Read Online The Price of Butcher's Meat by Reginald Hill - Free Book Online

dancing and incest,” I said. “As for your reasons for being here, I’m not interested. Unless they’re criminal, which wouldn’t surprise me.”
    â€œOh dear. Still the old mistrust.”
    â€œNay, just the old realism,” I said.
    Then I went on ’cos I’d never said it direct and it needed saying,“Listen, lad, I’ll be forever grateful for what you did for little Rosie Pascoe. Thought you should know that. Won’t make me turn a blind eye to serious crime, mind, but anytime you feel like parking your chair on a double yellow line in Mid-Yorks, be my guest.”
    His eyes filled. Don’t know how he does that trick, but the bugger’s got it off pat.
    â€œI think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Mr. Dalziel. And how is the girl? Must be growing up now. And dear Mr. Pascoe and his lovely wife, how are they?”
    â€œAll well. He were a bit upset losing contact with you. What happened there?”
    He sipped his drink. I had to look away. If the buggers can ban smoking, I reckon at least they should put up screens for folk wanting to drink stuff that color.
    Then he said, “I was deeply touched by Mr. Pascoe’s concern for me. He’s a man I admire greatly. I would love to be able to think of him as my friend. Perhaps it was because of this that, as I gradually improved, I began to worry in case the gratitude he felt should become a burden. It’s all too easy for gratitude to turn into resentment, isn’t it? Mr. Pascoe is a man of intense feeling. Sometimes perhaps overintense. It was a hard decision, but I felt it might be best if I cooled things between us, so when I concluded that medical wisdom as it stood in the UK had done everything possible for me and decided to head abroad in search of other treatments, it seemed a good opportunity. I’m sorry if that sounds too altruistic for your view of me, Mr. Dalziel, but it’s the truth.”
    I found I believed him.
    I said, “I reckon you got things right for once.”
    The bar door opened and a young woman came in, laden with carrier bags. She were tall and skinny as a bowstring. Slim, they likely call it in the women’s mags, or slender or willowy, some such bollocks, but it’s all skinny to me. I like a lass with a bit of something to get a hold of. Mind you, beggars can’t always be choosers and I’ve known a lot of bowstrings that had plenty of twang in them, but on the whole I’ve alwayssteered clear of the lean and hungry ones. Not that this lass weren’t bad looking in a hollow-cheek modelly sort of way, with wavy brown hair, a good full mouth, a determined little chin, and soft blue eyes that fastened on Roote.
    She said, “Franny, hi.”
    â€œClara,” said Roote. “Hi! Come and meet my old friend, Andrew Dalziel. Mr. Dalziel, this is Clara Brereton.”
    She came toward us. She were a lovely mover even with the bags. Fair do’s, probably being skinny helps here, though my Cap doesn’t get many complaints on the dance floor.
    She said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dalziel,” like she knew how to spell it. And she was another who didn’t blink when she spotted how I were dressed.
    I said, “Likewise, lass.”
    â€œWhy don’t you join us?” said Roote, giving her the full smarmy-charmy treatment.
    She sat down, saying, “Just till Auntie comes. Teddy’s taking us to lunch at Moby’s. He’s supposed to be meeting us here.”
    She looked relieved to set the bags down.
    I said, “They don’t deliver round here then?” just to make conversation.
    Roote chipped in, “Indeed they do, but there’s a small charge, and why pay that when you’ve got your own personal service?”
    They smiled at each other. Something going on here? I wondered. With Roote, owt’s possible. A gent would likely have made an excuse and left them to get on