The Red Road Read Online Free PDF Page B

an earl. He probably pulled that act on every prosecution female. Still she smiled, enjoying the afterglow as she pulled her phone out of her bag: it was nice, though.
    Turning her phone on she found a flurry of calls from the office. One message from DC Fyfe. Please call back asap.
    Sitting as she was in the heart of the building, the signal was low but she called anyway and got Fyfe on a weak line that cut out every three or four words.
    ‘Ma’am ... erious problem: Brown’s fingerprints turned up ... last week .’
    ‘What?’
    Fyfe spoke slowly: ‘Brown’s fingerprints were foun ... at a murder committed ... days ago.’
    Morrow stood still, shuffling the words into order. Finally she said,
    ‘ This Michael Brown?’
    Fyfe was certain: ‘Yes, ma’am.’
    Morrow couldn’t quite take it in. ‘The one I’m here with now?’
    ‘Yes.’ Fyfe’s voice faded under a smog of crackle. ‘... prints at a murder ... north division ... ast week.’
    It made no sense. Brown was locked up in prison and had been for months. For a moment she found herself suspicious and angry at Fyfe for telling her something that simply could not be true. Irritated, she barked into the mouthpiece, ‘Wait on the line.’ And dropped the phone to her side as she strode to the exit door.
    Outside the witness waiting room she passed an armed guard who had been waiting for Michael Brown to burst out of there. He turned at the waist to see her, his fingers tightening on the butt and barrel of his gun as she fumbled her wallet open to show her warrant card before backing out to the lobby.
    Morrow was wrong: Fyfe was dependable and wouldn’t have called to tell her this unless there was good reason. It wasn’t Fyfe’s fault. Morrow just didn’t want to hear it. She had expected Brown to jump a wall or break a window to get out, not start an elaborate game to undermine bits of evidence.
    She stood in the lobby and took a deep breath before lifting the phone to speak again: ‘I’m in a public place: be careful. Now, slowly, tell me that again.’
    ‘OK,’ said Fyfe. ‘Michael Brown’s fingerprints were found at a murder scene in the old Red Road flats.’
    ‘The ones they’re pulling down?’
    ‘Yep. And the murder happened three days ago.’
    ‘Three days, for sure?’ she asked.
    ‘Definite. Because they’re demolishing the flats they’re checking for homeless all the time.’
    ‘Who’s dead?’
    ‘Guy called Aziz Balfour.’
    Morrow shut her eyes. ‘Well, he’s in prison, Fyfe, there must have been a mistake on the prints, get them to check the match again—’
    ‘They have, ma’am. They’ve checked and checked. The match was high confidence each time.’
    ‘ High confidence?’ Morrow squeezed her eyes tight, reluctant to hear the answer.
    ‘High confidence.’
    She opened her eyes and found an armed officer, both hands on his assault rifle, staring fiercely at her. She didn’t know if he was thinking about shooting her or waiting for an order.
    She looked away.
    The court lobby was new, part of an extension to the old high court. It was two storeys high, one wall of glass, the other three had a mezzanine level running around them with a frieze of yellow limestone on it. The entire frieze was carved with a jumble of words and letters in different textures, large, small, smooth, rough. Unthinkingly, Morrow read a nonsense phrase carved deep into the frieze:
    TURNS OF SPEECH
    RIDDLES;
    ‘Is the dead guy anyone we know?’
    ‘No. Balfour worked for a charity.’ Morrow could hear that she was reading it from a sheet. ‘Earthquake Relief. Good man, no record or previous. Three thousand attended his funeral.’
    ‘So, he’s buried already?’
    ‘Says here cause of death stabbing. Must have released him quick for burial ... so that’s ...’
    She was telling Morrow that the man was Muslim but didn’t know if it was all right to say it.
    Morrow tutted. ‘So, he was Muslim?’
    ‘Um, yeah, probably. Says he’s