The Judas Sheep Read Online Free PDF Page B

I was just wondering whether to type my report before or after I showered when the phone rang. It was Annabelle.
    ‘Hello, Annabelle,’ I said brightly. ‘This is a pleasant surprise.’
    ‘Oh,’ I heard, followed by silence.
    ‘Er, hello. Are you still there?’
    After a moment she said: ‘Yes, I’m still here, Charles. I was expecting you over for supper.’
    Oh God! I’d clean forgotten. I fumbled for words. ‘I … I’m sorry. I thought we said Tuesday.’ It was a lie, and it pierced me like a corkscrew as I heard myself saying it.
    ‘No, I’m sure we said Monday.’
    ‘Oh, I am sorry, Annabelle. I must be confused. You know how easily that happens.’
    ‘Yes. Well, it won’t spoil for a few minutes – unless you have already eaten?’
    I rubbed my stomach and ran a hand over my bristly chin. ‘Er, no, I haven’t.’
    ‘Good, so are you coming over?’
    ‘Yes, please, if I’m still welcome.’
    ‘Mmm. We will have to consider that.’
    ‘Turn the flame down low and give me twenty minutes.’
    I put the phone down and dashed upstairs. That made it two mistakes so far today.
     
    Bradley Norris had some thinking to do. He eased back a cuff to look at his gold Vacheron Constantin and drummed his fingers on the red oak desk that had belonged to his grandfather. They should be ringing any time. The visit from the detective wasn’t a surprise, but he was a cautious man and the stakes were high. He hadn’t lied about the call on Friday night that told him where the Rolls-Royce was parked, just been rather selective about the content of the message.
    He always worked late on a Friday. It was his habit to call a progress meeting for four p.m. That way he stopped his managers sneaking off early for the weekend. ‘Poets’ day’, he’d once heard one of them call it. ‘Piss of early, tomorrow’s Saturday,’ the manager had candidly replied when asked what he meant. Well, that attitude wasn’t good enough for anyone who wanted to keep working for Bradley T. Norris. The meeting usually ended around five, but Norris liked to stay behind; wander around the production lines; create the illusionamong the workers that he was a twenty-four-hours- a-day man. If he was so keen, they should be, too.
    It had been a good week for Shenandoah Inc. (UK). The new factory had exceeded production targets for the first time and was on course to go into the black, proving that the move to Britain from America had been a shrewd one. The anti-smoking lobby was almost as rabid here as in the States, and sales would be in decline were it not for aggressive marketing, but attractive incentives and a compliant labour force made this a good place to build a new plant. Eastern Europe, where sales were burgeoning, was barely the flick of a butt away, and the vast market of the Third World was yawning just over the horizon. There were no Surgeon General’s warnings there, and Made in England was often more acceptable than Made in USA. The only cloud in the sky was a zealous politician on the campaign trail, but there might be ways to deal with him.
    He’d wondered where Marina could be. She was good for his image and for the company’s. She was young – more than twenty years younger than him – was glamorous and fashionable, and she smoked like a New England kipper factory. But when you said that, you’d said it all. He’d met her when she was a model, used by Shenandoah in a highly successful advertising campaign. They’d had to come to England to find her because there was nobody similar back home who could draw on a cigarette and make it look as if they were having a multiple orgasm. Her Americancounterparts were heavily into half-marathons and born-again virginity. Marina’s pouting lips, wreathed in blue smoke, said volumes more than: ‘My, this is a good cigarette.’ The young and trendy fell for it, and so did the President of the company.
    Norris had looked up the number of the private investigator someone had