Read Online The Road to Hell by Gillian Galbraith - Free Book Online
Authors: Gillian Galbraith
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slowly towards it and sat down on its smooth surface. After a period of immobility with his head between his knees,
the pain in his chest disappeared and he decided that it must have been heartburn. This time. He stood up, relieved that he had done no permanent damage. He had quickly reached the decision that a
new suit would be in order, with him alive inside it. No point in being a slim corpse. Thinking about things realistically, no one’s figure remained unchanged throughout their late teenage
years, or even their early twenties or thirties. If for any reason he could not find a suit he liked in M&S then he would simply wear his kilt to the wedding instead. After all, he was not at
the last hole of the straps yet and a judiciously-placed sporran would camouflage any slight pot-belly.
A movement, seen from the corner of his eye, caught his attention. A stoat in its white winter clothing was standing on its hind legs and, intrigued by the sight, he lumbered slowly in its
direction, his wet trainers squelching with each step. Instantly, the creature darted off into the nearby thicket, but he continued towards the spot it had occupied, keen to get one more look at
it. He peered into the thicket and saw, sticking out of the bushes, a pale, outstretched human hand. He blinked in disbelief. Disgusted, his first instinct was to move away from it, to back away
from it and forget all about it, but he was, he reminded himself, a responsible adult. A fully qualified actuary, no less. Heavens, if he shirked his civic duty, what hope was there for the
rest of society?
So, against all his instincts, he crept towards the hand, keeping his eyes on it in case it moved or twitched. Bending to look more closely, he allowed his gaze to travel upwards. A discoloured
arm was attached to the hand, and beyond that he could make out the profile of a yellowish face. The edge of its mouth appeared to have been nibbled away by some beast, exposing all of the back
teeth in the upper and lower jaws and a vast expanse of pale pink gum. The missing area of flesh curved upwards like a crescent moon or a clown’s exaggerated smile.
Without his mobile, Simon McVicar did not know what to do. So he did the first thing that came into his head and released a piercing scream. When nobody responded to it, he let out another one,
higher this time, and saw, to his relief, the portly jogger running towards him.
‘Nobody told me that yesterday,’ Alice said, in between gasps for breath. While Simon McVicar was standing motionless by the dead woman, screaming for help, she had
been tearing up the stairs of St Leonard’s Police Station, taking them two by two in her haste. Arriving sweaty and twenty minutes late, she was informed by an unconcerned DI Manson that she
was supposed to be at Gayfield Square, helping out the short-staffed SART boys again.
‘Nobody said!’ she exclaimed.
‘Well,’ he replied nonchalantly, ‘they should have.’ His feet were resting on his desk.
‘But “they” whoever “they” are, didn’t and as a result I nearly killed myself trying to get here on time . . . and I live just round the corner from Gayfield
Square,’ she persisted, suspecting that he was the mysterious ‘they’.
‘Are “they” responsible for your lateness, then, Sergeant?’ he replied, deliberately baiting her and watching her already high colour rise with indignation.
‘No,’ she conceded, ‘but I would have been on time at Gayfield Square.’
‘But you didn’t know you were to go to Gayfield Square, did you?’ he said, twisting her tail for the pleasure of it, then turning a page of his newspaper and dropping it onto
his desk with a smile as broad as the Cheshire cat.
‘No – but if my car . . .’
She did not have time to finish her sentence as DCI Bell marched into their room. Immediately DI Manson removed his feet from the desk and caught the little woman’s eye, keen to get her
attention and prevent it from
the pain in his chest disappeared and he decided that it must have been heartburn. This time. He stood up, relieved that he had done no permanent damage. He had quickly reached the decision that a
new suit would be in order, with him alive inside it. No point in being a slim corpse. Thinking about things realistically, no one’s figure remained unchanged throughout their late teenage
years, or even their early twenties or thirties. If for any reason he could not find a suit he liked in M&S then he would simply wear his kilt to the wedding instead. After all, he was not at
the last hole of the straps yet and a judiciously-placed sporran would camouflage any slight pot-belly.
A movement, seen from the corner of his eye, caught his attention. A stoat in its white winter clothing was standing on its hind legs and, intrigued by the sight, he lumbered slowly in its
direction, his wet trainers squelching with each step. Instantly, the creature darted off into the nearby thicket, but he continued towards the spot it had occupied, keen to get one more look at
it. He peered into the thicket and saw, sticking out of the bushes, a pale, outstretched human hand. He blinked in disbelief. Disgusted, his first instinct was to move away from it, to back away
from it and forget all about it, but he was, he reminded himself, a responsible adult. A fully qualified actuary, no less. Heavens, if he shirked his civic duty, what hope was there for the
rest of society?
So, against all his instincts, he crept towards the hand, keeping his eyes on it in case it moved or twitched. Bending to look more closely, he allowed his gaze to travel upwards. A discoloured
arm was attached to the hand, and beyond that he could make out the profile of a yellowish face. The edge of its mouth appeared to have been nibbled away by some beast, exposing all of the back
teeth in the upper and lower jaws and a vast expanse of pale pink gum. The missing area of flesh curved upwards like a crescent moon or a clown’s exaggerated smile.
Without his mobile, Simon McVicar did not know what to do. So he did the first thing that came into his head and released a piercing scream. When nobody responded to it, he let out another one,
higher this time, and saw, to his relief, the portly jogger running towards him.
‘Nobody told me that yesterday,’ Alice said, in between gasps for breath. While Simon McVicar was standing motionless by the dead woman, screaming for help, she had
been tearing up the stairs of St Leonard’s Police Station, taking them two by two in her haste. Arriving sweaty and twenty minutes late, she was informed by an unconcerned DI Manson that she
was supposed to be at Gayfield Square, helping out the short-staffed SART boys again.
‘Nobody said!’ she exclaimed.
‘Well,’ he replied nonchalantly, ‘they should have.’ His feet were resting on his desk.
‘But “they” whoever “they” are, didn’t and as a result I nearly killed myself trying to get here on time . . . and I live just round the corner from Gayfield
Square,’ she persisted, suspecting that he was the mysterious ‘they’.
‘Are “they” responsible for your lateness, then, Sergeant?’ he replied, deliberately baiting her and watching her already high colour rise with indignation.
‘No,’ she conceded, ‘but I would have been on time at Gayfield Square.’
‘But you didn’t know you were to go to Gayfield Square, did you?’ he said, twisting her tail for the pleasure of it, then turning a page of his newspaper and dropping it onto
his desk with a smile as broad as the Cheshire cat.
‘No – but if my car . . .’
She did not have time to finish her sentence as DCI Bell marched into their room. Immediately DI Manson removed his feet from the desk and caught the little woman’s eye, keen to get her
attention and prevent it from
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