Broken Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page A

this place, Joe?’
    I shrugged. I liked the sparseness of the flat. I wasn’t ready to make it feel like a home. It was still too soon.

 
CHAPTER FOUR
     
     
    I woke up late, nursing a hangover, my front room littered with empty beer bottles and pizza boxes. I sat down on my settee and pushed a hand through my hair. My flat was a mess, but I was pleased Sarah had thought of me. If she hadn’t, I’d have most probably sat in the dark, drinking and brooding. I’d arranged with Don that I would go into the office later on today. The only urgent work for the morning was the delivery of a warrant to a business address and Don was quite capable of dealing with it. I stood up and moved over to the stereo and flicked through my CDs. Finding nothing remotely quiet amongst my ska and punk, I put The Clash’s debut album on. As ‘Janie Jones’ burst through the speakers, I knew it would either kill or cure.
    Moving into my small kitchen, I filled the kettle and popped some bread into the toaster. Settling back in my chair with my breakfast, I started up my laptop. As usual, my first stop was the local sport message boards. I’d started going to games again recently for the first time in years. It felt right again. The gossip and rumour on these sites was always good for passing five minutes. I logged into my emails and settled back to read what Don has sent me about Frank Salford.
    The email was brief, but he’d done his homework. Salford had come to the police’s attention in the early 1980s, when he was landlord of several notorious pubs and clubs around the city. It appeared there had been more than one investigation into Salford’s business affairs, but he’d always managed to avoid prosecution. More recently, Salford had moved away from pubs and clubs and now ran a massage parlour on the edge of the city centre. Don’s email concluded with the warning Salford was a nasty bastard. He wanted to meet me in the office, where he’d give me the detailed version.  I reached across for my mobile and punched in the office number. All I got was the engaged tone. Finishing my coffee, I eased myself up and headed for the shower. The Clash were still hammering their way through those glorious early tunes. I was beginning to perk up.
     
     
    I’d tried the office and Don’s mobile again, but there was still no answer. I’d thought about tackling some domestic jobs; my flat needed a clean and the cupboards were empty. The thought filled me with dread, so I’d found myself looking up the address of The Honeypot , Frank Salford’s massage parlour. Clearly, he wasn’t a subtle man. I had nothing better to do, so ignoring Don’s warning, I found myself walking towards the city centre, trying to use the fresh air and exercise as justification for my actions.
    The massage parlour was every bit as seedy and dirty as I expected it to be. There was nobody working the reception desk, so I casually picked up the brochure which had been placed there. It detailed the parlour’s employees, with photographs and brief summaries of their vital statistics. I heard someone cough. A man sat in the small waiting area. He smiled at me, but I turned away without acknowledging him.
    ‘Alright, love.’
    I nodded to the woman stood behind the reception desk. She was looking me up and down, presumably unsure whether I was a customer or the police. She noticed I had the brochure in my hand and smiled.
    ‘That’s an old brochure now. We’re in the process of having the latest recruits photographed. At the moment we’ve only got two girls on. You can see either Kerry or Anastazja.’ She nodded to the man sat in the waiting room. ‘If you want to see Anastazja, you’ll have to wait. The prices are in the brochure, anything else is negotiable with the girls, okay?’
    ‘I’d like to see Mr Salford, please.’ I wanted to get it over and done with. The place made me feel sick.
    ‘He’s not in, love.’
    ‘Not his Jaguar outside,