Shooting Elvis by Stuart Pawson Read Free Book Online Page B

it. Maybe a mountain bike would give me an edge, I thought.
    John Rose and Dave came in together just as I finished the reports. We always appoint a report reader to scrutinise them and extract possible pertinent details, but I like to go through them myself, when I have a chance. We call it gatekeeping. They brought chicken and stuffing sandwiches in with them, and we had a picnic in the big office.
    ‘Find anything?’ I asked Dave after he’d supplied me with a mug of tea.
    ‘Not much. Jeb Smith and Son is now run by the son, Jeb junior, who just happens to have a degree in physics. And it’s a recycling centre, not a scrap yard. He’d just started working for his dad back in the early Nineties, and he couldn’t be sure but he suspects that they were taking stuff from Ellis and Newbold’s. He certainly remembers the company, but no names. He admits that things were a bit shady in those days. Unfortunately his father is dead, so we can’t ask him, but it did mean that young Jeb spoke more freely.’
    ‘Fair enough. It was worth a try. Have another word with him when he’s had time to think about it. What have you found, John?’
    ‘I’m not sure. The landlord at the Coiners, up on the tops, thinks Alfred and another man may have been in once or twice a couple of weeks ago. They sat in a side room, so the landlord couldn’t see him clearly, but a couple of his regulars may have. Unfortunately I was a bit early. He said they don’t come in until about two, and I didn’t think you’d want me hanging about in licensed premises for another couple of hours.’
    ‘No, we couldn’t have that. Are you happy if Dave and I have a ride up there and talk to the regulars? I need some fresh air.’
    ‘No problem. I’ve plenty to do.’
    I looked at my watch and then at Dave. ‘Fifteen minutes, Booboo. OK?’
    He tipped me a wink. ‘Ready when you are, Yogi.’
    There was a note on my desk from Eddie Carmichael saying that he’d arranged to go to the indoor shooting range to keep his firearms authorisation up to date. About half of us are authorised firearms users, but I’m not one of them. I threw the note in the bin and rang High Adventure. Sonia was staying in her own house through the week, because my hours were uncertain. We chatted for a while and I said I’d drive over that evening if I didn’t finish too late. She told me she was doing some speed work on the track at Huddersfield after she finished, but she’d be home by seven. Earlier in the day she’d climbed the ice wall at the centre, one of the girls in the office was pregnant, some celebrity from local TV had been practising her snowboarding all morning and did I want a new fleece from Tog 24 because they were having a sale?
    ‘Wait! Wait!’ I interrupted when she paused for breath. ‘I’ve work to do. Tell me all about it when I see you.’ I put the phone down feeling ridiculously happy, like I always do after I’ve spoken to her.
    We drove to the Coiners in my car. The pub is a relic from the days when stagecoaches and packhorses roamed the hills, carrying wool and cotton and finished goods from town to mill andmill to town. Not much has changed since then, including the plumbing. I glanced round, taking in the obligatory sales rep on his way between the two counties; and the middle manager out with one of the typists, somewhere off the beaten track. I ordered two halves of Black Sheep and explained to the landlord who we were.
    Tom and Francis were two brothers who lived in a farmhouse a few hundred yards from the pub. Every lunchtime they drove there in an old van, taking turns behind the wheel so one of them could overindulge, and had the landlady’s special. In the evening they came again and played cribbage for pennies. I didn’t dwell on what they might do for the rest of the time.
    ‘Aye, that’s ’im,’ Tom assured us, after Dave showed him the photo of Armitage’s dead face. We’d explained who we were and asked them about