Truth Dare Kill by Gordon Ferris Read Free Book Online Page A

saucer of Carnation milk for it. That seems to work. It doesn’t come near me, doesn’t demand stroking or – god forbid – a lap, just recognition and milk, then it goes on its way, its stumpy tail the last thing I see as it glides off down the stairs.
    Wilson scared the cat the day he paid me a visit. Its thin head shot up, its ears twitched, and it was away before I’d even heard the first steps. I heard his big feet clumping up the stairs. They even sounded like copper’s feet, relentless, heavy, full of their own importance. A hat sailed into view, then the shoulders of a big coat. The man wearing them was sucking for air. He held the top rail for a second or two till he got his breath. Then he came in through my open door. No knock. He just stood there wheezing, eyeing me and my place. I waited.
    “McRae?” His chest still heaved.
    “That’s me. Sorry, the lift’s out.”
    He ignored my humour. “You a so-called private dick, then?” He made it sound sinful.
    I still didn’t know he was police, but he had that look. In his first five seconds he’d itemised my office, memorised my face, and noticed the door to my bedroom.
    “At your service. Can I help? Need a debt collected? Lost a wife?”
    I watched his mouth twist. “I’m Inspector Wilson. Detective Inspector, CID.
    You’re on my patch. Wanted to see you, what you were up to. I don’t like what you do.”
    What the hell was a DI doing making house calls?
    “I’m honoured, Inspector, and it’s really nice to be made welcome. But I’m a bit puzzled; we haven’t met, and yet already you’re pissed off with me. Isn’t that a wee bit unfair? And before we continue this nice chat, can I see your warrant card, please? Can’t be too careful these days.”
    I could see his jaw muscles tighten. We were getting on famously. He hated me and I loathed him. I’d seen too many of his kind; they’d been in the force too long, got too used to throwing their weight around. Wilson let his fell gaze roast me for the obligatory five seconds, then he reached into his great overcoat and pulled out a card. He strode over to my desk and rammed it under my nose. DI Herbert Wilson. I wondered if he’d let me call him Bertie?
    “Satisfied?”
    “Thank you, Inspector. Now, shall we start again? What can I do for you?”
    “You can tell me who you are, where you come from, and what you’re doing here.”
    “I thought we’d established who I was and what I’m doing? And my accent’s a bit of a clue, is it no? I needed a job after getting demobbed. This – palace – is it.”
    “You could have got your old job back. What was it?” He settled his great bulk into my chair. He seemed to take up the whole view from my desk. I sighed. He wasn’t going to let this go until he found out.
    “I was in the force. In Glasgow. Thought I’d try the private sector. More money.” Potentially, I thought, potentially. I thought it smart not to tell him I’d been a detective sergeant.
    He didn’t look surprised, which was surprising. He chewed on the end of his moustache for a bit, then wiped it dry with a big paw.
    “Ok, McRae. Here’s my warning. I don’t like private investigators. Especially don’t like former coppers doing private investigations. Only one who investigates around these parts is me. I can’t stop you. Not until you do something illegal or get in my way.” He leaned over my desk, and his bloodshot eyes held mine. “Just – don’t – get – in – my – fucking – way.” His breath would have stripped paint.
    I didn’t blink. I’d been through worse sessions with real bullies. Much worse.
    They hadn’t made threats, just carried them out.
    “I’m sure there’s room for both of us on these gold-paved streets, Inspector.
    And I’m prepared to give you a big discount if you ever need help looking for Mrs Wilson.”
    I thought my poor visitor’s chair would explode under the pressure. Wilson wrenched himself clear and lowered over the desk at me, leaning on his knuckles.
    He singed my eyebrows with his