Unti Peter Robinson #22 Read Online Free PDF Page B

and she offered to help. “Can I do it?”
    â€œNo. I’m used to it, thank you. Back in a jiffy.”
    Winsome took out her notebook and prepared some questions while he was away. He soon came back with the teapot and mugs, and as he poured, Winsome studied him more closely. She realized that he was much younger than his injury made him seem. War had aged him. The Blair Folly started in 2003 with the invasion of Iraq, and the Afghanistan fiasco had been going on even longer. If Gilchrist had been a young lad when he started out in, say, 2000, he could easily be somewhere between thirty and forty now. It was impossible to tell. He had a fine head of fair hair, a strong jaw and clear blue eyes. He was even taller than Winsome, and he had a soldier’s bearing, but he also had a slight stoop, and the limp, of course. Though he seemed a little shy, there was something solid and dependable about his presence and Winsome felt safe in his company. Not that she normally felt unsafe, but it was a definite feeling, and one she wasn’t used to. She found herself wondering whether the wound embarrassed him, if that was what made him appear awkward and shy. After a sip of Earl Grey, she got down to business. “Have you ever noticed anything odd about the hangar before?”
    Gilchrist patted his dog. “I didn’t even notice anything this time. Peaches was off the leash and wouldn’t come back. That seemed unusual, so I went to get her.”
    â€œThat’s never happened before?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHow long have you lived here?”
    Gilchrist gazed around the room. “I grew up here. This house belonged to my parents. They died while I was overseas. Car crash. Ironic, isn’t it? There am I dodging bullets and they get killed by a drunk driver who walks away without a scratch.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’m an only child. The mortgage was paid off. I inherited.”
    There seemed both anger and resignation in Gilchrist’s sense of irony. Winsome had known one or two soldiers whose experience of combat had isolated them from their fellow man, but Gilchrist didn’t seem like that—­just wounded and angry. She picked up the threads of the conversation. “How long have you been back from . . .”
    â€œAfghanistan. Helmand Province. It’s OK to say it. Little over a year.”
    â€œHow often do you take Peaches walking there, by the airfield?”
    â€œEvery now and then, maybe once a week or so.”
    â€œYou knew about the hole in the wire, then?”
    â€œYes. I think it’s always been there. I used to play there myself and I’ve seen the local kids crawling in and out. But kids can usually find a way to get in anywhere, can’t they? They’re all right. They don’t do any harm. The younger ones play cricket and footie, and the older ones maybe down a few cans of cheap lager, kiss and cuddle with their girlfriends. They’ve nowhere else to go, poor sods. Where’s the harm?”
    â€œWas there anything else going on out there that you know of? I mean kids might get into fights, might even organize them. What about cockfighting, that sort of thing?”
    Gilchrist shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything or heard any rumors of anything like that. I’ve seen lorries coming and going once or twice. Other than that, nothing.”
    â€œLorries? Since when?”
    â€œJust the past year or so. Since I’ve been here alone.”
    â€œHow often?”
    Gilchrist thought for a moment. “Maybe three or four times over the year. It’s not a regular thing.”
    Gerry Masterson could always check on what companies had the use of the place, if any, Winsome thought. If it came to that. “You said you think the government owns the land.”
    â€œJust a wild guess. I’ve no idea, really. It’s been like that as long as I can remember. All I know is it was used