Laughing Boy Read Online Free PDF Page B

fourteen years old.
    “That’s right. Poor little Robin.”
    “You went there with me, Dave, and saw the files. What’s troubling you?”
    “It’s a random killing, like ours, and Nelson is only thirty miles away.”
    “The MO was different.”
    “It’s a progression. First one, a blow to the head – efficient but impersonal. Next one, a knife in the back – much more satisfying.”
    “Thanks Dave,” I said. “That’s really cheered me up. Just what I needed.”
    “Any time. Want me to have a word with our litter lout friend?”
    “Yes please. I was just going to ask you. Meanwhile, I’ll get the lab to check on the paternity of Mrs Heeley’s children .”
    “And I’ll go back to making the streets of Heckley safe for women and kids,” Jeff said, rising to his feet.
    When I was alone I picked up the telephone, but it wasn’tthe lab’s number I dialled. “It’s me,” I said when the front desk answered. “Spread the word. Sparky will be coming round sometime, asking about volunteers for extra curricula activities – walking, running the marathon, that sort of thing.” After a couple of minutes’ conspiratorial chatting I pressed the cradle and this time I really did dial the lab.
     
    Sparky’s belief that the two murders were linked worried me. Laura Heeley appeared to have led a relatively blameless, uneventful life. She was a bit of a gossip, we discovered, and was often the first to pass on information, suitably embroidered , about the downfall of any of her neighbours. Two brothers a few doors away had been put on probation for shoplifting and Mrs Heeley had been vocal and indiscreet in her condemnation of them to the extent that their father had called and had words with her, but stealing chocolate, even Ferrero Rocher, doesn’t usually lead on to murder. In mediaeval times she might have been a candidate for the ducking stool when things were slow, but in modern, cosmopolitan Heckley she had largely lived her life unnoticed.
    Robin Gillespie was a son that any father would have been grateful for. He played for the school football team and somewhat reluctantly in the school orchestra, on viola. He was killed while on his paper round, which he did to earn money for a proposed trip to Florida, and his body transported about a mile and a half to the waste ground. The local police found the spot where he died, in a dark stretch of road between two groups of houses, but no weapon. He had not been sexually assaulted and the pathologist found no evidence of previous homosexual experience.
    Two murders, no motives, and little else to link them. But murder is relatively rare in this country, and random killing almost unknown, apart from among young tearaways . The more I considered it, the more convinced I became that Sparky might be right. I found my copy of the Almanac in the bottom drawer and thumbed through ituntil I reached the NCIS entry.
    Chief Inspector Warburton shared a symposium with me at Bramshill a couple of years ago, talking about crime in market towns. It all went straight over my head. Rural, suburban or inner city, I just look for fingerprints and round up the usual suspects. The only difference, I told them, is the type of shit you get on your shoes: cowshit, horseshit or dogshit. I left a message for him to give me a ring.
    It was Nigel Newley, a DS at HQ and my number one protégé who called me first. “Hi, Boss,” he said. “It’s Wednesday, are we going to the pub tonight?” He’ll still be calling me boss when he’s Assistant Chief Constable.
    “Have you any money?” I asked.
    “Um, a small amount.”
    “In that case, see you in the Spinners, usual time.”
    “Do we, er, have a lift home?”
    “I’ll arrange it.”
    “Smashing, I’ll walk there, then. See you.”
    “Ta-ra.”
    DCI Warburton rang shortly after. We reminisced about Bramshill for a few seconds and then I told him about Laura Heeley.
    “The husband did it,” he announced.
    “Ah!” I