Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre by Rod Glenn Read Free Book Online

transmission). They were the best his funds could reasonably run to, but the batteries would still need recharging from time to time which would be risky.
     
    The Miller’s was easy enough to bug with a 950 on the phone and 400Ps in the bar and lounge and both toilets (suckered to the underneath of tables and hand basins). The Post Office, the SPAR, Merlin’s and Little’s were also pretty straightforward for a man with a degree of patience (mainly 400Ps concealed under a shelf here or behind some loose panelling there). A crawling sensation at having to buy some homemade sausages from the Edward and Tubbs double act was the only difficulty. A haircut at Moe’s allowed the placement of a 400P under the barber’s chair and a relaxing rest on the Green allowed a 400P to be attached to the underside of the bench.
    Even Belmont’s turned out to be simple enough; he just had to wait for Steve to jump into his old red Porsche to nip off somewhere (probably an illicit meeting with Janet) and then he just strolled into his unlocked portacabin and popped a 400P under his shabby desk. He passed Steve’s salesman, James Falkirk and mechanic, Paul Mason, chatting by the open bonnet of a Ford Granada that was well past its prime. He offered them a friendly wave and walked on. Neither gave him a second glance.
    The Duck & Bucket proved a little more testing. The landlady, Tess Runckle, turned out to be a robust woman with big bleached-blonde hair and even bigger breasts. She dripped more gold than Mr T and laughed like Eddie Murphy, but she had a cunning eye and, without any subtlety at all, showed Whitman a look of pure suspicion.
    With considerable effort and patience, he did eventually manage to plant a 950 on the phone and 400Ps in the lounge, bar and gents, but the ladies proved to be somewhat of a Stalingrad, as experienced by the Germans in the winter of 1942.
    Sitting beneath dozens of framed photographs and paintings, chiefly around the themes of birds and flowers, Whitman shifted in his seat and rubbed his bristly chin. He was growing impatient and beginning to convince himself that it was starting to show. Under the watchful eyes of grey wagtails, sparrows, thrushes and kestrels, not to mention Miss Marple-meets-Bet Lynch, he downed his third Jack and Coke then stood up casually. He arched his back and let out a resolute sigh. Offering the nosy landlady a sociable smile, which received a pencil-thin one in return, he turned towards the toilets.
    His heart was racing as he approached the two doors, marked subtly with ‘Cocks’ and ‘Hens’. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see that the busybody was no longer in view, but his pulse continued to race nonetheless. A nauseating feeling struck him that seemed at once undeniable. If this were a film, his next action would be known as a story decision. This was a major plot choice that would thrust our faithful protagonist/antagonist further on towards his goal. Suddenly, it was as if everything rested on this one task, which he reminded himself immediately was nonsense. As he reached the doors, he dropped his head down and, taking a deep breath, barged headlong into the ladies. Decision made.
    Having positioned himself earlier to keep an eye on both conveniences, he knew already that the hens’ were empty. After a cursory examination, revealing two cubicles and a wash area, he wasted no time in slipping a black 400P behind one of the two wash basins, pressing hard so that the adhesive back on the small device stuck firmly to the ceramic surface. With a sigh of relief, he flashed the back of his hand across his hot forehead. Not wishing to linger, he headed straight for the door, only to be confronted by Ms Runckle herself.
    “Lost, Mister Whitman?” Her face was set and her tone accusing.
    For a couple of very long seconds, Whitman was dumbstruck. His eyes were wide and staring and his mouth hung open slightly as fireworks exploded inside his mind. Then, recovering