoun.
He gets the landlord’s attention again and nods to the pool table. ‘Monday afternoon. Was Denness in here?’
‘He’s in most every afternoon.’
‘And Monday?’
‘He was here. Got in about half four, five, I’d say.’
‘For how long?’
The landlord laughs. ‘Till shut. Same ole, unless he pulls.’ He looks across at Denness. ‘Reckon he’ll be havin’ an early one today. He’s a boy!’
‘And what about Rob? Rob Boxall.’
‘Rob’s not been in for ages.’
‘He know Denness?’ asks Staffe.
‘You’d best ask him that.’
‘I’m asking you.’
The landlord shrugs and picks up a glass from the glass-washer tray, starts to wipe it dry.
Across the room, Denness must have said something lewd as the girl puts the bottle of blue fluorescence in her mouth. She pretends to be offended and punches him in the chest. He falls backwards on the table and she moves up against him so his knee is between her thighs. When he comes back upright, he puts a hand up her practically non-existent thin white cotton skirt and she kisses him.
Staffe decides enough is enough and by the time he gets to the table their heads are circling manically. She clocks Staffe while she necks open-eyed with Denness, pushing his hand away from whatever base they call it in these parts.
‘Ross,’ says Staffe, tapping him on the shoulder.
‘What the fuck …?’ Denness looks up, a smear of lipstick all around his stubbled mouth.
‘I’m DI Wagstaffe, just wanted a few words.’
‘If it’s about that kid-fiddler Colquhoun, I say good riddance to bad shit.’
Staffe looks at the girl, says, ‘Shouldn’t you be doing your homework?’
‘I’ve got ID,’ she says, playing with her streaked hair extensions .
‘I’m sure there’s a story behind that, too. I could look into it, if you want.’
Denness is taller than Staffe and a couple of mates have come across, half laughing, half snarling, holding bottles. Staffe’s heart beats fast and his palms begin to sweat. Even after twenty years in the game, there are places where the law doesn’t wash, people it doesn’t know how to touch any more. ‘On your way,’ he says to the girl.
She looks at Denness and he shrugs. As she gathers up her handbag and cigarettes, Denness slaps her bottom. She laughs and runs her tongue around her lips.
‘The fuck do you want?’ says Denness. ‘You done your job in the first place no one would have needed to top that piece a shit.’
‘How do you know Colquhoun did
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