Alex Gray - The Riverman

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «Alex Gray - The Riverman» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию без сокращений). В некоторых случаях можно слушать аудио, скачать через торрент в формате fb2 и присутствует краткое содержание. Год выпуска: 0101, Жанр: Триллер, на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале библиотеки ЛибКат.

The Riverman: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «The Riverman»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

The Riverman — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «The Riverman», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.

Тёмная тема
Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

It was a good feeling to be out of the city and heading west once more. All his stuff was loaded behind him, making him feel like one of the early settlers in their covered wagons. JJ grinned at the image. Even if they were to be held up by savages of any description he’d be ready, his arsenal of weapons safely stowed, some close at hand. He chewed the wad of gum in his mouth, savouring its minty flavour, then turned and smiled at the man sitting in the passenger seat.

‘Okay, pardner?’ he joked, his voice a deliberate parody of TV cowboys.

The man beside him nodded silently then looked away, regarding the passing countryside with scant interest. It was going to be a long trip and JJ could keep company with the country radio station if he wanted to. This man had other things on his mind, thoughts that would keep him occupied for many a weary mile.

CHAPTER 25

‘We need to talk,’ Jennifer whispered into the mouthpiece as though there might be somebody in the room who could overhear her conversation. ‘Soon,’ she continued, then paused to listen to the voice at the other end. ‘Why here?’ Her tone was petulant. ‘But — oh, all right, then. Tonight?’

She listened some more then replaced the handset by her bed, slouching back against the plump, frilled pillowcases with a sigh. Truth to tell, she’d rather be on that flight to Cyprus and anticipating a week of sunshine and beachside cocktails, but it just wouldn’t do. There were some things she owed Michael Turner.

The woman sat up slowly, removed her green jacket and threw it onto the chair beside her bed. It was a novelty to have a day at home all to herself and Jennifer was suddenly at a loss as to quite how she would spend it. That DCI had only taken half an hour at the most and her phone call had only lasted a matter of minutes, so Jennifer had the prospect of filling the entire day any way she wished. She rolled lazily onto her side and reached for the remote control, pressing buttons as she fixed her attention on the TV screen. A bit of breakfast television would pass the time while she decided just what she most wanted to do. There was no point in contacting any of Michael’s friends until later this evening, probably just after six o’clock when they were most likely to be at home.

Jennifer Hammond smiled to herself. This time tomorrow she’d have it all sussed out. Then she could take off for Cyprus and stay there for as long as she wanted.

Malcolm Adams put down the telephone, his hand trembling. He’d had nothing to eat since yesterday and hunger was making him nauseous. But it wasn’t just hunger. The dull ache in his belly was a constant reminder of that insidious shadow he’d seen on the X-rays. Six months, the specialist had told him. Six months during which he would become weaker and weaker until the cancer eventually overtook his entire abdomen. It was quite inoperable, being so advanced. ‘Take a long holiday while you can still enjoy it,’ the oncologist had advised him. ‘Let the office go. They’ll understand.’

Malcolm had not relished the prospect of telling anybody, especially his colleagues. Things were fraught enough. If he could hold out a bit longer, have his affairs transferred as he’d planned, then at least Lesley and the kids would be all right. His wife had been so anxious, making him tasty little meals to tempt his appetite, urging him to go back and see their GP. But Malcolm had brushed off her attentions, saying that the ulcer wasn’t responding quickly enough to the medication Dr Downie had given him. Lesley had looked at him questioningly but had taken his word for it. She believed him so implicitly, Malcolm thought, her wifely innocence so at odds with his own sordid secrets.

He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands with a groan then sat up suddenly, the pain shooting through him as his stomach felt the sudden pressure. There was hardly any way he could be comfortable these days. He’d taken to going for gentle strolls along the banks of the river during his lunch hour. Watching the traffic crisscross the bridges or feeding his sandwiches to the numerous water fowl that populated the river gave Malcolm a strange sort of respite from the rest of his day. It was an interlude that he found especially soothing; sometimes ducks bobbed their way to the edge of the river bank below his gaze, caring only for what they could gobble up. To them he was a source of food, that was all, not a man under the torture of a life sentence. Their small acts of selfishness offered Malcolm another perspective of himself. They didn’t give a damn about his cancer, and their indifference seemed to rub off on him. There were days when he could have stayed looking down into the river all afternoon but of course he was always back at his desk, fearful of drawing unwanted attention to himself.

Sitting down and walking slowly eased the constant torment and the sedatives helped at night. Lesley had begun to bring him a hot water bottle now, sensing his increased discomfort. Did she guess? Or was she practising the sort of denial which those close to a cancer sufferer indulged in? He wasn’t being particularly brave by keeping this a secret, Malcolm admitted. It was more that he was terribly afraid of what consequences might follow if he were to reveal the truth of his illness.

He looked out of the window of his third-storey office, distracted by the man whistling outside. For a moment he watched as the window cleaner rubbed the long glass panes with a cloth then swiped them clean with his scraper. The man’s denims were frayed at the knee and his plaid bodywarmer had seen better days but he stood there on the trolley, whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Malcolm Adams knew a sudden pang of envy. This bloke probably took home a meagre pay packet each week and spent it on booze, fags and the occasional cheap holiday to Spain. He’d never have sampled the kind of fine wines that Malcolm had amassed over the years, or visited such exotic locations. His kids wouldn’t be at private schools. His wife wouldn’t be able to afford the latest in designer fashions. Yet, as he listened to the whistling, Malcolm knew he would give anything to exchange his own life for that of the man outside his window.

‘Malcolm? Are you busy right now?’ Catherine Devoy was in the doorway, her face tilted anxiously in his direction.

He shook his head and she came into the room, closed the door carefully then sat down, smoothing her skirt over neatly crossed legs.

‘Malcolm,’ Catherine looked intently into the eyes of the man behind the desk. ‘I think it’s time we had a talk, don’t you?’

‘I don’t believe her,’ Lorimer told his detective sergeant. ‘I’m certain she knows whose voice is on that tape.’

Alistair Wilson raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Lorimer’s intuitions were usually spot-on in his experience. It was as if the man were possessed of an invisible antenna that caught all sorts of nuances that were lost to other mere mortals. Maybe it was his background in the study of art, the cultivation of a kind of perception that senses more than is simply visible to the eye.

‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘I’d go so far as to say she’s covering up for one of the staff at Forbes Macgregor.’

‘Any point in making tapes of them all?’ Wilson asked.

Lorimer made a face. ‘Our voice expert reckons the hysteria would have altered the woman’s voice considerably. You know what it’s like when we’re interviewing someone under stress and their tone of voice goes right up the scale? Well, our guy tells me the same sort of thing was happening here. The caller was genuinely frightened, probably in a state of shock, when she spoke into that telephone.’

‘Distorted her usual voice, then?’

Читать дальше
Тёмная тема
Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Похожие книги на «The Riverman»

Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «The Riverman» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё непрочитанные произведения.


Отзывы о книге «The Riverman»

Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «The Riverman» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.

x