Dead Right by Peter Robinson Read Free Book Online Page B

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’snot,” 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 ofa 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 drinker. He might have had a jar more than usual, but who hasn’t had by closing time on a Saturday night?”
    “And it wasn’t till after eleven o’clock that you got rid of them, right?”
    “Aye. About quarter past. I know some places are a bit lax, but there’s no extension of drinking-up time in The Jubilee. The manager makes that clear.”
    “What about the other three?”
    “They’d gone by then.”
    “Were they drunk, too?”
    “No. At least they didn’t act it.”
    “Anything else you can tell me about them?”
    Ted looked away.
    “Why do I get the impression you’re still holding something back, Ted?”
    “I don’t know, do I?”
    “I think you do. Is it drugs? Worried we’ll close the place down and you’ll lose your job?”
    “No way. Look, like