Blood at the Root by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online

that,” he said. “I hate bloody Sunday lunchtimes, especially after working a Saturday night.” He scratched his thinning hair and a shower of dandruff fell on his shoulders. How bloody hygienic, Hatchley thought. “My name’s Ted, by the way.”
    “Aye, well, Ted, lad,” Hatchley said slowly, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we all have our crosses to bear. First off, was there any trouble in here on Saturday night?”
    “What do you mean, trouble?”
    “Fights, barneys, slanging matches, hair-pulling, that sort of thing.”
    Ted frowned. “Nowt out of the ordinary,” he said. “I mean, we were busy as buggery, so there was no way I could see what were going on everywhere at once, especially with the bloody racket that band were making.”
    “I appreciate that,” said Hatchley, who had had the same conversation five times already that morning and was getting steadily sick of it. He slipped the sketch from his briefcase. “Recognize him?” he asked.
    The barman squinted at the drawing, then passed it back to Hatchley. “Could be any number of people, couldn’t it?”
    Hatchley wasn’t sure why, but he felt the back of his scalp prickle. Always a sign something wasn’t quite right. “Aye, but it’s not,” he said. “It’s an amateur artist’s reconstruction of a lad’s face, a face that were booted to a bloody pulp after closing time last night. So any help you could give us would be much appreciated, Ted.”
    Ted turned pale and averted his eyes before answering. “Well, seeing as you put it like that… But I’m telling you the truth. Nothing happened.”
    Hatchley shook his head. “Why don’t I find myself believing you, Ted? Can you answer me that?”
    “Look.” Ted held his hand up, palm out. “I don’t want any trouble.”
    Hatchley smiled, showing stained and crooked teeth. “And I’m not here to give you any.”
    “It’s just…”
    “Frightened of something?”
    “No. It’s not that.” Ted licked his lips. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to swear to owt, but there were a lad looked a bit like that in last night. It could’ve been him.”
    “What was he doing?”
    “Having a drink with a mate.”
    “What did this mate look like?”
    “About my height. That’s five foot six. Stocky build. Tough-looking customer, you know, like he lifted weights or summat. Short fair hair, almost skinhead, but not quite. And an earring. One of them loops, like pirates used to have in old films.”
    “Had you seen them before?”
    “Only the one in the drawing, if it is him. Sometimes comes in on a weekend after a match, like, just for a quick one with the lads. Plays for United.”
    “Aye, so I’ve heard. Troublemaker?”
    “No. Not at all. Not even much of a boozer. He’s usually gone early. It’s just…” Ted scratched his head again, sending more flakes of dandruff onto the polished bar. “There was a bit of a scuffle Saturday night, that’s all.”
    “No punches?”
    He shook his head. “Far as I can tell, the lad in the picture bumped into another lad and spilled some of his drink. The other lad said something and this one replied, like, and gave him a bit of a shove for good measure. That’s all that happened. Honest. Pushing and shoving. It were all over before it began. Nobody got beat up.”
    “Could it have continued outside?”
    “I suppose it could have. As I said, though, it seemed like summat and nowt to me.”
    “This other lad, the one whose drink got spilled, did he have any mates with him?”
    “There were three of them.”
    Hatchley pointed to the sketch again. “Did you see this lad and his mate leave?”
    “Aye. I remember them because I had to remind them more than once to drink up.”
    “Were they drunk?”
    “Mebbe. A bit. They weren’t arse over tit, if that’s what you mean. They could still walk in a straight line and speak without slurring. Like I said, I’d seen the one in the picture a few times before, and he weren’t much of a