Abattoir Blues Read Online Free PDF

doing his job,’ said Wilson. ‘And as a warning, of course.’
    ‘A warning to who?’
    ‘Other moles.’
     
    Terry Gilchrist lived in an old farm labourer’s cottage about a hundred yards west of the village of Drewick, from which he was separated by a patchwork field of allotments dotted with greenhouses and potting sheds. Gilchrist had his own garden, which Winsome could see through the window was well tended, even though everything was drooping under the weight of the rain, or bent by the wind. Beyond the allotments, apart from the square-towered Norman church and a couple of limestone and millstone manor houses, Drewick was almost entirely a post-war village with a few shops, a community hall and a pub, about halfway between Northallerton and Thirsk. Most of the houses were red brick, with red pantile roofs, and consisted mostly of bungalows and semis, with a few short terraces running off at right angles from the high street. The house was only a mile or so from the hangar, and she had thought it best to take him back home for a quick chat rather than stand out in the wind and rain. She had detailed the patrol car officers to guard the scene until Gerry and Jasminder arrived.
    Gilchrist took her coat and offered her a cup of tea, which Winsome gratefully accepted. She could see him grimace with pain as he stood, and she offered to help. ‘Can I do it?’
    ‘No. I’m used to it, thank you. Back in a jiffy.’
    Winsome took out her notebook and prepared some questions while he was away. He soon came back with the teapot and mugs, and as he poured Winsome studied him more closely. She realised that he was much younger than his injury made him seem. War had aged him. The Blair Folly started in 2003 with the invasion of Iraq, and the Afghanistan fiasco had been going on even longer. If Gilchrist had been a young lad when he started out in, say, 2000, he could easily be somewhere between thirty and forty now. It was impossible to tell. He had a fine head of fair hair, a strong jaw and clear blue eyes. He was even taller than Winsome, and he had a soldier’s bearing, but he also had a slight stoop, and the limp, of course. Though he seemed a little shy, there was something solid and dependable about his presence and Winsome felt safe in his company. Not that she normally felt unsafe, but it was a definite feeling, and one she wasn’t used to. She found herself wondering whether the wound embarrassed him, if that was what made him appear awkward and shy. After a sip of Earl Grey, she got down to business. ‘Have you ever noticed anything odd about the hangar before?
    Gilchrist patted his dog. ‘I didn’t even notice anything this time. Peaches was off the leash and wouldn’t come back. That seemed unusual, so I went to get her.’
    ‘That’s never happened before?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘How long have you lived here?’
    Gilchrist gazed around the room. ‘I grew up here. This house belonged to my parents. They died while I was overseas. Car crash. Ironic, isn’t it? There am I dodging bullets and they get killed by a drunk driver who walks away without a scratch.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I’m an only child. The mortgage was paid off. I inherited.’
    There seemed both anger and resignation in Gilchrist’s sense of irony. Winsome had known one or two soldiers whose experience of combat had isolated them from their fellow man, but Gilchrist didn’t seem like that – just wounded and angry. She picked up the threads of the conversation. ‘How long have you been back from . . .’
    ‘Afghanistan. Helmand Province. It’s OK to say it. Little over a year.’
    ‘How often do you take Peaches walking there, by the airfield?’
    ‘Every now and then, maybe once a week or so.’
    ‘You knew about the hole in the wire, then?’
    ‘Yes. I think it’s always been there. I used to play there myself, and I’ve seen the local kids crawling in and out. But kids can usually find a way to get in anywhere, can’t