Eoin Miller 01 - Faithless Street Read Online Free PDF Page A

didn’t even know where the term Gypsy came from. All he knew was that he didn’t like any of us. He
was the least of my problems, though.
    A Gypsy cop?
    I was a traitor. I
was the last person anyone at that camp was going to want to see. I leaned my
head on the window and watched the scenery drift by. At some point I zoned out.
    ***
    Fishley Farm took its
name from the family business that had owned the land until the 1970s.   Most of the land was taken up by a
modern housing estate, a bland grid of bricks and plaster that had been thrown
up a few years before.
    Beside the housing
estate, pushed into the margins of the old farm boundaries, was the traveler
camp.
    Becker pulled onto
the estate and followed the road as it weaved its way through the maze of
houses and side streets. I noticed a theme in the street names as we passed:
Gladstone, Pitt, Thatcher. We were diving along Churchill Road. Our arrival
sparked the locals into life. Teenagers fell in behind us on their bikes and
adults stepped out of their front doors to watch us pass.
    Long before we
reached our destination I could smell what had happened; the clinging scent of
smoke wrapped up in burned plaster and soggy timber.
    I knew the smells
well.
    I’d been burned out
of more than one home when I was young.
    At the far end of
Churchill Road we turned into a cul-de-sac that was named, presumably, after
John Major. The tarmac was slick with water but the fire engine was long gone.
Two marked police cars were parked either side of the road, and the occupants
nodded at us as we drove passed, before coming to a stop in front of the house
at the end of the row.
    As with the other
houses on the estate, this one was built by math. It was square and dull, with
symmetrical windows and white plastic doors. When I was young, my father had
told me he hated houses because they were prisons. Unmovable monuments made of
bricks and mortar. These days it seems like we build houses that look like
caravans and caravans that look like houses.
    Peaking out above the
garden fence was the burned remains of a housing extension. The charred timber
beams of the roof were still damp with water. Becker nodded at the burned
remains as we climbed out the car, “What you reckon? Library? Science lab?   Homeless shelter?”
    I smiled and mimed
playing pool, “Living the dream. When did the fire happen?”
    “Last night.” He
mimed a phone call with his thumb and little finger, “All those calls you
ignored? That was while the fire crew were here.”
    As we walked down the
short driveway the homeowner came out to greet us. He was just under six feet
tall, with thick skin and a shaved head. He had one of those bellies that
English dads feel the need to show off to the world when it’s sunny, but today
it was hidden away under a stretched Chelsea football shirt.
    110 miles from
Chelsea.
    He offered Becker his
hand for a shake and waited for introductions. Becker stumbled then caught up
with the moment, “Tom Bennett, this is a colleague of mine, DI Miller.”
    Out of habit I showed
him my warrant card. My first name caught his eye straight away and he raised
his eyebrow, “Quite a name, how do you pronounce that?”
    “Eoin.”
    “Right, that Irish?”
    I shrugged, I wanted
to say, does it matter?
    His accent was a
faded, but there was enough of London in the middle of his words that I stopped
being offended by his Chelsea shirt.
    Becker filled the
silence, “DI Miller’s going to help with the investigation, I thought I’d show
him the scene first.”
    Bennett nodded and
waved at the open front door.
    “After you, but you
already know who done it. I told you last night.”
    We walked through the
house in silence. It didn’t matter that Bennett wasn’t leading the way, because
it was like every other house of its kind. The front door opened onto the
hallway, a door on our left would open onto the living room, and the stairs to
our right would lead up to three, maybe four, pastel