Snow Hill Read Online Free PDF Page B

small, round tables at the back. His friend was staring morosely into the empty glass in front of him.
    “Penny for them.”
    Matt looked up. His handsome face, white with exhaustion, did not bother to smile. The liver-coloured welts under his eyes seemed to have deepened.
    “Evening. One of those for me?”
    “Who else?”
    Johnny handed him a pint. He downed half of it in three gulps.
    “That’s better.”
    “Bitter, actually.”
    “Jack the Quipper strikes again.” Matt drained his glass. “Refill?”
    “Hold your horses—what’s the rush?”
    “D’you want another or not?”
    “Go on then.”
    Johnny watched, concerned, as his friend lurched off towards the bar, the mass of bodies miraculously parting before him like the Red Sea. Matt was too big to argue with. It looked as though he’d downed a few while he was waiting.
    With Lizzie’s words of the previous evening running through his mind, Johnny lit a cigarette and leaned back on the banquette, watching the smoke spiral towards the high, intricately patterned ceiling. Its once white mouldings were now stained the yellow of bad teeth.
    “Here we are.” Matt suddenly reappeared with two glasses, took a slurp from one and smacked his lips. “I needed that.” He flashed a grin that was half-grimace. “It’s good to see you.”
    “Likewise.” Impatient as ever, Johnny cut to the chase: “So, what have you got to tell me?”
    “Nothing about a cop dying, if that’s what you mean. I checked the Occurrence Book.”
    “Oh.” Johnny could not keep the disappointment out of his voice.
    “I told you yesterday, I haven’t heard anything.”
    It wasn’t like Matt to clam up this way. One of the things he loved about police work was the range of characters it brought him into contact with—the suspected burglar who turned out to be a doctor on hisway to deliver a child at three in the morning; the incontinent woman who wandered the streets in a coat made from the pelts of her pet cats; the boy who thought he was a Number 15 bus. Usually he couldn’t wait to describe his latest odd encounter to Johnny—but not tonight. Clearly there was something else that he needed to say, something he could not say to anyone else.
    Whenever Matt needed advice, Johnny was invariably his first port of call. He’d always been clever, and since he’d gone into journalism he’d begun to build up an impressive network of informants and experts and people who owed him favours. His contacts book, scrupulously maintained and augmented throughout his career, was one of his most prized possessions.
    Resisting the urge to fire questions at his friend, Johnny took a pull on his drink and waited. But it seemed Matt still wasn’t ready to get to the point:
    “On the other hand, there’s been quite a bit of talk about your friend Mr Simkins,” he stalled.
    “Go on,” coaxed Johnny.
    “Mrs Shaw—the murderer’s wife—killed herself last night. They found her this morning. It looks as though she drank a bottle of bleach.”
    Johnny put down his glass. He couldn’t imagine a more agonising death; her vital organs dissolving bit by bit in the chlorine. As if she had not been in enough pain already, what with her husband confessing to the murder of Margaret Murray. Murder rarely involved just one victim.
    “I feel sick,” he said.
    “Me too,” said Matt. “Back in a tick.”
    He certainly looked queasy as he picked his way through the crowd, making a beeline for the gents. Matt was not squeamish—in his job he could not afford to be—and could hold his liquor better than most.
    A few moments later, Matt returned, negotiating the packed bar with uncharacteristic caution. His slightly exaggerated air of being in control could not disguise the fact that he was well on the way to being blotto.
    “Come on, Matt—tell me what’s up.”
    Turner shook his head in confusion. Advice was one thing, but he’d never found it easy to ask for help: to him, it was an admission