The Hireling's Tale Read Online Free PDF Page A

you. To watch your back.’
    Donovan’s dark eyes rounded in astonished indignation. ‘Are you telling me I’m not safe in here? Are
you telling me this dive is some sort of a no-go area?’
    ‘I’m not telling you any such thing,’ said Toomes wearily. ‘These are properly conducted licensed premises: you’re welcome to drink here, or to ask questions. You’re as safe here as anywhere in Castlemere. What I can’t vouch for is what happens after you leave. I wouldn’t like to think of you turning up face-down in the canal one night.’
    ‘Your concern’s downright touching,’ sneered Donovan. ‘This place has obviously changed since Jack Carney went down.’ The Fen Tiger never officially belonged to the old thug: it was held in his wife’s name. These days it officially belonged to the wife of a second cousin of Carney’s; but the only thing that had actually changed was the name above the door.
    Toomes sniffed and said no more. His concern was genuine but not altogether altruistic. Odd jobs were always the preserve of the potman, and getting blood off wrought-iron railings was a bugger.
    Donovan had one last question before he left. ‘So where did they tie up the Guelder Rose? ’
    Toomes stumped to the door and pointed. ‘There, in front of The Lock & Quay.’ It used to be Gossick’s Chandlers: folksy names came in with the redevelopment and the toy-town paintwork.
    An arched ironwork bridge spanned the basin: Donovan preferred its old livery of black and rust to the council’s colour scheme of dark green and gold. But time heals all ills: he noted with satisfaction that the rust was beginning to make a comeback.
    Tonight there would be another hire boat tied
inexpertly to the bollards outside The Lock & Quay, but for the moment the bit of dockside where the Laceys spent last night was vacant. Donovan took his time looking round but although it was now midday and the spring sunlight was pouring through the well of the buildings he could see nothing suggestive of a struggle, of an accident, of anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing that looked like blood, and no one had tossed a blanket into the deep shadows of the car park between the stilts of The Barbican.
    When he had done with looking around, he went back to the quayside and looked up.
     
     
    ‘She didn’t fall through the hatch of the Guelder Rose ,’ he explained, a thread of electric satisfaction running through his voice. ‘At least she did, but she wasn’t on the boat at the time. She fell off the roof of The Barbican.’
    ‘The roof?’ echoed Liz faintly.
    ‘Six storeys up,’ nodded Donovan. ‘She didn’t fall eight feet, she fell about eighty - of course she smashed her skull.’
    ‘Have you been up there?’ asked Shapiro.
    ‘Yeah, just to make sure. Then I called for a PC to preserve the scene. Immediately above where the boat was tied up, something’s been rested on the parapet. There’s a load of junk up there - dirt, bird shit, the lot. But not right there. SOCO’s on his way up there, but I’ll stake my reputation that’s where she came from.’

    ‘Then it really was murder,’ said Shapiro pensively. ‘She didn’t get herself up there, not in that state. Someone took her and threw her. She was meant to die.’ He stood up and reached for his coat. ‘I’d better get down there. Come with me, Donovan, show me what you found. What about you, Liz?’
    She shook her head. ‘I’m seeing the toms.’ Castlemere didn’t have a red-light district as such: they’d arranged to meet, somewhat incongruously, in the Tudor Tea-rooms.
    The three of them went downstairs together. When they parted at the top of Queen’s Street Liz murmured after Donovan, ‘You haven’t got a reputation to stake.’
    He looked back with a grin. They’d known each other long enough to enjoy the privilege of a friendly insult. ‘Then I’ll stake your reputation,’ he said.
     
     
    The local prostitutes may not have had a