Rules of Honour by Matt Hilton Read Free Book Online Page B

of bullshit.’
    ‘That’s your prerogative. I don’t care. All I care about is finding the man who killed my dad.’ His gaze flicked to the gurney being trundled past us. ‘And Jed Newmark.’
    ‘That’s what we all want. But there’s something else that we demand . . .’
    ‘If we learn anything, we tell you immediately?’
    ‘Yes. I’d hate to think that you chose to exact your own brand of justice. If that were to happen—’
    ‘The SFPD wouldn’t turn a blind eye. Yeah, we got that already.’
    Detective Jones unhooked his thumbs, allowing his jacket to swing closed over the gun holstered on his belt next to his detective’s shield. ‘I’m glad we’re all clear on that.’
    ‘Crystal,’ Rink said. I could smell the testosterone in the air.
    ‘Just the way we like it.’ Jones glanced over at Detective Tyler and the men shared a less than subtle nod. Jones allowed his features to relax, and the easygoing smile crept back into place. ‘We appreciate your cooperation on this. Makes it much easier for everyone involved.’
    Including the murderer, I thought, but elected to keep my opinion to myself.
    Jones indicated one of the CSI techs. ‘Don’t forget to speak with my colleague before you leave. In fact, why don’t you go with him now? You can use the kitchen over there.’
    We’d been dismissed like chastened schoolboys from the principal’s office. Not that either of us minded. We’d wasted enough time there as it was. As soon as we were done with the forensics guy, we could get on with what needed doing. After we’d changed our clothing and shoes and put on gloves.

Chapter 8
    In South Dakota, at 8.30 p.m. on the day of Andrew Rington’s funeral, Dan Lansdale was sitting in the bleachers of his grandson’s Little League stadium. The description of ‘stadium’ was too grand because it wasn’t much more than a diamond set in well-trampled sun-dried earth, a lean-to dugout and a chain-link fence, surrounded by triple-tiered rows of wooden benches on metal scaffolding. But it was known as ‘the Stadium’ by the local townsfolk and had been since Dan was a boy. When he was a kid he’d taken his first practice swings out on the same diamond, observed by his grandfather in turn. He wasn’t watching his own grandson now: the boy was home with his parents, as he should be this late in the evening. Dan had come here because it held such fond memories for him, thinking they might push aside the terrible things he’d been forced into recalling since hearing of Andrew’s murder.
    The sun was low in the heavens, setting fire to the low-lying clouds shrouding the nearest peaks of the Black Hills. Occasionally Dan turned his gaze away, blinking until the colours etched on to his retina faded, before looking west again. He was sitting in the tiny town of Whitehead, far enough off Interstate 90 that sightseers heading for the nearby national park and Mount Rushmore missed it, but his mind was on his deceased friend in San Francisco. Occasionally it drifted to a different place but he was quick to shove the thoughts away. He chose to dwell on better times, or at least attempted to because thoughts of the basement kept coming back to him.
    Dan had been born here in Whitehead, into a large Evangelican Lutheran family, and but for a spell spent abroad had lived here most of his adult life. Whitehead was his sanctum, the place he felt that his other life had no business invading and until the telephone call he’d received a couple days ago it had left him alone. Being a religious man, he had no truck with the concepts of fate or karma, but believed that a man’s sins would come back to repay him tenfold. He was therefore unsurprised when he heard the soft thud of footsteps and turned to see a man approaching across the deserted baseball ground. Though he wouldn’t admit it, Dan had come here for more than the purpose of reminiscing. He had suspected that he was next on the list and didn’t want to be