Bye Bye Baby Read Online Free PDF Page A

eighteenth-century taproom and moved instead in the direction of Coleridge House, a grand old Georgian pile tastefully divided into four mansion apartments overlooking the park. He checked his postbox and withdrew a motley assortment of bills, junk mail and a late birthday card from an ageing aunt. He glanced at the name of the owner who had acquired apartment four a few months ago — he had meant to offer a welcome and still had the Harrods Christmas pudding in his apartment. He felt a fresh stab of guilt. He’d better change it to a bottle of bubbly now, and if he didn’t hurry up it would have to be an Easter egg.
    As the lift doors closed he dug into his pocket for his door keys, still thinking about the meeting with his boss. Martin Sharpe had obviously argued long and hard to win Jack the operation. He was determinednot to let his Super and long-time supporter down. The truth was, Sharpe was more than that. Sharpe and his wife, Cathie, had tried their damndest to plug the gap that the death of his parents had left. Sharpe and Jack’s father had been close friends since their early days working in the Diplomatic Protection Group at Westminster, continuing together to Downing Street. After DPG, it was clear Martin was a career officer, destined for Superintendent, probably higher.
    When Mary and Ken Hawksworth had died in the 1985 M6 pile-up, it was Martin Sharpe who had helped to gather up the bits of twenty-two-year-old Jack Hawksworth and reassemble him.
    Amy, three years older than Jack, had been working in Bahrain when the accident happened, and although she was permitted compassionate leave, it wasn’t long enough for the Hawksworth siblings to find comfort. Amy was hugging her brother a teary farewell almost as soon as she’d arrived and so it was Martin and Cathie who had quietly taken him into their lives and, with the gentlest of touches, brought him back from a dark year during which Martin had feared Jack might give up the Force completely.
    Jack entered his apartment, headed straight to his bedroom and changed from his itchy birthday shirt to comfy jeans and sweatshirt before flopping into the leather sofa opposite a TV that he didn’t have the desire to turn on. He needed to eat, he needed to sleep, but for now he couldn’t move. He spent several minutes staring across Waterlow Park and its manicured flowerbeds through the living room’s tall windows. The Flask tempted him again — he could relax over some tapas, perhaps a glass of wine. Thewatering hole that had once been a hiding place for highwayman Dick Turpin was probably just what he needed to lift his spirits and placate his grinding belly. But at this late hour it would be buzzing with arty types and he wasn’t up to the noise and activity. Instead, he opted to try and clear his mind of mutilated corpses with a splendidly crisp riesling from his fridge. He was too tired to think of food but knew he had to eat properly or he’d end up with a paunch like Swamp’s or a complexion like Brodie’s: both the result of long hours, late nights, beer and fast food. He couldn’t blame them, but Jack spent too many precious hours in the Yard’s gym in an effort to keep some semblance of fitness to waste it on a lazy attitude to what passed down his gullet. Health and fitness were important to him, and what he saved on not having to pay for a private gym he invested in decent wine.
    He looked again at the shopping bag containing streaky bacon, tomato, onion and free-range eggs he’d grabbed at Highgate Village and urged himself to get up and make an omelette.
    Before he could move, the landline began jangling next to him. Wearily he reached for it. This had to be personal — no one from work rang him on his home number. ‘Hello?’
    A voice began singing loudly into his ear. ‘Happy birthday, dear Henry, happy birthday to you!’ it hollered, dragging out the final word.
    Only his sister ever called him by his middle name. ‘Thank you,