Deadly Intent Read Online Free PDF Page B

squat, but that was the only point of comparison. Mrs. Webster's sitting room was cluttered, with an overstuffed sofa and two chairs in front of a fake coal electric fire. There were numerous cabinets with china and ornaments in them and a large television.
Mrs. Webster had white hair, cut in a neat style rather like the Queen's. She was wearing a twinset and pearls, a pleated woolen skirt, and stretch stockings over her puffy ankles; fluffy suede slippers encased her feet. "Do you want tea or coffee?"
"Nothing, thank you."
"Sit down, please."
Both Anna and Gordon sat on the easy chairs. "Mrs. Webster, you made the 999 call—"Anna began, then was interrupted.
"Yes, yes, I called the police."
"Can you tell me exactly what was happening before you put in the call?"
"Well, I've said all this before."
"I know, but 1 just need to go over a few things."
"I was in bed and I woke up. Well, the sounds woke me up."
"The sounds?"
"Yes—raised voices and then a sort of loud bang, bang, bang sound. It was so loud, I was worried Jeremy would be woken up."
"Jeremy?"
"My son. He sleeps in the bedroom at the back of the flat. I'm in the front, but it was so loud."
"Did it wake him?"
"No. Well, not at first it didn't, because there was a sort of lull—you know, nothing happening—but by this time, 1 was up."
"What time was that?"
"It was three-fifteen."
"So then what happened?"
"I checked on Jeremy and, just as I was closing his door, there was another pop, this time not so loud—then it went pop, pop, again. I see enough TV to know what the sound was: gunfire. So I called the police."
"Did you leave the flat at all?"
"No, no, I was too scared."
"Did your son?"
"No, he came in here and sat with me until the police arrived."
"How old is your son?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Just for the record."
"He's thirty-four."
"And he lives here with you?"
"Yes."
"Is he at home now?"
Mrs. Webster looked toward the closed door and back to Anna. "He's in his room, "she said carefully." Is it necessary you talk to him?"
"It is, but let's just continue with you for now. You called the police?"
"I never set foot out of the front door at night; it's too risky. I've complained that the squatters have moved in and it's been going on, over and over again. In fact, when I rang 999,1 didn't think they would take me seriously, because of how many times I've called them. There's needles and filth left on the walkways, and there are still children living here. It's every night, and most of the day now; they come and they go, these junkies. It's worse at night, because of the cars and motorbikes, the lights, shining into my windows, and the noise, shouting and screaming. I know two residents called the police because they found a girl doped up and being sick; another time, a boy was found overdosed. It's like living in a nightmare that never stops."
Anna let the woman talk on until she seemed to deflate, sighing.
"The people using the flat... did you know any names? Can you describe anyone? Maybe someone you have seen on a regular basis?"
"No, they all look alike—hoods up, gray anoraks. They don't look at me; they just ignore the existence of anyone else living here. The council have done nothing to help us get rehoused."
"How many would you say were living in the squat?"
"I couldn't tell you; they came and they went. Sometimes there were girls but, most times, they were just lads. Late at night the cars would pull up. I think these were bringing the drugs because then it would start, the noise, the banging, the bikes and cars, coming to get whatever they needed."
"Last night—the night of the shooting—did you notice anything different?"
"No. Like I said, at seven, I shut my front door and I bolt it and I don't go out. I turn the TV up loud and that's it."
"What about your son?"
"He never goes out much."
"I'm sorry—your son doesn't go out?"
"Not a lot, unless they come for him."
"Who comes, Mrs. Webster?"
"The social services. They come and take him for his