Suffer the Children Read Online Free PDF Page B

shoulder and makes a middling G & T, takes a sip and shoos the cat off his armchair with the tip of a toe.
    ‘I want to speak to Thomasina,’ he says to the male that answers. Some dirty bastard her mother has dragged home.
    ‘Is that her dad? They said to say you can’t.’
    ‘Who are you?’ Guy’s heart goes double fast.
    ‘Fuck off. I’m her boyfriend.’
    ‘Her boyfriend? Whose boyfriend? Not Thomasina’s.’
    But it’s dead.

Tuesday Morning
     
     
    Staffe has locked down the Kilburn flat and given Josie a key so she can take in the mail and water the plants.
    The Tube doors slide shut and Staffe feels a tiny pocket of emptiness – a single air bubble can close down an entire heating system. Last night, when he got back from the Limekiln estate, visions of Jadus Golding tampered with his sleep again and now he feels tired, shakes open the Guardian , trying to get the mind clean, working in straight lines again, but he sees the front page of somebody else’s News . The headline is:

SELF-HELP MURDER.
     
    He squints at the strapline that runs beneath an old photograph of Karl Colquhoun.

     
    A Crime That’s Not a Crime?
More pages 4 and 5.

     
    He takes a hold of the News and tugs it down to see a wide-eyed young Asian man looking up, afraid. ‘It’s OK. I’m police. Can I borrow your paper?’
    The young man nods, folds it neatly and hands it across.
    Staffe accepts it, says, ‘Sorry. Here, have this,’ handing him the Guardian .
    According to the News , Colquhoun’s murder is a crime of passion. His wife, apparently, has had to give her children up because of what Karl did to his kids from a previous marriage; and if the wife did it, could that make her more saint than sinner? She would be doing society a favour.
    Staffe rereads the report but his mind is distracted by the very opposite kind of a killing: as cold-blooded and indiscriminate as they come. He closes his eyes, tries to picture his coming together with Santi Extbatteria in Spain. The train builds speed on its way towards Heathrow as the distance between stations grows. It rocks from side to side and the more Staffe thinks about what happened to his parents, the closer his eyes clench, tight shut. His stomach churns and his mouth slowly fills with fluid. He swallows. He wants to be sick. He wants to get off but knows he can’t. 
    ******* 
     
    DCI Pennington scans the room to check on the team at his disposal. The temporary incident room at Leadengate Station is undersized and packed tight. ‘I want you, Johnson, to stay bang on top of this. Report directly to me and keep them at it. With a bit of luck, this should be done and dusted within a week.’ Pennington looks around the room. ‘Where is DS Pulford?’
    ‘On his PlayStation,’ calls out one of the DCs. The laughter spreads.
    ‘Very funny. Now, where is he?’
    The room falls silent.
    ‘Well find out. I want everyone keyed into this. Done and dusted, I say. Done and dusted.’
    Johnson had been off on the sick for a week but he soon got better when he heard Staffe was on his way to Spain, that Pennington needed someone to ride shotgun. Now, he stands tall, leaning against the open door, red hair receding, his sleeves rolled up showing thick, pale forearms, freckled like a salmon. He is struggling to keep the smile off when he feels a tug on the tail of his jacket.
    ‘You’re better, Johnson.’
    He turns round, hisses, ‘Bloody hell! What are you doing here?’
    ‘Thought I’d keep an eye out.’
    ‘You heard the DCI. It’s practically done and dusted.’
    ‘In which case I can take my leave next week. And anyway, where is Pulford?’ says Staffe, leaning against the far wall, obscured from Pennington’s line of vision.
    ‘You heard. On his PlayStation.’
    ‘I know you know, Johnson, so why don’t you just tell me.’
    ‘He’s chasing down the wife. Leanne Colquhoun.’
    ‘And he’s taken a counsellor, or at least a WPC?’ says Staffe.
    All Johnson can