Drink With The Devil by David Woods

Author:David Woods [Woods, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781492766124
Published: 2013-11-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Cordon Simpson sauntered into Garry’s office with a cigarette hanging from his lips. Carry looked up from his desk.

“How did you get on?”

“I’ve planted the poison.”

“How did she take it?”

“Badly. Very upset, she was.”

“But d’you think she believed you?”

“No doubt about it.”

“Good. I’ll see her myself at the weekend.”

“What for? To rub salt into the wound? You must hate her guts.”

“It’s none of your business. But if you must know, I’m doing it for her own good.”

“You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

“Now, what about Grainger? Have you found him yet?”

“Give me a chance, guv. I haven’t started looking yet.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Get on with it.”

“I need a few more details.”

“Like what?” Garry related all he knew, and Simpson left with a bad feeling about the job he had been asked to do. It took a week of searching and talking to police contacts before he found out where Jim was living, but after that it became easy. He watched the van leave early in the morning and followed inconspicuously. When it turned into a building site, he parked and walked on to the large site with a clipboard tucked under his arm, so as to look official, and no one challenged him. He followed the rough-looking gang to a nearby flattened building, and watched as the remaining structure was reduced to rubble. As he stood beside a pile of old timber awaiting removal, he was spotted, and a man walked towards him, but he looked studiously at his clipboard, glancing up and realising he would have to bluff it out.

“What d’you want, mate?” Billy Bradford asked.

“Just waiting for you to finish, and then I was going to ask who owns the rubble.”

“Why. Want to buy it?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“You’re out of luck mate, ’cause it belongs to the main contractor.”

“Does he want it?”

“Yeah. For road filling.”

“Never mind. I’ll find some elsewhere.”

“We may have some shortly.”

“Oh, yes. Who’s we?”

“Grainger Construction. We’ll be demolishing a house on Poplar Drive next.”

“Where’s that?”

“On the other side of town.”

“Right. Thanks for your help.”

Simpson turned and walked away, chuckling to himself as he drove home to his grubby flat. Just as he started typing his report, his telephone rang and it was Garry, sounding bad-tempered.

“Simpson, when are you going to get off your backside and find Grainger?”

Simpson paused to stop himself laughing, which made Garry’s temper worse.

“Well, what have you done about finding him?”

“I found him to-day.”

“Where?”

“It’ll be in my report.”

“Why should I wait for your ridiculous report? Tell me now.”

“No. You’re just going to have to wait.”

“Don’t be bloody stupid. I want to know right now.”

“I’ll bring the report to your office at Blakesbuild in the morning, and you can give me my cheque.”

Garry groaned. “If you must play stupid games.”

Simpson arrived at nine as arranged and was ushered into the large office. “Well, where did you find him?” barked Garry, looking grim.

“It’s all in my report.”

“Give it to me, then.”

“When you’ve handed over my cheque.”

“Oh, very well.” Cheque and report were handed over simultaneously, and Simpson took several steps back and waited.

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