The Coldest Blood Read Online Free PDF

that his most terrifying nightmare was to be seen as a coward, and that dogs can smell fear. The Dobermann was up and running in a terrifyingly short second. Dryden, rooted, felt his guts heave and his pulse rate hit 120 before the hound was six feet away, where the chain snapped rigid and wrenched at the dog’s throat, tumbling it back in a heap. It rose, dazed, and exposed rosy pink gums and a set of textbook canines.
    ‘Back and sit.’ It was a woman’s voice, resonant but not masculine. The dog folded itself down, sphinx-like, and rested its chin on its giant paws.
    She was standing outside the hut with what looked to Dryden’s tutored eye like a pint of beer – even from fifty yards. Garry pushed him in the back and they edged past the dog, Dryden’s eyes fixed firmly on the stove-pipe smoke in the sky.
    They passed two ‘PRIVATE – MEMBERS ONLY’ signs en route to the shed and an auxiliary notice which read: ‘BEWARE – POISONS USED’.
    ‘Can I help?’ said the woman when they were up close, in the tone of voice which means the opposite.
    Her face was extraordinary – or rather her skin was. Dryden guessed she was in her late thirties or early forties, but in many ways her calendar age was irrelevant: she just looked weatherbeaten. Her tan was that specific shade of ochre which is the result of exposure to wind and rain as well as sun, the face patterned by systems of small lines – especially around the eyes, which were wet and a vivid green. In many ways she was beautiful: the thick black hair sucking in the light, the skin, Dryden imagined, carrying theexhilarating scent of sea salt. It was a face that had spent a lifetime under an open sky.
    But the eyes held him. There was something mesmeric about the eyes. Why was she looking over Dryden’s shoulder? He looked behind. High Park Flats stood like a gravestone on the near-horizon, a single Christmas tree lit in a dark window.
    Suddenly he remembered she’d asked a question. ‘Yes. Sorry. My name’s Dryden – I work for The Crow – it’s about Declan McIlroy.’
    A man appeared at her shoulder, wrapped in a donkey jacket. He had a narrow jutting head like a vulture, held forward and low between his shoulders, and his hair was shorn to a grey stubble. He put his arm around the woman’s waist and rocked her so that she leant against him.
    ‘It’s OK,’ she said, touching his free hand, and turning back to Dryden. ‘You can come in. We know about Declan.’
    She went first, reaching out with both hands to touch the sides of the door frame, the fingertips fumbling slightly to find the wooden edges. Which is when Dryden realized she was blind, that the green eyes which reflected everything saw nothing.
    Inside it was hot. The stove pipe didn’t rise directly through the ceiling but crossed the shed in a diagonal to reach the external chimney. It radiated the heat, and around it on various chairs and wooden crates sat half a dozen men. In the corner stood a large plastic barrel and the heavy air was scented with a perfume Dryden knew well: home brew.
    ‘Welcome to the Gardeners’ Arms,’ said the woman, with a tired smile. ‘I’m Marcie, Marcie Sley.’
    Dryden couldn’t stop himself glancing at the barrel. ‘Who’s the brewer?’
    ‘It’s a co-op,’ said the man in the donkey jacket who’d stood by Marcie. He held out a hand like the bucket on a mechanical digger. ‘John Sley.’ Dryden noted the grey stubble on his chin and guessed he was a decade older than his wife. Sley took a swig of beer, and Dryden glimpsed wrecked teeth. ‘There’s an association – of allotment holders. This is the clubhouse, if you like. We do tea as well…’
    Garry beamed. ‘Beer’s fine.’
    Two more glasses were found and filled. The beer came flat, but tasted malty and Dryden sensed the alcoholic kick. ‘Strong?’
    ‘Six point five per cent,’ said Sley, and Garry whistled happily.
    Dryden nodded. ‘I’m sorry – you’re Declan’s