Bad Blood by Mark Sennen Read Free Book Online

the bed and tea chest the bedroom was bare like the living room. Either Franklin Owers hadn’t believed in having possessions or else he couldn’t afford them. All in all it seemed a depressing existence, and for a moment Savage sensed the man’s need for the uncritical type of companionship which perhaps might only come from a dog. Or a child. But then, for a man like Owers, mere companionship with a child wouldn’t be enough. Savage turned from the room and shook her head. Haunting wasn’t the half of it.
    Ricky Budgeon stared out of the window to where a patch of late afternoon sunlight painted a nearby field, the warm glow in stark contrast to the dark patterns cast by the clouds. He guessed the harsh light presaged a bout of heavy rain. The stream which ran past the rear of the house would fill, bank-full, and gurgle through the night. If he left the window open the noise might help him sleep. Assuming the pain stayed away, that was.
    The headaches had got worse in recent weeks and moments when he was free of worry were like the brush-strokes of gold on the field, either side of which were black shadows. One day those shadows would close in for good.
    He reached out for the rough wall to the side of the window and touched the lacquered stonework. The barn conversion had been nicely done, the place luxurious. A rich man’s pad. Not home though. Never that.
    From another room he could hear the sounds of the boy, gurgling like the stream, his mother clucking to him in Spanish as she prepared a meal. He should be in there with them, playing with the boy, pulling him close with one hand, the other reaching out for the girl. They were family after all, living with him, and Budgeon knew he should be trying to make the place more of a home. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do that. They meant something to him, sure, but he knew the woman only hung around because of the money. An ugly mug like him with a pretty girl on his arm? He’d seen it often enough in his line of work. When she was on her knees in front of him, head bobbing, he didn’t kid himself that her actions were anything to do with love or attraction.
    And the boy?
    The boy was cute. Dark hair, dark skin, a real punchy little kid with an iron grip and eyes that promised an intelligence which Budgeon knew he himself lacked. The boy would be someone, wouldn’t spend half his life inside. Not if Budgeon had anything to do with it.
    He wasn’t sure if the feeling he felt for the little lad was love or some kind of vicarious ambition. Still, the next week or so, if things went well, would see the kid sorted, the boy and his mother set up for life. One worry gone, one ache salved.
    Budgeon sighed and then reached forward and picked up the local paper from the windowsill. The lead story was of a dead girl beneath a suburban patio, a paedophile missing, police doing all they could to find the man, confident they would be making an arrest soon.
    Fat Frankie.
    Budgeon had never liked him. He remembered an argument with Big K one night way back, must have been twenty years ago. The three of them in the little room Big K had above the offy. Handy for free takeouts. Round the corner from the massage parlour too, often a couple of girls spreading themselves over one of the sofas, lips pouting like fish in a tank wanting a mouthful of food.
    â€˜It’s the figures.’ Big K looks up from the table, chucks his cards in. Folding. Nodding across to the third guy in the game. ‘Lexi, he’s canny with the politicos, you and me, we know the streets, and Frankie does the numbers.’
    â€˜He’ll be on the numbers before long. Frankie Fiddler – and I ain’t talking an Irish jig.’
    â€˜You’re right there, Ricky.’ Lexi this time. All too friendly. Collecting up the chips in the centre. ‘Trouser dance while watching the kiddies is the only rhythm he’s beating out. We still need him