The Bone Garden Read Online Free PDF Page B

van in the field which was muddy from last
     night’s rain – he needed it tonight for his pizza deliveries … and he might need to make a quick getaway.
    He walked quickly up to the field, head down, hands in pockets, trying to look as though he wasn’t there. He had no difficulty
     finding the caravan again. Its image was etched on his mind. He took a deep breath before opening the door again and braced
     himself for the sight of the half-naked body, the smell, the flies.
    He let himself in with unaccustomed agility and shut the door gently behind him. No one had seen him, he was sure of that.
     He tried not to look at the body but he could see it out of the corner of his eye. And he could hear the flies, louder now.
    Craig concentrated his mind on the money lying on top of the cupboard near the door. It was still there waiting for him, almost
     as though he had been meant to find it. He snatched it up and stuffed it in the pocket of his denim jacket.
    Then, covering his mouth with his left hand, he opened the caravan door silently and emerged into the fresh air. Then he felt
     a wave of nausea rising in his stomach. He rushed round to the back of the caravan and vomited into the hedgerow.
    It was 5.30 when Wesley Peterson let himself into his modern detached house perched on the hill overlooking the ancient port
     of Tradmouth. Pam heard his key turn in the lock and hurried out of the living room to greet him.
    Wesley caught her around the waist and kissed her, glad to see her, glad to be back in his own home. ‘You look pleased about
     something. What is it?’ he said, kissing the tip of her nose.
    ‘You’re home on time for once,’ she said firmly, squirming from his grasp and making for the kitchen. ‘If I’d known you were
     going to be here so early I’d have made you do the cooking. I’ve had a bloody awful day.’
    ‘What’s the matter? Is it Michael? Is he all right?’ All sorts ofpossibilities ran through his mind: sickness; accident; the onset of meningitis; all the ills that could befall a precious
     six-month-old body.
    ‘Michael’s fine.’
    Wesley relaxed. Whatever it was couldn’t be that bad if Michael was all right.
    ‘It’s my mother,’ Pam continued. ‘She called round today. She’s only gone and picked up a man in a supermarket.’
    All sorts of inappropriate pictures began to flash through Wesley’s mind: Della, his mother-in-law, wheeling a trolley down
     the supermarket aisles with a man sitting obediently inside; a checkout girl searching for a bar code on some inaccessible
     part of the man’s anatomy. He began to laugh.
    ‘It’s not funny, Wesley.’ Pam nudged him, trying hard not to laugh herself. ‘I never know what she’s going to get up to next.
     There was that mature student of hers last year – the one who turned out to be married; a small fact she hadn’t bothered to
     tell me. And she admits that she doesn’t know anything about this new man. He could be an axe murderer for all she knows.’
    Wesley put an arm around his wife. ‘There aren’t that many axe murderers about, in spite of what the tabloids say. What’s
     this man’s name? Bluebeard?’
    ‘It’s James Delmann.’
    ‘Well, as far as I know he’s not on our wanted list.’ He tried to look serious. ‘You should be pleased your mum’s getting
     out and about. It’s three years since your dad died. She needs a social life.’
    ‘I know. And I’d be pleased that she’d met someone if she wasn’t so … so silly. She’s just like a giddy teenager; worse than
     I ever was. And that’s not all. You know she’s coming round for dinner tomorrow night?’
    Wesley nodded, wary.
    ‘Well, she only wants to bring this Jamie with her.’
    ‘Then we’ll be able to judge for ourselves. Stop worrying. Della’s old enough to look after herself.’
    Pam didn’t answer. Wesley was probably right: she found it hard to admit it, but he usually was. She was overreacting.
    Wesley knew he