The Plantagenet Vendetta by John Paul Davis Read Free Book Online Page A

Joseph’s?”
    “Ah, well, it’s quite sad, really. The poor lad was being bullied.”
    “Was he an awkward child?”
    “Definitely,” Gavin said.
    “No, no, no,” Brian said. “Now, be fair, Gavin. He wasn’t awkward exactly. I think, really, he just needed a friend.”
    “You think he was isolated?”
    Hancock nodded, sipping his pint.
    Jen looked behind the bar. Mitchell had returned with a large plate in his hand. He placed it on the counter in front of her. The smell of chips, burger and bun immediately increased the feeling of hunger that had been escalating since leaving her room.
    She picked up a chip, her eyes on the two barflies.
    “Can I buy you two another drink?”
     
    The DG of MI5 was speechless. Leaving the subterranean prison cell after seeking to question the occupant, he walked quickly alongside the smartly dressed officer, doing his best to ignore the unsettling sound of manic laughter coming from behind the bars.
    “That tears it,” the DG said, keeping his eyes in front of him at all times. “Let the King have his wish.”
     
    Standing in the windswept grounds of the palace, the young man felt a tap on his shoulder.
    “Father.”
    The older man smiled. Like his son, he was dressed for the occasion.
    “Come inside. When you’re ready, your uncle would like a word.”

8
     
    Twenty minutes later, Jen had established a reasonably solid body of information about the late, and largely unlamented, Luke Rankin, and the supposedly late, and widely mourned, Debra Harrison. She had spent over a tenner and lost almost half of her chips, but the result was worth it.
    From what she had gathered, Debra Harrison had been something of an outgoing sort: a smiling child and a smiling teenager, a friend to all and enemy to none. As a cute little girl with pigtails, she had been something of a darling among the villagers, particularly the elderly. As her breasts got larger, so did her male fan base, according to the barflies, including a few who really shouldn’t have been. Her initial aim had been to work in fashion – don’t they all at that age, Jen thought – whereas, according to Gavin, the new craze was to be a photographer and journalist.
    At least that agreed with the official stance, the words of her mother a year earlier.
    The word on Rankin was more interesting. The boy died just shy of eighteen, his death purported to be suicide. Unlike Harrison, Rankin had been something of a lonely child, who had endured an unhappy childhood – particularly at St Joseph’s. His father had died when he was eleven. According to Gavin, he was a man of similar tendencies to his son, whereas, according to Brian, he had been well regarded in the local community. Though Jen had decided to keep an open mind about Gavin’s claim that the father had committed suicide, she had come to the conclusion that Hancock was the more open-minded of the two.
    Despite Rankin’s difficulties, it appeared the boy was more than competent. If Hancock was correct, Rankin was even set for university. Harrison, being two years younger, would have been staying on at St Joseph’s to do her A-levels.
    Jen looked through her notes, finished her Coke, and ordered another from Mitchell. She rewarded her witnesses with two more pints of Abbot Ale, and each man a bag of pork scratchings.
    Jen fiddled with her hair. “Okay, so let me get this straight: Debra and Rankin were not good friends.”
    Hancock tasted his latest pint and wiped white froth from his upper lip. “They knew each other; like I say, everyone in Wootton knows each other, but they definitely weren’t friends.”
    Hancock seemed pretty certain.
    “What makes you so sure?”
    “Well, for a start, Rankin were two year older. For the most part, they were at separate schools.”
    “Were they ever at the same school?”
    Hancock shrugged. “You’d have to ask the teachers.”
    She intended to. “How well did they know each other?”
    “I’d guess hardly at all.