Read Online The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2) by Valerie Laws - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Valerie Laws
Ads: Link
reminiscent of prohibition era
America with its speakeasies, bathtub gin and tommy guns than the pathetic
reality of damp bus shelters or, as here, hollowed out hawthorn thickets
forming scant shelter over a fence to perch their bony bums on.
There’d been a campaign backed by the local press
including Dunne’s papers which tried to keep in with the mayor and council, to
stop outdoor drinking, and byelaws had been hastily passed. The police could
show they were doing something about youth crime by stopping party-going
youngsters and confiscating their bottles of Irish cider or cheap wine, pouring
the contents sadistically on the ground heedless of the effort entailed in
obtaining them – the careful coaching of older relatives, the threatening of
older-looking friends, the labour of constructing fake ID with attention to
detail of which their teachers would not believe them capable. Middle class
youngsters could spice up their evenings, as not only were they now hunted and
possibly beaten up by ‘charvas’, their natural enemies, but they had the added
thrill of smuggling nicked bottles of chardonnay from their parents’ stash,
hiding them in shrubbery and over random garden walls at the first sign or
siren from the boys and girls in blue of a Friday night.
Meanwhile, normally law-abiding adults found they
were now unable to have a glass of wine at a beach picnic or technically, even
carry a bottle of immaculate vintage on public transport to a dinner party,
without risking criminalisation. Erica pondered this, moving the detritus about
with her toe. Sad, the driving underground of alcohol, a proud part of her
Anglo-Saxon culture. After all, she could and did assert as a scientist, booze
was totally devoid of calories, enabling her to get ratted while clubbing
without the usual agonies of guilt caused by ingesting anything more calorific
than celery. She looked up towards the house again, and tried jumping up to see
over the fence, though the light was fading fast.
‘Hey! What are you up to?’
A man, late middle aged, wearing light slacks,
what looked like a cream polo shirt and a powder blue golf sweater was standing
in the open back doorway of the next house, illuminated by his kitchen light.
He had quite thin legs, but his broad shoulders testified to years of
perfecting his swing.
‘I saw you from the upstairs window,’ he said
triumphantly, as if this had required hours of surveillance and cunning. ‘What
do you think you’re doing?’
‘I was just looking,’ she began, when he jumped
in.
‘Well clear off! It’s bad enough around here with
all the local riffraff hanging about at all hours, damned hoodies, say anything
to them and all you get’s a mouthful of abuse, the police can’t seem to do
anything, and now we’ve got passers-by rubbernecking! The street’s a byword, well
at least the police can be bothered to turn out for a murder, but the area’s
going downhill fast, young lady.’
‘It was erm, me, who found Kingston,’ she said,
feeling that the more correct ‘it was I’ sounded too pompous. ‘I’m a reporter
for the Evening Guardian .’
‘Fearful rag!’ he spluttered. ‘Had the damn nerve
to call me an ‘elderly neighbour!’ Common little chap they sent too. You can
tell them from me I want a printed apology.’
‘Ah that sounds like Gary Thomas. I’ll mention it
to the editor.’
‘You don’t look like a reporter. You look like a
jogger. No sign of a notebook, or anything.’
‘I am a jogger. Multitasking you know. Just
thought I’d check the place out while I do my run, come back tomorrow looking
more like a reporter. Though I tend to use a digital voice recorder, or this.’
She produced her phone. ‘I can record on here. Make sure I get exact quotes and
don’t make any mistakes. And if you still have doubts, you can look in the Daily
Courier today, or on the website, you’ll see my picture.’ Next to Gary’s
byline. ‘Or the Guardian website. Health
America with its speakeasies, bathtub gin and tommy guns than the pathetic
reality of damp bus shelters or, as here, hollowed out hawthorn thickets
forming scant shelter over a fence to perch their bony bums on.
There’d been a campaign backed by the local press
including Dunne’s papers which tried to keep in with the mayor and council, to
stop outdoor drinking, and byelaws had been hastily passed. The police could
show they were doing something about youth crime by stopping party-going
youngsters and confiscating their bottles of Irish cider or cheap wine, pouring
the contents sadistically on the ground heedless of the effort entailed in
obtaining them – the careful coaching of older relatives, the threatening of
older-looking friends, the labour of constructing fake ID with attention to
detail of which their teachers would not believe them capable. Middle class
youngsters could spice up their evenings, as not only were they now hunted and
possibly beaten up by ‘charvas’, their natural enemies, but they had the added
thrill of smuggling nicked bottles of chardonnay from their parents’ stash,
hiding them in shrubbery and over random garden walls at the first sign or
siren from the boys and girls in blue of a Friday night.
Meanwhile, normally law-abiding adults found they
were now unable to have a glass of wine at a beach picnic or technically, even
carry a bottle of immaculate vintage on public transport to a dinner party,
without risking criminalisation. Erica pondered this, moving the detritus about
with her toe. Sad, the driving underground of alcohol, a proud part of her
Anglo-Saxon culture. After all, she could and did assert as a scientist, booze
was totally devoid of calories, enabling her to get ratted while clubbing
without the usual agonies of guilt caused by ingesting anything more calorific
than celery. She looked up towards the house again, and tried jumping up to see
over the fence, though the light was fading fast.
‘Hey! What are you up to?’
A man, late middle aged, wearing light slacks,
what looked like a cream polo shirt and a powder blue golf sweater was standing
in the open back doorway of the next house, illuminated by his kitchen light.
He had quite thin legs, but his broad shoulders testified to years of
perfecting his swing.
‘I saw you from the upstairs window,’ he said
triumphantly, as if this had required hours of surveillance and cunning. ‘What
do you think you’re doing?’
‘I was just looking,’ she began, when he jumped
in.
‘Well clear off! It’s bad enough around here with
all the local riffraff hanging about at all hours, damned hoodies, say anything
to them and all you get’s a mouthful of abuse, the police can’t seem to do
anything, and now we’ve got passers-by rubbernecking! The street’s a byword, well
at least the police can be bothered to turn out for a murder, but the area’s
going downhill fast, young lady.’
‘It was erm, me, who found Kingston,’ she said,
feeling that the more correct ‘it was I’ sounded too pompous. ‘I’m a reporter
for the Evening Guardian .’
‘Fearful rag!’ he spluttered. ‘Had the damn nerve
to call me an ‘elderly neighbour!’ Common little chap they sent too. You can
tell them from me I want a printed apology.’
‘Ah that sounds like Gary Thomas. I’ll mention it
to the editor.’
‘You don’t look like a reporter. You look like a
jogger. No sign of a notebook, or anything.’
‘I am a jogger. Multitasking you know. Just
thought I’d check the place out while I do my run, come back tomorrow looking
more like a reporter. Though I tend to use a digital voice recorder, or this.’
She produced her phone. ‘I can record on here. Make sure I get exact quotes and
don’t make any mistakes. And if you still have doubts, you can look in the Daily
Courier today, or on the website, you’ll see my picture.’ Next to Gary’s
byline. ‘Or the Guardian website. Health
Similar Books
