Broken Dolls Read Online Free PDF

like he expected an answer, like he expected some momentous insight that was going to crack the case wide open. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the answer he was looking for. Not yet.
    It was almost four. Forty-eight hours earlier I’d been in Maine, dressed in Kevlar, watching a SWAT team descend on a snow-covered barn where a child-killer was hiding out. The killer ended up dead, shot by a marksman, which was a result. One less child-killer in the world is always going to qualify as a result.
    I had already closed the book on that case. The bad guy was dead, time to move on. For me, the only thing that matters is the case I’m working on. Everything else is history, and I have no time for history. Rehashing past successes never saved anyone’s life, and reliving the failures rarely achieved anything constructive. I’d got out of Maine before the backslapping started, caught the first flight from Logan International to Heathrow, and hadn’t looked back. Three thousand miles and five time zones later and nothing much had changed. Not really. It was still snowing, and I had another monster to hunt down.
    ‘How about we head over to the Fighting Cocks for a drink?’ I said.

6
    There was no argument from Hatcher on that score, not that I expected one. Another thing I remembered from his visit to Quantico was that he was always first to the bar. We made our way up the same narrow path that Patricia Maynard had stumbled down on Monday night. Halfway along, we crossed a small swollen river and the rush of water filled my ears.
    The path opened out onto Abbey Mill Lane, a narrow road that had been built for horses and carts. From studying the maps, I knew Abbey Mill Lane was the only road in or out of this part of the city. Off to my left was Abbey Mill End, which finished in a dead end. I took a quick look around and tried to imagine things from the unsub’s perspective. The fact it was so quiet was a plus, but the fact that parking was limited was a big negative.
    On the other side of the lane was the Fighting Cocks. The place was old. Really old. It looked like something dreamed up by a Hollywood set designer, all strange angles and shapes, and black Tudor beams. We headed inside, past the framed news articles proclaiming it to be the oldest pub in Britain, and made our way through the maze of rooms to the main bar.
    An old couple sitting at the table nearest the fire were the only customers. The miniature artificial Christmas tree on the bar had silver branches and a couple of pathetic red baubles and a crooked star on top. Christmas cards hung from a piece of string behind the bar. That was as far as the decorating went, and it was depressing rather than merry. Christmas as something to be forgotten rather than celebrated.
    The guy behind the bar was skinny and bald with a large, easy smile. His hands were placed proprietorially on the surface of the bar and, from the way he stood there like he owned the place, it was a safe bet he did. His clothes were designer and there was a Rolex Submariner on his wrist. Hatcher ordered a pint of London Pride and I ordered a whisky. The drinks arrived and I drained mine to the halfway point, letting the alcohol burn away some of the snow that had seeped into my bones.
    I put the glass on the bar. ‘You’re Joe Slattery, right? The guy who owns this place.’
    ‘Depends who’s asking. If you’re after money, or you’ve been sent by my ex-wife, then I’ve never heard of Joe Slattery.’ The accent was Irish, the laugh infectious.
    ‘You called the police on Monday night.’
    Slattery met my eye and his face turned serious. ‘Are you journalists? If you are then I’ll ask you politely to drink up and leave. I’ve had enough of journalists.’
    Hatcher stepped in and flashed his ID. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Mark Hatcher and this is my colleague Jefferson Winter.’
    ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Slattery’s smile returned so suddenly it was like it had never been away.