The Veteran by Frederick Forsyth Read Free Book Online Page B

Why had no-one noticed him missing? How could he deliver such a smashing blow to Price’s nose and sustain no bruising to the knuckles? And why did he fight back at all, for a miserable wallet with at most a few notes in it? It was Luke Skinner who came up with an idea.
    “The first constable who reached the scene. He bent over the man and saw his face before it began to swell. And the first paramedic, the one who tended him on the pavement and in the ambulance. If we put them together with a police artist ... ?”
    Burns traced the paramedic through the London Ambulance Service and the man, hearing his patient had died, agreed to help. He was on an early shift the next day, but could be free after two p.m. and would happily give his time.
    The police constable was right there in Dover Street station and was traced through the duty roster and incidents log. A skilled police sketch artist agreed to come up from Scotland Yard the next day at two.
    Burns finished his day in a long tactics session with Alan Parfitt. The chief of detectives examined every scrap of evidence Burns laid before him and finally agreed.
    “We can get a result here, sir. We have the evidence of Mr. Patel, two identifications of the men by Patel, the blow to the nose, the repair three hours later by Dr. Melrose and the wallet. We can send them down for life.”
    “Yes, I think we can,” said Parfitt. “I’ll back you. I’ll be seeing a senior bod at the GPS tomorrow and I think I can persuade him that this one will go all the way.”
    There were statements, statements and more statements. The file was two inches thick. The full reports from the postmortem and the fingerprints department had yet to come in and be added. But both men agreed it was a ‘go’ and Parfitt was sure he could persuade the GPS of the same.

DAY EIGHT
    TUESDAY
    Price and Cornish were back in the dock at Number One court, Highbury Corner the next day and Mr. Stein presided. Miss. Sundaran represented the Crown, and her parents beamed with pride behind the glass panel shielding the public gallery as she handled her first murder case. Mr. Slade looked somewhat glum.
    Mr. Stein kept it short and efficient. The Clerk read out the new charge, murder, and Mr. Slade rose to say again that his clients denied the charge and reserved their defence. Mr. Stein raised an eyebrow at Miss. Sundaran, who asked for a new remand in custody for one week.
    “Mr. Slade?” he asked.
    “No application for bail, sir.”
    “Then granted. Miss. Sundaran. Hearing is set for next Tuesday at eleven a.m. Take them down.”
    Price and Cornish were led away to the prison van. Miss. Sundaran now had the entire file and was pleased with what she had. Back at her office she had been told that this would almost certainly go to trial and that she would be involved. Hopefully the file would be passed by the GPS to Mr. Slade in the next twenty-four hours. Then preparation for the defence could begin.
    “Some ruddy defence,” thought Slade, even this early in the case. “I’m going to need a genius in a wig to get them off this one.”
    The sketching session went well. The paramedic and the constable agreed on the approximate appearance of the man on the pavement a week earlier and the artist went to work. It was a team effort. The artist sketched, erased, sketched again. A face came into view. The cast of the eyes, the short-backand-sides grey hair, the line of the jaw. Both men had seen the man only with his eyes closed. The artist opened the eyes and a man was looking at them, a man that once was, now battered and sawn meat in a refrigerated drawer.
    Luke Skinner took over. He had a senior contact in the Scotland Yard press office and he wanted a spread in the Evening Standard for the following day. The pair of them met the chief crime correspondent later that evening. They all knew August was the ‘silly season’. News was thin. This was a story.
    The crime correspondent took it. He could see his