The Night Ferry by Michael Robotham Read Free Book Online Page A

parking space ahead of me. A woman in her fifties emerges, dressed in a nurse’s uniform. She col ects a bag of groceries from the boot and walks to the terrace, cursing as she drops her keys.
    “Are you Mrs. Blake?” I ask.
    “Who wants to know?” Her blue-gray hair is lacquered into place.
    “I’m looking for your husband.”
    “You trying to be funny?”
    She has opened the door and stepped inside.
    “Your husband was involved in a car accident last Friday night.”
    “Not bloody likely.”
    She is disappearing down the hal way.
    “I’m talking about Earl Blake.”
    “That’s his name.”
    “I need to speak to him.”
    Shouting over her shoulder: “Wel , missy, you’re six years too late. That’s when I buried him.”
    “He’s dead!”
    “I sure hope so.” She laughs wryly.
    The house smel s of damp dog and toilet freshener.
    “I’m a police officer,” I cal after her. “I’m sorry if there’s been a mistake. Do you have a son cal ed Earl?”
    “Nope.”
    Dumping her shopping on a table in the kitchen, she turns. “Listen, love, either come in or stay out. This place costs a fortune to bloody heat.” I fol ow her into the house and shut the door. She has taken a seat at the table and kicked off her shoes, rubbing her feet through her support hose.
    I look around. There are medications lined up on the windowsil and food coupons stuck under fridge magnets. A picture of a baby in a hol owed-out pumpkin is on the calendar.
    “Put the kettle on wil you, love.”
    The tap spits and belches.
    “I’m sorry about your husband.”
    “Nowt for you to be sorry about. He dropped dead right there—face-first into his egg and chips. He was moaning about how I over-cooked the eggs and then whump!” Her hand topples onto the table. “I told him not to wear his underwear to breakfast but he never listened. Al the neighbors watched him wheeled out of here in his old Y-fronts.” She tosses her shoes in the corner beside the back door. “I know al men leave eventual y but not when you’ve just made ’em egg ’n’ chips. Earl was always bloody inconsiderate.” Mrs. Blake pushes herself upward and warms the teapot. “You’re not the first, you know.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Some bloke came here yesterday. He didn’t believe me either when I said Earl was dead. He said Earl owed him money. As if! Can’t see him gambling from beyond.”
    “What did this man look like?”
    “Had this tattoo on his neck. A cross.”
    Donavon is searching for Blake.

    “I hate tattoos,” she continues. “Earl had ’em on his forearms. He was in the merchant navy before I met him. Traveled al over the place and came back with these souvenirs . I cal ’em skin complaints.”
    “Did he have one just here?” I point to my chest. “A Crucifixion scene.”
    “Earl weren’t religious. He said religion was for people who believed in hel .”
    “Do you have a photograph of him?”
    “Yeah, a few. He was handsome once.”
    She leads me to the sitting room, which is ful of seventies furniture and faded rugs. Rummaging in a cupboard next to the gas fire, she pul s out a photo album.
    “Course it’s easier keeping the place clean now. He was a real slob. Dropped clothes like they was crumbs.” She hands me a snapshot. Earl is wearing a jacket with a fur col ar and fluorescent strips. He looks nothing like the driver of the minicab, although both are roughly the same age.
    “Mrs. Blake, do you ever get mail for your late husband?”
    “Yeah, sure, junk stuff. Banks are always sending him applications for credit cards. What’s he going to do with a credit card, eh?”
    “Did you cancel his driver’s license?”
    “Didn’t bother. I sold his old van. Bought meself the hatchback. Reckon the dealer ripped me off, the Paki bastard. No way that thing had done only four thousand miles.” She realizes her mistake. “No offense, love.”
    “I’m not Pakistani.”
    “Right. I don’t know much about the