Dying Fall Read Online Free PDF Page B

what’s in it for me?’ Pogo asked.
    â€˜A couple of packets of cigarettes,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘A little money. But, most of all, the chance to be useful again – the chance to earn your own respect and the respect of others.’
    For the briefest of moments, Pogo’s face began to crumple in self-pity, but then his features hardened again, and became a mask of inscrutability.
    â€˜I’ll think about it,’ he said.

Four
    T he man sitting at a table near the counter in the police canteen was close to sixty, and had a shock of white hair and a complexion which looked as if it had been constructed out of sandpaper.
    When Woodend approached him, it was with a reverence that went far beyond what his position in the police hierarchy merited, because Sid Roberts was not so much a sergeant as an institution.
    Roberts was not only the oldest sergeant in the force, but had held the rank for so long that there was no serving officer who could actually remember a time when he
wasn’t
a sergeant. And the reason he had never been promoted above that rank was, the chief inspector suspected, largely a matter of his own choice. He was a ‘coal-face’ policeman, who loved his home town, and loved the perspective on it that the three stripes on his sleeve allowed him. And when people said that he was a
natural
sergeant, what they really meant was that it seemed as if he had been there first, and the title had been invented specifically to fit him.
    Woodend sat down opposite him, and said, ‘What can you tell me about the hard mods, Sid?’
    â€˜Depends what you want to know, sir,’ Roberts replied.
    â€˜I don’t
know
what I want to know,’ Woodend admitted. ‘Just give me a thumbnail sketch of them.’
    â€˜They like to think they’re hard, hence the name – and they generally are. Most of them are working-class lads, and the great majority of them have jobs in factories. One of the things that gives them a sense of identity is their taste in music – they’re very big on “ska”, which is sometimes also known as “rocksteady”.’
    â€˜I’ve never heard either of those names before,’ Woodend admitted.
    â€˜You wouldn’t have, sir,’ Roberts replied, though not dismissively. ‘It’s Jamaican music. There’s one song in particular, “Rudie Got Soul” by Desmond Dekker, which has practically become their anthem, and I have to say, they could have chosen worse.’
    â€˜You’re amazing, Sid,’ Woodend said, full of admiration.
    â€˜Well, I do try to keep my finger on the pulse,’ Roberts said. ‘I’m a bit like our beloved leader in that way.’
    Woodend grinned, then grew serious again. ‘You said they were hard. Does that mean they’re violent?’ he asked.
    â€˜You’re wondering if they were behind that tramp’s murder,’ Roberts guessed.
    â€˜Exactly,’ Woodend agreed.
    â€˜It’s possible,’ Roberts said cautiously. ‘Until recently, their main concern has been beating
each other
up, but now they’ve started to fall under the influence of Councillor Scranton.’
    â€˜Oh, that bastard!’ Woodend said.
    â€˜That bastard,’ Roberts agreed. He checked his watch. ‘Have you got half an hour to spare, sir?’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Because if you want to get a closer look at some of the hard mods, I know just where to find you a few.’
    The man was standing on the soapbox outside the factory gates of Lowry Engineering. He was small, in his late forties, and sported a moustache which did not stretch far beyond his nostrils. Gathered around him were some of the workers from the factory, who were on their dinner break.
    â€˜How did you know this was goin’ to happen?’ Woodend asked, surveying the scene through the windscreen of his Wolseley.
    â€˜It’s my
job
to know