The Take Read Online Free PDF

manager.
    Winter inspected the bloodstains more closely, in search of the splatter patterns that might indicate use of a weapon. Stab somebody with a knife, or use a cosh or a hammer on their skulls, and the moment you withdrew the weapon was the moment you sent little drops of blood over your shoulder, flecking the surfaces behind. On this occasion, though, Winter could find no such evidence. The blood was restricted to the tiles around the basin. The guy might have cut himself shaving.
    Winter nodded to himself and then bent to an empty glass on the shelf beside the bath and sniffed it. He was going through the motions, his brain on automatic, and he sensed that the manager knew it. Not that Winter really cared.
    ‘What’s the guy’s name?’
    ‘French. Angus French.’
    ‘And you say he’s checked out?’
    ‘He’s left, certainly. His clothes have gone, as you can see, and we can’t find his car. He wouldn’t need to check out.’
    ‘Nothing from the minibar?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘No phone calls?’
    ‘Not on our system.’
    ‘Nothing downstairs? The restaurant? Breakfast on his tab?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    Winter was inspecting the contents of the little wicker basket of goodies by the sink. Bath gel. A shower hat. A complimentary bar of herb-scented soap. The latter was one of Joannie’s favourites. He weighed it in his hand and then slipped it into his pocket, trying hard not to picture her huddled in the recliner at home.
    ‘You’re not bothered?’ the manager said at last, looking pointedly at the bloodstains.
    ‘I’ve seen worse.’
    ‘But you’ll understand our concern? Calling you guys in?’
    ‘Yeah, but I don’t think you’ve got a problem here. Bloke’s on his own, gets pissed, staggers around a bit, cuts himself somehow, drowns his sorrows.’ He picked up the glass and offered it to the manager. ‘I’d say Scotch, but you’d be the expert.’
    The manager was looking at the glass.
    ‘You’ll not be bringing in forensic, then? Or a photographer?’
    ‘No point. It’s not even a damages claim, is it?’
    ‘No, but—’ He shrugged. ‘I guess it’s up to you.’
    ‘I’d leave it. Anything else comes up, give me a call.’
    Winter gave him a card before stepping back into the bedroom. The manager glanced at the card, took a final look at the blood crusting beside the basin, then shrugged again. Next door, Winter had returned to the window.
    ‘That bloody lawnmower of yours,’ he mused. ‘Ever get it back, did you?’
    It was lunchtime before Faraday had the chance to pursue the message from Fratton CID. Rick Stapleton and Dawn Ellis had been part of the team mounting the search after last night’s Donald Duck incident and they had little to report. They’d come away with a boxful of used condoms and enough empty lager cans to fill a couple of supermarket bags, but the guy they were now referring to as ‘DD’ hadn’t obliged them by dropping anything really helpful, like a pair of keys, or a nice little slip of paper with his name and address on it. They’d managed to match the woman’s trainers against a footprint on the edge of one of the ponds, but the surrounding mud was a mess of overprints and they’d found nothing worth even a photograph.
    Faraday let them finish before mentioning the call from the DS over at Fratton. Dawn was a slight, fine-boned twenty-five-year-old with a sharp intelligence and a chaotic love life. Stapleton, seven years, older, was fiercely gay and lived with his partner, a Southsea restaurateur, in an exquisite Victorian terrace near the seafront. To Faraday’s surprise, they made a good team. Stapleton, who happened to own a Suzuki 1100cc superbike, was one of those guys who tackled most of life’s corners at a thousand miles an hour, and Dawn was one of the few individuals who could slow him down. The fact that she very obviously fancied him had fuelled months of office gossip, but it was Vanessa, typically, who’d put her finger on the