Death On a No 8 Hook (A Willows and Parker Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

and the stream muttered endlessly to itself, like a drunk slurring his words.
    Willows imagined the trout holding position through the night, the black water flowing around their sleek shapes just as it flowed over the corpse of the girl. He took another sip of the whiskey. He wondered how long the girl had been dead, and how she had died. It was nonsense, but he wished he hadn’t left his revolver locked away in the boot of the Oldsmobile.
    The saw-whet owl hooted again, despondently. There was a chill in the air. Willows picked up another piece of wood and threw it on the fire.

 
     
     
    Chapter 5
     
    The boy caught the repeating bright orange flash of the turn signal in his peripheral vision, and turned just as the Econoline pulled up to the curb beside him.
    The van had come from the opposite direction he’d expected, catching him by surprise. He made his face go blank. The driver smiled and waved, beckoning him over.
    The boy hesitated. He didn’t like vans. Street wisdom said stay away from them. Once you were in the back of one, nobody could see you. You were all alone. But business had been anything but brisk. He needed some cash, and he needed it badly. Taking his time, trying not to seem over-anxious, he sauntered across the sidewalk towards the gleaming vehicle.
    The window on the passenger side was open. He rested his forearms on the sill and leaned inside. The first thing he saw was several gay magazines, some of them with the plastic wrappers still intact. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he took in the ridiculous red plush and the mirrored bed.
    Mannie took the cigar out of his mouth. “Hi,” he said, “my name’s Opportunity and I’m in the mood for love.” He patted the seat beside him. “Hop in, big fella. Let’s talk contract.”
    The boy stared at Mannie, openly assessing him. He saw a man in his forties, maybe five foot nine inches tall, about twenty pounds overweight. Flabby, with watery blue eyes and a complexion like the inside of a bagel. Hair combed sideways across his scalp in a pathetic attempt to hide his bald spot. Big nose. Small mouth. And the hands nervously clasping the steering-wheel were the hands of a woman, soft and white.
    The boy opened the door and got into the van.
    Mannie saw a gap and pulled out into the traffic with a squeal of burnt rubber. The boy grabbed at the dashboard to steady himself. The van accelerated. He managed to slam the door shut.
    Mannie held out his hand, fingers curled to form a tight little nest cradling a single bill folded into a square box so small it was impossible to tell the bill’s denomination.
    “It’s a hundred,” said Mannie.
    Something about Mannie’s voice made the boy believe him. He snatched at the little square of paper much as the trout had plucked the Western Bee from the roof of Jack Willows’ mountain pool; instinctively and without conscious thought.
    Mannie waved the empty aluminium tube. “Want a cigar, kid?”
    The boy shook his head distractedly. His mind was wholly occupied with the money. The stiff, unyielding little box of paper was so tightly folded that he was afraid he might tear it. Lips pursed, he plucked at the crisp, accordioned edges.
    At Broughton, Mannie spun the wheel sharply to the left without slowing down or signalling his turn. They cut diagonally across the intersection in front of two lanes of oncoming traffic. The van slewed, a horn blared. The lead car in the outside lane flicked its brights, washing them in light. Mannie squinted and swore and kept his foot on the gas. The rear end broke free, and there was a peculiar and very unpleasant impression of weightlessness. Then they were through the intersection and tearing up Broughton, parked cars tight on either side.
    “Where you going?” the boy said. He was sitting bolt upright, radiating tension.
    “Almost there,” said Mannie. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Nobody was pursuing them. He tapped the brakes and turned