Max Wolfe 02.5 - Fresh Blood by Tony Parsons Read Free Book Online Page A

and his brother Danny used to come in here a bit. Until they went away. And we was always the wrong side of town for them.’
    ‘But Vic kept coming here. Before he went away. After he came back.’
    ‘Yes. In his blood, see. Shadwell ABC.’
    ‘He was some age to be boxing.’
    ‘Sixty-odd if he was a day. But hard as nails. That generation – they went through the lot.’
    ‘You remember anything about the last time he was in here?’
    Gary fluttered his broom across the floor. ‘Bit of a row, wasn’t there.’
    ‘A row? That’s unusual in here, I bet.’
    Up in the ring a stockbroker had just broken the nose of a banker. At the bell for the end of the third and final round they fell into each other’s arms.
    ‘Not many rows in here outside of the ring,’ I said.
    Gary leaned on his broom.
    ‘Some herberts were in here. From the pub downstairs. The Saucy Leper. They’d had a few. Smoking a bit of the wacky baccy. Even in here.’ He shook his head with wonder. ‘They got in the ring and they were doing their – what do you call it? The Bruce Lee stuff?’
    ‘Martial arts,’ I said. ‘Some herberts from the pub came up and got in the ring and were showing off their mixed martial arts moves. And Vic Masters was training in here. What did Vic do?’
    Gary held the broom to his face and giggled.
    ‘Vic laughed at them,’ he said.
    The big black Bentley pulled into Smithfield.
    We watched the car from the window. Scout and I, Stan and Bullseye. The atmosphere was subdued. It’s always hard to say goodbye to a dog.
    Paul Warboys got out of the back of the Bentley. He was wearing a polo shirt and chinos now, dressed for Essex rather than Spain. A little girl got out with him, perhaps a couple of years older than Scout, chatting excitedly as they came towards our building. The girl was holding a brand-new dog lead.
    They rang the doorbell and we buzzed them up.
    Bullseye headed straight for the little girl.
    ‘This is Pauline,’ Paul Warboys told me as we shook hands. ‘My daughter’s youngest girl.’
    Scout and Pauline were all business. ‘You have to watch him when he’s off lead,’ my daughter told her. ‘He likes rolling in fox poo.’ Pauline frowned with concentration as Bullseye licked her hands, sealing the deal. ‘And if he does roll in fox poo,’ Scout said, ‘the best thing to get it out is tomato ketchup.’
    ‘Tomato ketchup,’ Pauline said. ‘We’ve got that.’
    Bullseye didn’t have many belongings. His collar. A giant bone the meat porters at Smithfield had given him. And a chewed-up stuffed toy, a robin left over from Christmas, that he carried into Stan’s basket every night.
    ‘We’ve been giving him raw food,’ Scout said. ‘He was a little overweight.’
    But Scout didn’t insist that Pauline stuck to his raw food diet. Bullseye was going to be somebody else’s dog now. Paul Warboys got down on his knees and expertly snapped on the dog lead.
    ‘Hello, Bullseye,’ he said. ‘Hello, old mate.’
    He straightened up and smiled at me.
    ‘Thank you for looking after my friend’s dog,’ he said.
    I nodded. ‘We’ve been happy to have him.’
    And it was true. Bullseye had a talent for destruction that we were not used to with our chilled-out Cavalier, but over the last week we had grown very fond of that brutal face. Bullseye didn’t look back at us, of course, as they headed to the door. I saw Scout’s mouth tighten as she fought to control her emotions.
    Paul Warboys touched Scout lightly on the shoulder.
    ‘I promise you that you’ll see this dog again,’ he said.
    Scout nodded.
    She believed him. And so did I.
    Scout sat at the window and watched Bullseye being taken away in the big black Bentley, her fingers scratching behind Stan’s ears. I could hear my phone vibrating on the far side of the loft and when I found it I saw that I had a dozen missed calls.
    There was one voicemail message from my colleague at West End Central, DC Edie Wren.
    ‘Max,’