Breaking Point by Frank Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

you?’ he said. ‘I’d have thought it would be too early for planting around here.’
    The man stuck the fork in the ground and came over to the car. He was tall and lean, with barely an ounce of spare flesh on him, and well into his seventies by the look of him. ‘Facing south,’ he said laconically. He flicked his head toward the hill behind him. ‘All gravel, that is,’ he went on. ‘Holds the heat. I’ll have my peas in by the end of the week.’ He took a flat tin from his pocket, opened it and extracted a hand-rolled cigarette. ‘So, take the wrong turn down the road, did you?’ he asked as he flicked open a lighter.
    Tregalles shook his head. ‘I’m looking for someone,’ he said. ‘Fellow by the name of Mickey Doyle. I understand he lives here.’
    The old man eyed him narrowly through a curl of smoke. ‘In trouble, is he?’ he asked.
    â€˜Not as far as I know. Why? Is he often in trouble?’
    The man pushed out his lower lip and appeared to be giving the question some thought before answering. ‘Not often, no,’ he said at last. ‘Just the odd time when he’s had a bit too much to drink.’ He paused to pull a piece of loose tobacco from his lip. ‘But then, you probably know that better than me, you being a copper. What’s he done this time?’
    Tregalles chuckled. ‘Is it that obvious?’ he asked wryly.
    â€˜Afraid so.’ The man grinned. ‘But then, it takes one to know one. I used to be one myself. Thames Valley. Long time ago. Been retired for more than twenty years.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Goodale’s the name; Frank Goodale.’
    Tregalles grasped the outstretched hand as he introduced himself. Goodale’s grip was firm. ‘So what do you want with Doyle?’ the old man asked. ‘Not that you’ll find him at home. He’s probably off on a job somewhere. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him around for a week or more. But you could ask Mary Turnbull – she’s Mickey’s next-door neighbour, and she looks after his cat whenever he’s away. Number eleven over there.’ He pointed. ‘Doyle’s is number twelve.’
    Tregalles thanked him, but before moving off, asked him what sort of man Doyle was.
    â€˜He’s a good man at his trade, I’ll say that for him, and he’s the sort who will always give you a hand if you need it. But it’s the drink that gets him into trouble. He’ll go along for weeks, sometimes months, having a quiet pint down at the Red Lion, and then all of a sudden he goes on a bender, and he’s gone for days. He usually lands up in the nick, dries out, pays his fine, and comes back broke. I don’t know how many times Cutter has threatened to chuck him out because he hasn’t paid his rent on time. Cutter is the owner-manager here, not that he does much managing; the only time we see him is when it’s time for the rent. But Mickey always manages to slide in under the wire, somehow, and things go on as they were before.’
    Goodale plucked the butt of his cigarette from where it clung to his lip and pinched it out between thumb and forefinger before dropping it on the ground. He put his foot on it, and glanced up at the sky. ‘Enjoyed talking to you,’ he said as he began to edge away, ‘but they were forecasting rain this morning, and I’d like to get the garden dug before that happens. Go over there and talk to Mary. If anyone knows where Doyle is, she will, and you’ll probably get a cup of tea out of it.’ He winked. ‘Or more,’ he said, ‘if she happens to fancy you. She’s a widow, and she likes ’em young, does Mary.’
    Molly Forsythe stood at the end of the main village street, not quite sure what to do next. She had spent more than half the morning talking to people, yet she had absolutely nothing to show for