Unholy Rites Read Online Free PDF Page B

crossed her face, never mind a greeting.
    When they were settled outside, Danutia said, “I’ve read the reports on Eric Ellison. Strangely enough, I met his mother at the funeral yesterday. No wonder she was looking haggard.”
    Kevin poured his tea and added milk. “As you know, I’m the one who collared him. Eric hangs around with lads from Tideswell, just up the road. Happens that’s where I live. On the Saturday after the New Year I was walking home after a quick one at the George when I heard glass breaking down at the Co-op. As I nipped across the road, two blokes legged it. Eric just stood in the doorway, holding this bag of groceries like he was waiting for his ma. Claimed the stuff was for a homeless man he’d met. Said the man was special, like a hermit or something. You can imagine how that went down at the station, what with the mickey of vodka. Setting themselves up for a party, more like. He wouldn’t identify his mates, but we’ve a good idea who they were. No priors, so he was a good candidate for diversion. A year older and he’d have been in adult court.”
    â€œGive him a few months in prison and he’ll learn how not to get caught.”
    â€œA shame that would be,” Kevin said. “My boys tell me Eric was a bit rowdy at school, and then he dropped out and got in with a rough crowd. Too much time on his hands, if you ask me. Not enough structure. His dad travels, his mum’s a hairdresser and fills in at the Anglers Reward when they need her. She does her best, but she’s short of time and some youngsters need a lot of attention.”
    Danutia cradled the hot mug in her cold hands. “Speaking of his mates. The Community Service Order forbids him to have contact with a long list of people. Think that’s enforceable?”
    Kevin laughed. “That’s Hugh Clough’s worry. Stacey worked out the provisions with him, since he volunteered to take custody. I’d say the CSO is tough but fair.”
    â€œTwo hundred hours of unpaid work for the community; two hundred hours of paid on-the-job training; compulsory school attendance; close supervision for six months. I’d say that’s tough all right. Whether it’s fair remains to be seen.” She sipped her coffee. Beneath their table, a sparrow hunted for crumbs. “I met a Justine Clough yesterday,” she said. “Late forties, pixie haircut. Chair of the well dressing committee. Any relation to Hugh?”
    â€œThey’re married, no kids. Live on a sheep farm up Wormhill way, beyond the old Mill-on-Wye station. He used to teach inner city kids in Manchester, came back to the farm when his dad died. As soon as we asked members of the community to get involved in the crime reduction initiative, Hugh jumped on board. Besides the sheep farm, he runs Corn Mill Crafts. That’s where Eric will get his jobs training.”
    â€œI remember seeing the sign from the road,” Danutia said. “Near the bridge. It looks like a big operation. Is it a working mill?”
    â€œHugh’s no miller. He’s interested in teaching young lads the traditional crafts that are dying out in the villages, like furniture making and dry stone walling. Bit idealistic, if you ask me. Kids these days, all they care about is computer games and such like.”
    â€œLike your two, you mean?” Danutia grinned. When she’d had dinner with Kevin and Paula on the weekend, their teenage sons had to be dragged away from their X-Box.
    Kevin looked sheepish. “Always easier to pass judgment on other people’s kids. Ready?”
    From the station on the hill above them came the clatter and chuff of the first Manchester train of the day, the only passenger service remaining. Danutia drained her mug and stood up. “Ready.”
    They were silent on the walk uphill, Kevin conserving his breath, Danutia thinking about what had brought her to England. It