Deadly Virtues Read Online Free PDF Page A

responsible people could imagine themselves and their families falling victim to. For the most part they saw drugs as something other people’s families got involved in; unless of course they knew better, when their focus shifted to hoping the police wouldn’t find out. In short, if Chief Superintendent Fountain had to have a blot on his copybook, drugs was the best page to have it. The great and good of Norbold avoided referring to it because they knew how, to a man conspicuously successful in every other aspect of his work, it must rankle.
    No one had ever counted Nye Jackson of the Norbold News among the great and good, and this was to his credit. There’s something seriously wrong with a reporter who isn’t getting under people’s skin. After the meal and the speeches, as the diners circulated, he made sure a little eddy washed him up against the guest of honor.
    Johnny Fountain was a big man. Nye Jackson wasn’t. He was a wiry red-haired Welshman with a chip on his shoulder because he was still working on a provincial weekly at the age of forty-three: too old to be working his way up to Panorama, too young to be coasting toward retirement. He’d been in Norbold for eight years. People serve less time for murder.
    He fought to keep his drink safe from passersby who hadn’t noticed him and inquired of the chief superintendent’s shoulder, “Any progress with that van business, Mr. Fountain?”
    Fountain looked around before looking down for him, smiling like a genial adult pestered by a child. “Hello, Scoop. You clean up nicely. I hope you got all the flattering things people were saying about me?” The North of England accent was matched by a craggy face and lion’s mane of white hair. He was in his mid-fifties now.
    “Pretty much.” Jackson nodded offhandedly. “At least, I got the first speech on tape. I can do the rest with Copy and Paste.”
    Fountain gave a broad, avuncular grin. “And they say the Welsh have no sense of humor.”
    “Oh, we have a sense of humor, Mr. Fountain,” said Jackson, deadpan. “I can laugh myself silly watching what passes for rugby round here. No, I was asking about that business up at the Flying Horse. Burned-out van containing a small portable chemical plant, the charred remains of wannabe drug dealer Sonny Pruitt, and enough party poppers that pigeons flying through the ash cloud were landing in the town square and looking for cats to fight. I was wondering if you’d come up with any leads yet.”
    Fountain nodded amiably. His bow tie had come undone and he made a desultory effort to fix it. “It’s not really me you should be talking to. Can I get DI Gorman to give you a call? It’s his case.”
    “Fine. I left him a message this morning, but I don’t think he must have got it.” He met Fountain’s eye, and both of them knew exactly what had happened to the reporter’s message, and also that Detective Inspector Gorman would now have to respond to it. Maybe Nye Jackson wasn’t a world-class journalist, but he was persistent, and sometimes that’s as good.
    Fountain looked around as politely as he could for someone else to talk to. It was sod’s law that there was no one within hailing distance.
    Jackson looked the way the chief superintendent was looking and saw what he saw, and also knew what he was thinking. He didn’t take it personally; or only to the extent that it seemed to him more like a compliment than anything else. He might, out of kindness, have made an excuse and moved on himself. But kindness wasn’t one of his weaknesses. He helped himself to another drink from a circulating tray and observed mildly, “Funny about the drugs, Mr. Fountain, isn’t it?”
    Fountain sought him out again as if looking from much farther away and much higher up. “Funny? In what way?”
    “Sorry,” said Jackson, insincerely, “I don’t mean to be a wet blanket, especially tonight. You’ve worked wonders in this town. I’ve covered the courts here for