Gun Street Girl Read Online Free PDF

self-respecting hit man drives around with a ten-foot ladder?”
    â€œA well-prepared one?” Crabbie said with Jeevesian sangfroid.
    â€œSo you’re thinking an outside job?”
    â€œNo, quite the opposite in fact.”
    Crabbie was getting on my nerves. “Let’s see this crime scene, eh?”
    He led me through the gates, along a gravel drive, into a wood-paneled entrance hall, and finally into a large, open-plan, living room that overlooked the North Channel. The place was full of coppers and other hangers-on, some of whom turned to look at me the moment I stepped into the room. I ignored them.
    The sun was up now and Scotland was so close that you could see chimney smoke from the villages on the other side of the sea. The living room itself was hung with tasteful, presumably original, artwork. Furniture: big stylish sofas, comfy chairs, a nice mahogany dining-room table on to which a whole bunch of police forensic equipment had been placed. Floor: hardwood with massive, expensive-looking Persian rugs on top. The TV was on, but at this time of the day the only thing showing was the BBC test card: the little girl and the creepy clown playing noughts and crosses forever in a nursery hell.
    Of course the focal point of the mise-en-crime were the two bodies sitting facing one another on two armchairs either side of the TV set.
    The man was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a Ralph Lauren lime-green polo shirt. He was in his fifties. Chubby. Grey curly hair, a goatee, a signet ring, and a wedding ring. The bullet had made a tiny impression on his left temple and a presumably larger exit wound on his right temple. His mouth was half open. He was facing the television, not the assassin. The killer had shot him first.
    His wife had been shot next. Twice. Once in the heart. Once in the forehead. She was a deeply tanned, dark-haired, trim woman in a white bathrobe over blue pajamas. She was about forty-five years old. You wouldn’t say attractive but perhaps once she had been. She had attempted to get out of the chair after her husband had been shot, but the killer had immediately plugged her in the chest to gentle her condition; and before she could get going with the screaming, he had crossed the room, gotten real close, and single-tapped her in the forehead, blowing the top fifth of her head off. He’d been so efficient that there wasn’t even a defensive wound on either one of her hands. (Normally when you know your number’s up, instinct brings your hands up to cover your head, but this guy had been quick.)
    â€œWhat’s your take, Crabbie?”
    â€œThe killer shot him first and her a few moments later.”
    â€œDid you notice that she has no defensive wounds?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhich means?”
    â€œEither there were two shooters or the guy was fast.”
    â€œI’d bet one shooter but forensics will tell us for sure.”
    â€œAye.”
    I examined the bodies. Nasty exit wounds. Death would have been instantaneous. The undertaker would have a real job with both of them if the family wanted to go open casket.
    â€œKids, relatives?” I asked McCrabban.
    â€œOne son, Michael, who is missing.”
    â€œMissing, how?”
    â€œHis car’s gone from the garage,” McCrabban said significantly.
    â€œIt’s normally in the garage?”
    â€œYes it is.”
    â€œHow old is this kid?”
    â€œTwenty-two.”
    â€œQuite the difficult age for a young man.”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œAnd he was living here with his mum and dad?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œHe was living here and now he’s vanished in his car?”
    â€œHis Mercedes Benz.”
    â€œEverything quiet and peaceful chez the Kellys?”
    â€œMrs. McCawly didn’t think so.”
    â€œDid she not?”
    â€œNo she didn’t. There were arguments. Especially arguments be­­tween father and son.”
    â€œAh, now you’re