Thicker Than Water — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

‘About Kenny’s death, and about Mark’s hobby. She’s the only person I haven’t managed to talk to, and there’s one obvious place where she might have gone.’

‘Which is?’

‘Home. Liverpool. But I’ll come and see Bic as soon as I’m back. Unless you want to get someone else in, which I’ll understand. I swear to God, Jean, I’ll see this through if you still want me to. I just - have to do this other thing first.’

‘We can’t afford to get anyone else,’ Jean said, her tone bleak. ‘Come as soon as you can, Mister Castor.’

She hung up, and I finished packing, wondering how late the last train would go. They’d probably run through the night, I thought. But then I was overcome with weariness: my brain felt like it had been scraped clean with wire wool, and my chest was throbbing again. I had to sit down until the pain and weakness passed.

I woke late in the morning to find Pen putting a cup of coffee on the bedside table - next to a double chocolate muffin with a lit sparkler embedded in it.

‘Welcome home,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ I muttered, sitting up slowly. Christ on a crutch, I thought. Losing half a day wasn’t an auspicious start to the quest.

‘You slept in your clothes,’ Pen observed.

‘Didn’t mean to sleep at all,’ I muttered, taking a scalding sip of coffee.

I told her about Matt, and she filled the pauses with expletives. ‘Murder my arse!’ she said when I’d finished. ‘Your brother would do ten Hail Marys if he farted in a lift!’

‘True,’ I admitted.

‘So what are you going to do about it?’

‘I’m going to find Anita Yeats,’ I said. ‘All I’ve got is random facts that don’t connect. I think she might be the one person who can join the dots for me. Can you lend me some cash, Pen?’

There was a square tin box in the kitchen that had once contained tea, or at least said it had. Now it contained ten-pound notes, stored up by Pen against a rainy day. She assessed the current storm at a hundred quid, counting the notes into my hand one at a time. Then, after a short tussle with her conscience, she forked over the rest. ‘Just bring me back what you don’t spend,’ she said.

She dropped me off at Turnpike Lane station, and from there it was a short hop down the Piccadilly Line to Kings Cross. Trains for Liverpool were three or four to the hour, according to the Virgin Trains website, so there was no need to book.

Can’t help? I thought.

Fucking try me, Matty.

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"In England it’s not biology that’s destiny, it’s geography.