The Silk Thief Read Online Free PDF Page B

every step she took she was being followed. Three times she turned, and though there were indeed folk walking a short distance behind her, she knew instinctively they weren’t responsible for her discomfort. Finally, the feeling became so overpowering she ducked off the footway and down the side of a building just past the Hunter Street intersection, and waited.
    A minute later, a small, scruffy head peeked cautiously round the corner.
    Sarah sighed. She picked up a pebble and threw it. ‘Go on, bugger off!’
    Clifford flinched, but didn’t run away.
    Sarah threw another stone. It bounced off the top of Clifford’s head. She whimpered, but still she didn’t run.
    Sarah immediately felt guilty. She glanced over her shoulder. She could go home that way, behind the houses and shops, following the course of the foul-smelling Tank Stream, but she suspected the damned animal would only follow her. Why her, anyway? Surely she could tell Harrie was a much softer touch?
    She sighed again, stepped back out onto the footway and, ignoring the dog, continued along George Street. At the intersection with King she risked a look back, and swore: Clifford was still trotting along behind her, though — oh, for God’s sake — now she was limping.
    Sarah went around to the rear of her house and entered the yard through the back gate, shutting it quickly, though not quickly enough to prevent Clifford from scooting through on three legs and limping with startling speed up to the porch, where she collapsed on the mat.
    Following her, Sarah said, ‘You can’t swindle a swindler, dog. I know what you’re doing. Now bugger off.’
    Clifford let out the most pathetic whine and rolled onto her back, revealing a front paw that appeared to be quite deeply cut. Then she sat up and held out the wounded limb.
    ‘You hurt that on purpose, didn’t you?’
    Very slowly, aware her hand could be bitten at any moment, Sarah crouched and allowed Clifford to rest the bleeding paw in her palm. The long, straggly hairs around the dog’s toes were matted with blood, which quickly pooled in Sarah’s hand. She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief, tied it around the paw, stood and stared down at the animal.
    Clifford gazed up at her, head on one side, brown button eyes brimming with mute appeal.
    ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ Sarah picked her up and opened the back door.
    Adam was in the parlour, reading The Last of the Mohicans in front of the fire, stretched out on the sofa with a tumbler of brandy at his elbow. His crow-black hair lay unbound over his collar, rolled shirtsleeves revealing strong, pale forearms.
    ‘Did you have a nice evening?’ he asked without taking his eyes from his book. As far as he knew, Sarah had been visiting Harrie.
    ‘Yes, I did. Very nice.’
    Clifford sneezed. Adam put aside the adventures of Hawkeye and his Mohican friends, sat up so his slippered feet were on the floor and eyed the dog in Sarah’s arms. ‘Is this evidence of George Barrett’s latest racket? I hope you didn’t pay for it.’
    His comments were playful, but his face and tone of voice carried an undertone of wariness. Sarah was suddenly alert. ‘Of course not.’
    Adam took a sip of his brandy. ‘You weren’t at Harrie’s tonight, were you?’
    Sarah settled Clifford on the floor in front of the fire, to give herself a moment to think. ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘I followed you down to King’s Wharf. I saw you meet Friday and Harrie there.’
    ‘You followed me!’ Sarah exclaimed. That made sense. The little hairs on the back of her neck had been prickling all night. ‘That wasn’t very nice, Adam.’
    ‘It wasn’t very nice of you to lie to me.’
    For a second Sarah considered insisting that she’d told him she was meeting Harrie, not going to Harrie’s house, but decided she didn’t want to. Deceiving him in the first place had made her uncomfortable enough. ‘I had to.’
    ‘You never have to lie, Sarah. Not to me. Not any