Bone Machine Read Online Free PDF Page B

Theft Auto
for a moment, please?’
    Jamal looked up, startled to find others in the room with him. He reluctantly closed the game down, stood and switched off
     the room lights at the wall and reconfigured the laptop, plugging it into a projector.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Sharkey, who then stood by the panel of lighted wall. He motioned to Jamal, who hit a key on the laptop.
     An image appeared on the wall of a balding man, suited, talking into a mobile phone. Black and white, face blurry and grainy:
     the image taken from a distance without the subject’s knowledge.
    ‘This is Marco Kovacs,’ said Sharkey. ‘Restaurateur, property developer. Runs an import and export business. Owns a couple
     of cafés, a Lebanese restaurant, Italian as well in town. Both upmarket. Good chefs. Entrepreneur. If there’s money to be
     made, he’s there.’ Another nod, the image changed. It showed the same man shaking hands with a local footballer, giving a
     posed smile for the camera. Sharkey continued: ‘Flamboyant. Wants everyone to know how well he’s doing.’
    ‘Legit?’ asked Peta.
    ‘Gives that impression,’ said Sharkey. ‘Doesn’t directly manage anything, gets up-and-coming locals to do that. Giving something
     back to the community, blah blah. But he’s toyed with the idea of taking over Newcastle United. Or at least talked about taking
     it over. Becoming some kind of Geordie Abramovich, I suppose.’ He gave a grunt of a laugh. ‘Buying off the locals. Anything
     to overcome their inbred fear of outsiders. You know what they’re like up here. Even wary of me.’
    ‘They’re not wary,’ said Donovan. ‘They just don’t like you.’
    Peta and Amar stifled a laugh. Sharkey affected not to notice.
    Sharkey had a confidence that didn’t just border on arrogance but battered it into submission and tap-danced around it. A
     casual observer would never have believed that almost a year previously Sharkey had lost his very well-paid job, been on the
     verge of bankruptcy, injured by gunfire and had even been threatened with the prospect of prison. And had been physically
     attacked by Joe Donovan. Twice. For which Donovan was completely unrepentant. He’d even enjoyed it.
    ‘Right, so I think I’ve heard of him,’ said Donovan. ‘Why should I be interested in him?’
    ‘Because he’s Serbian,’ said Sharkey.
    ‘And he runs Lebanese and Italian restaurants?’ said Amar.
    ‘Both countries with better cuisines than his own,’ replied Sharkey. ‘Not much of a market for beetroot soup.’
    ‘So you want us to send the nasty foreigner back, is that it?’ said Donovan. ‘Is this job on behalf of the
Daily Mail
? Or are you working for the BNP now?’
    Sharkey threw back his head and laughed. Jamal jumped, startled by the suddenness of it.
    ‘That laugh was as false as Victoria Beckham’s breasts,’ said Donovan. ‘When you laugh like that, it usually means you want
     me to do something I don’t want to do.’
    ‘Not at all, Joe,’ said Sharkey, voice all emollient. ‘In fact, you might like this one.’ He looked around the others. ‘All
     of you.’
    Sharkey turned to address them, arms behind his back in his barrister stance. Donovan knew the pose. It meant Sharkey was
     about to impart information that was important.
    ‘Kovacs’ nationality is not the issue here,’ said Sharkey, hisface now serious. ‘It’s his clandestine activities that present us with the problem.’
    ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Donovan. ‘He’s really a gangster.’
    ‘He certainly is.’
    ‘How original.’ Donovan looked at Peta and Amar, shrugged. ‘An East European gangster. Any more cultural stereotypes up your
     sleeve? Lazy Jamaicans? Thick Irishmen? Bomb-toting Muslims?’
    Sharkey sighed. ‘Mr Kovacs, we believe, deals in drugs.’
    ‘Surprise, surprise,’ said Peta.
    ‘And, more important, people,’ said Sharkey. ‘Illegal immigrants. Refugees. Asylum seekers. Call them what you want. Mr Kovacs
     and