Bleak Spring Read Online Free PDF

than just slaps on the wrist.
    â€œIf I believe a client is innocent, I’ll always try to get him off.”
    â€œDid Will have any other clients like Kelpie? Innocent but violent?”
    Angela smiled: she didn’t think much of men’s wit; or anyway, policemen’s. “I wouldn’t know, Inspector. Will hadn’t passed a client on to me for, oh, twelve months or more.”
    Malone turned back to Olive. She had been watching this exchange with wary, almost resentful eyes, as if she felt excluded from what was her own tragedy. “Olive, Will made a mention last night of what he knew about the racing game. Did he have any clients from the game, jockeys, trainers, bookmakers—people like that?”
    â€œI told you he never mentioned his clients to me.” Her voice had a certain sharpness.
    â€œNo, but you did say last night—as I remember it, Will said, if I knew, meaning me, what he knew about the racing game, and you said, Tell them, darling, or something like that . . .”
    â€œYou have a good memory.”
    He hadn’t expected to be complimented, not at a time like this. “You learn to have one, as a cop. You sounded last night as if you knew something about racing that Will had told you.”
    She shook her head; last night the frilly curls would have bounced, but this morning not a hair moved. “It was nothing, I was just taking the mickey out of him. You know what Will was like, he knew everything about everything.” She said it without malice, but it wasn’t something he expected from a grieving widow.
    â€œDad had one client, a bookmaker.” Jason stood in the doorway, all arms and legs and lugubrious expression. But his voice was steady, if the rest of him wasn’t.
    Malone, seated in a low chair, had to turn and look up at him. From that angle the boy looked even taller than he was: Malone had the incongruous image of a basketballer who didn’t know where the basket was. “Did your dad talk about the client with you?”
    â€œNo. But I was with Dad one day, about, I dunno, about a month ago, he was taking me to basketball practice—” So the image wasn’t so far off, after all. “We called in at this bookie’s house and when he came out, he was there only about ten minutes, he was ropeable, really angry. He didn’t tell me what it was all about, all he said was never trust a bookie.”
    â€œYou know who the man was?”
    â€œSure. It was Bernie Bezrow, he lives up in that weirdo house in Georgia Street. Syphilis Hall.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat’s what we call it, the guys, I mean. Tiflis Hall.”
    Angela Bodalle said, “I don’t think you should get involved in this, Jason.”
    â€œIs that legal advice or friendly advice?” said the boy.
    â€œThat’s enough!” For a moment Malone thought Olive was going to jump up and slap her son’s face; but she would have had to jump a fair height. “Don’t talk to Angela like that! She’s only trying to help.”
    The boy didn’t apologize, only looked sullenly at Angela; then abruptly he was gone from the doorway, folding himself out of sight. Olive put out a hand and took Angela’s. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œIt’s all right, darling.” Angela squeezed the hand in hers, then gave it back to Olive as if it were something that embarrassed her, like a gift of money. “Inspector, let’s cut this short for this morning. Give Olive time to get over what happened last night, then perhaps she’ll be able to give you more help.”
    Malone stood up. “Righto, we’ll give it a rest for today. But there will have to be more questions, Olive. In the meantime I’d like to go down and have a look through Will’s office. Did he have any staff?”
    â€œJust a secretary. She called me this morning, she’s terribly upset. Her name’s Jill