THE PERFECT KILL Read Online Free PDF

thought had crept into his head. A thought that had troubled his sleep and woken him several times.
    In the morning he had phoned the bishop’s secretary and arranged an appointment for three o’clock in the afternoon. Then he rearranged his own day. At exactly one o’clock he was driving his battered twenty-year-old Hillman down the track to Paul Schembri’s farmhouse on the slopes leading up to Nadur. He knew that, like all farmers, Paul Schembri would have come in from his fields at noon and by now would just have finished a hearty lunch.
    His timing was perfect. As he brushed past the fly netting across the open door, the farmer and his son Joey were wiping up the last of the gravy from their plates with chunks of bread. Paul’s wife Laura could be seen through the kitchen door, washing up. He had not seen them since the Mass for Nadia and Julia.
    Paul was small, dark and wiry, in his mid-fifties. His wife was younger and bigger. A tall, handsome woman. Their son Joey favoured his mother’s looks: also tall, but wiry like his father and with a good-looking, open face. They looked up at the priest, a little surprised.
    Immediately, Paul said, “Joey, fetch some wine for Father Manuel.” He gestured at a chair and the priest sat down. “Have you eaten?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    While the boy was in the kitchen, the priest said, “Paul, I have to talk to you. Alone.”
    “About what?”
    “About Creasy.”
    The farmer had known the priest for many years. He nodded, popped the last piece of bread in his mouth, stood up and called, “Joey, bring the wine outside and two glasses.”
    The priest and the farmer sat on the patio, looking out to sea, talking in quiet voices and consuming the large bottle of wine made by the farmer from his own grapes.
    When they stood up the farmer said, “I think you’re right, Father. It can only be that. We both know what kind of man he is. He would never marry again so soon, if ever, unless it was for that reason.”
    Both men looked sombre and the farmer said, “Shall I talk to him? Tomorrow’s Sunday. He always comes for lunch on Sunday and stays until evening. Shall I?”
    Slowly the priest shook his head.
    “No, Paul, thank you.”
    He was not a man often to ask advice but he knew this farmer and his wisdom.
    “Tell me, Paul, I see the bishop at three o’clock. Shall I mention this to him? I mean about what we think. I have to get his clearance for this adoption, even before it goes to the panel.”
    The farmer thought for a long time and then smiled slightly.
    “Father Manuel, the bishop is a good man and a holy man with many worries. After all, our thoughts are only speculation.”
    The priest drained his glass, reached down and put it on the table.
    “You make good wine, Paul…and strong.”
    At four o’clock in the afternoon Father Manuel Zerafa arrived at the American’s house. He refused the offer of a drink.
    As he sat down under the trellis, the man asked, “Have you talked to the bishop?”
    The priest nodded, “Yes, there are no problems, there will be no holdups.”
    “Have you talked to the boy?”
    The priest shook his head, “No, I’ll talk to him when I leave here, if I’m satisfied with what you tell me.”
    The American was sitting opposite him, across the round table and looking at him steadily.
    “But I talked to Paul Schembri today. He agrees with me.”
    “Agrees with you?”
    The priest sighed, “That you are going to use the boy.”
    “Use him how?”
    The priest wiped a hand across his face.
    “For vengeance!” he said.
    The American stood up, walked to the pool and stood looking down. He was only wearing a swimsuit. His feet were bare. The priest straightened in his chair and looked at him. Looked at the scars. He sighed again. It was a day for sighs. He spoke softly to the scarred back, “Uomo, I know what you did those years ago in Italy. It was an ungodly act.”
    The man did not turn. He remained standing, totally still,