The City Trap by John Dalton Read Free Book Online Page A

then, Des? What’s the important business?’
    ‘The Claudette Turton murder.’
    ‘Shit!’
    A young Chinese woman brought over the food and tea, her face courteous despite the language and Errol’s insistence on serviettes.
    ‘Jesus, Des, what are you doing this for, man? This is real gutter fuckery. I mean, I get a fat pay cheque every month, an in ten year a good pension. I can fuck off to Jamaica then, be a
beach bum widout a care in the world. Shit, you don’t even know if you can pay the gas bill nex month. When you retire, you’ll be half starved on Social Security, queuing up wid the old
dears down the market for half-price stale bread!’
    ‘Come off it, Errol, don’t give me this grief. I’ve got enough problems.’
    ‘Yeh, well you certainly look a mess.’
    ‘Just give me credit, I’ve landed myself with a well-paid case; a few more and I might out-snoot you.’
    ‘All you’ve landed is trouble, brother.’
    It took some time for Des to get Errol to talk about Claudette Turton. The deep-fried spring rolls had to be tackled with extreme caution by a cop who was concerned about getting beansprout
juice on his tie. Des slurped loudly and let his fingers drip with oil.
    ‘The usual keep-it-under-your-hat disclaimer, Des, but, well, we don’t really know sweet fuck all about Claudette’s murderer. Her neck was broken. She had sex at some point
before she died. No signs of struggle so rape doesn’t look likely, though we got a DNA fix on the guy that fucked her. Being what she was, the two events may not have been related.’
    ‘What’s with this serial killer angle?’
    ‘Inconclusive. Whores and tarts, yeh, dumped nude in the country yeh, but then the evidence seems to vary a bit.’
    ‘No leads, huh, Mr Well-Paid DI?’
    ‘You know the score, Des. Nobody’s talking, no one gives a fuck. We put the heat on her pimp, it’s possible, but im don’t really fit, cept the guy’s a real
sucker.’
    ‘Vin St James.’
    ‘Yeh, it’ll probably be my job to make sure the git doesn’t get fitted up.’
    ‘So what you reckon then, Errol?’
    ‘There’s quite a few of these cases, Des, unsolved. Most likely some sexually screwed up nut who went too far one night, is scared shitless now and won’t come out of hiding for
a long time. That, or some fuckery with the vice kings and, shit, we can’t get much to stick on them.’
    ‘This is it, isn’t it, Errol? Like you get your fat pay cheque every month no matter what you do, catch the crims or no. But me? Jesus, they should privatize the police and bring in
payment by results. Professional cops and vice kings? Cut out the cosy status quo I say!’
    ‘You don’t believe that bollocks, do you?’
    ‘Ner, just jealous.’
    ‘Look, Des, we go way back and I’m happy to help, but you gotta go careful on this. You’re sorta green, man, and you got no back-up, no place to hide, an if it do turn out
local . . . you know what I’m saying?’
    ‘Yeh, well I guess I have been a bit don’t-give-a-shit reckless lately.’
    ‘So I see . . . and how is Miranda?’
    On his way back to Argent Street, Des felt that the bubble in the spirit level was getting centred once more. He didn’t know what kind of trouble he was driving into, but
the fact that he was driving made him feel he was on the mend. Besides, one problem could possibly be solved. Errol had said he would have words with Miranda. Pull the wool about Des being useful
to police investigations which could be seriously harmed by a court case. And Des could even pay for the windscreen now and throw in a few extra bob for compensation. Just get her quarantined
out of my mind. Concentrate on work and I’ll be a happy man. Ha, ha. If only . . .
    * * *
    If only . . . It was the question that sometimes haunted Vin St James. That letter when he was seventeen from Eustace, his dad.
    Dear Vincent
    We are settle now an doin well and want for you to come to England and be wid you folk. We have