Limestone Cowboy by Stuart Pawson Read Free Book Online

poisoning?”
    “Something like that. Can I ask how long you’ve been separated?”
    “Just coming up to six weeks, but what’s that got to do with it?”
    “Mr Johnson thinks you may have tampered with his food.”
    She stared at me for a beat, then jumped to her feet and paced the room. “That’s typical!” she declared. “Bloody typical. Everything that goes wrong it’s me. He’s paranoid, Inspector, bloody paranoid, believe me.” She started to say something else, stumbled over the words, then said: “Poison, was it? Poison? Any ideas what?”
    I shook my head.
    “No? Well I’ll tell you how he got it. He did it tohimself, that’s what. He’s pathetic, feels sorry for himself since he lost his job.” She walked over to the window, looked out then turned back to face me. “I’m sorry, I never asked if you wanted a coffee.”
    “No, I’m fine. When did you last see him?”
    “The week after I left him. I’d given him this address, trying to be civilised about it, but he came round every night, promising me the world. It took a week for him to get the message that I wanted shot of him for good.”
    “Was he on any sort of medication?”
    “Medication?”
    “Mmm.”
    “Not from the doctor, but he spent a fortune in health shops. He was into every latest fad there was.”
    “Any ideas what he was taking?”
    “No, I’m sorry.”
    “What did he do when he worked?”
    “He was a sorter at the Post Office.”
    “And why did he lose his job?”
    “The cuts, due to mechanical sorting, or something, but he had a record of bad time-keeping, so they were probably glad to let him go.”
    “And do you do anything?”
    “Yes. I work at Yakuma Electronics, attaching things called FETs to printed circuit boards. It takes me forty-five seconds to do one, and my target is five hundred in a shift.”
    “Good grief. Aren’t you working today?”
    “Six this morning until two. I just came in as you rang.”
    “I’m sorry if I’ve upset your routine – you’re probablystarving. I might want to see you again – will you be working the same hours next week?”
    “No. Two till ten next week.”
    “I’ve done a few of those myself, Mrs Johnson, so you have my sympathy.”
    “It pays the rent. I haven’t had a penny out of him.”

Chapter Three
    For most people Friday night is the best night of the week, but lately I’d been finding it a bore. The big case was behind us and settling back into routine was difficult . A high-profile murder opens doors for you, gives you power to cut corners and bypass procedures. When you ask for something to be done, it gets done. You live and breathe the case for twenty-four hours per day, seven days a week, and then it’s over. Handshakes all round, have a booze-up with the lads, and it’s back to normal duties. Somebody was stealing knickers off washing lines and we might have had an attempted murder by poison. Or maybe it was self-inflicted . Burglary was hovering slightly below its normal level and car theft was slightly down, too. The Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) was pleased with the figures and when he is happy Gilbert is happy, so we have an easy life.
    But I miss the excitement. Filling in forms and finding the correct path through the ever-moving maze of regulations that beset the most routine, black- and-white investigation is not my idea of being a cop. It used to be fun. Now, you can find yourself on a fizzer if you don’t put sugar in the accused’s complimentary cup of tea. You are depriving him of his human rights and subjecting him to unnecessary hardship.
    End of moaning – I wouldn’t want to do anything else. I hung my jacket in the hall and went through into the kitchen, picking up the mail on the way. I wasabout to put it all in the bin when the postcard fell from between a World of Reading brochure (any three books on the occult for 99p) and a reminder from BUPA that I wasn’t getting any younger. The card showed a yacht marina and