Where the Bodies are Buried Read Online Free PDF

Solicitors on behalf of Mrs Dorothy Muldoon, a retired widow from Giffnock. In December last year,
     Mrs Muldoon runs into the back of Croft’s Escort van at a roundabout in Pollokshaws. Minimal damage, she accepts it’s her
     fault, expects to pay the excess on a wee bit of panel-beating and a skoosh of spray paint. Unfortunately the observant Mr
     Croft has noted that Mrs Muldoon has run into him in a Lexus, and the cogs have started to turn inside his grasping wee heid.
    ‘Couple of weeks later, she gets a notice saying she’s being sued forlong-term loss of earnings because Mr Croft sustained an injury in the accident and can no longer wield his trowel. The letter
     is from a company called Scotiaclaim.’
    ‘Is that the ones that have that tacky advert on the telly? The personal injury mob?’
    ‘Aye. And this shower would give ambulance-chasers a bad name. They advertise on daytime TV partly because it’s cheaper but
     mainly because their target market is shiftless bastards who believe something’s owing to them despite sitting on their fat
     arses all day when other folk are busy at work. Soon as I heard that’s who was representing him, it told me all I needed to
     know. Suffice to say, Hayden-Murray are sceptical as to the veracity of Mr Croft’s claim, especially as they have learned
     he has successfully made a similar claim before. Unfortunately, that’s not admissible in court, but it tells us plenty.’
    ‘What about doctors? Doesn’t he need a medical report?’
    ‘Oh, dodgy lawyers often have pals who are dodgy doctors. They can always source a diagnosis favourable to their position.
     But even if Hayden-Murray are able to secure an independent examination, Croft will have been made aware – if he wasnae aware
     already – of how to cite some conveniently non-specific and non-testable symptoms.’
    The court date was fast approaching, and so far they had nothing. They had tailed him twice before: once being the occasion
     Jasmine lost the subject in that cinema car park in Paisley. On the other, he had raised their hopes by going into a health
     club: some footage of him swimming or working the weights would be all they needed. It turned out he was seeing a physiotherapist,
     most likely as another witness who could testify to having treated his nebulous injury. The only plus was that up until now
     he didn’t appear to be aware that he was under surveillance, though he was bound to have been informed by Scotiaclaim that
     it was a possibility. As it stood, there was still a chance, albeit slim, that they could catch him doing something he shouldn’t
     be.
    ‘It’s Last Chance Saloon now,’ Jim had confessed. ‘With a very strong possibility that he’s playing it canny and we won’t
     get a thing.’
    ‘Do you still get paid?’
    ‘Aye, but it burns to see a guy like this get away with it. Plus, if you don’t get results, the lawyers will say they understand,
     but the likelihood is you won’t get hired again.’
    Jasmine watched Croft’s reflection pass across the window, this timeresisting the temptation to look at his face for assurance that he wasn’t looking back. She turned her head slightly, enough
     to keep him in her peripheral vision until it was safe to commence walking again. She allowed him a longer lead than before,
     conscious of having had that almost-funny.
    ‘Subject is turning left left left on to Cresswell Street.’ She kept up the commentary even though Jim was off the follow.
     She was recording her progress on the bodycam, so it was partly for the benefit of the tape (or rather, memory card) and partly
     just for practice.
    Jasmine felt anxiety seize her as she approached the end of the pedestrianised lane, in anticipation of what she might see
     – or more pertinently not see – when she turned on to Cresswell Street. It must be a documented phenomenon, she thought: the
     foot-follower’s fear of the corner. It was so piercingly acute that in recent