Dead Men's Shoes by Geoff Palmer

Author:Geoff Palmer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Geoff Palmer
Published: 2019-11-19T00:00:00+00:00

10

Jane didn’t know north London very well so an afternoon run around Islington, and Tufnel Park in particular, sounded like fun. She needed to think about things – personal things, work things – and always seemed to find some clarity if her body was occupied with something mundane like putting one step in front of the other, measuring its breathing and keeping an eye out for traffic.

She wore a light running jacket and trackies, stripping off both and cramming them into her tiny backpack once she’d left the Underground. She hated doing stretches and warm-ups in public, so instead took off at a modest pace, slowly building up over the first half-mile as her muscles warmed and loosened. The sky was murky grey, there was a threat of rain, and the streets around the station were choked with Saturday traffic. Glancing at her phone, which doubled as a pedometer, she headed east, did a couple of circuits of the playing fields and Foxham Gardens then turned south to Carleton Road.

It was curiosity really. She knew Ron Jonson’s address and could have viewed his house and street on the internet, but there was something about seeing it for herself. She slowed as she ran past, glancing at a detached, three-storey place with a large elm tree in the front garden and two off-street car parks on one side. Mid-Victorian, judging by its steeply stepped roof line and the two tall chimneys on the eastern side. There was a light on in one of the inner rooms downstairs. It showed as a small, square beacon in the front window. Jane took a breath and ran on, undecided.

Her map showed the logical way back to the station was to turn up Dalmeny Road. Jane ignored it, crossed over and circled back.

Pausing in the shade of the elm, she pulled the tracksuit bottoms and jacket from her backpack, and shook them out. Both were a bit rumpled, but they looked more respectable than the T-shirt and shorts she’d been running in. Without giving herself time for second thoughts, she marched up to the front door and pressed the bell.

A middle-aged woman appeared wearing a plum-coloured twinset and grey plaid shirt. Her permed hair matched the colour of her skirt and her hawkish, rather inquisitive look that was enhanced by the small, round, wire-framed spectacles she wore. She was angular and tall, and peered down at Jane from the elevated height of the upper step.

‘Mrs Jonson?’ Jane said. ‘I’m a colleague of your husband’s from Bartley’s Bank.’

‘You’re too late,’ the woman said. ‘There’s nothing left.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your ... cohorts took it all.’ She made a fluttering gesture with one hand, as if a small bird had just escaped her grasp. ‘They promised to return it by the end of the week. I’m incommunicado here, you know!’

‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Who did you say you were again?’

‘My name’s Jane Child. I work with your husband. I was in the area and thought I’d pop by and see how he's doing.

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