Every Mother's Son: A Chilling British Crime Thriller (DCI Kett Crime Thrillers Book 7) by Alex Smith

Author:Alex Smith [Smith, Alex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Relentless Media
Published: 2021-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There was only one pub in the village, but it was almost impossible to find.

Porter slowed the Mercedes to a crawl as he passed the last few houses, the road opening up immediately into fields. He cursed beneath his breath then reversed into a driveway. Even with the windows wound all the way down the smell in the car was overpowering, the collection of pine air fresheners enough to make him high. It was worse than the pollen, and he breathed through his mouth as he drove back the way he’d come.

New Whytetail couldn’t have been more different to the old one. Houses and shops held hands along a quaint, winding central street—all climbing roses and big Georgian windows, even though none of the buildings looked old. He passed a bakery, his stomach grumbling, then a little shop. On the other side of the street was a café called Benny’s, and it was only because he was looking at the menu as he passed that he spotted a narrow side road lost between two overgrown hedges. A faded sign pointed to the River Garden Public House.

Porter slammed on the brakes, earning an impatient honk from an Audi right behind him. He turned the wheel but Clare’s car was a cruise liner and he had to keep reversing and pulling forward before he managed to squeeze into the gap. The Audi honked again.

“Fudging winker,” Porter muttered quietly, before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to look like a policeman.

“Eat a bag of dicks!” he yelled through his open window, flashing the young driver his middle finger.

The horn blared again as the Audi accelerated.

“Wanker,” Porter muttered, easing the car up the narrow track. It quickly opened out into a car park, an ugly brick building squatting on the other side of it. There were no other cars here, just a Transit Van in the far corner, so he parked in the closest space to the door and climbed out.

The River Garden was the most badly named pub in existence, because there was no river here, and no garden. The front door was locked, despite it being well after three, so Porter followed the enormous car park around to the side, past a couple of fruit trees dead in their pots and a bin that reeked of rotting food. The business end of the pub had been fenced off but Porter peeked through the gate to see that the kitchen door was open. The smell here was a lot better, something roasting.

“Hello?” he called out.

No answer. He walked to the door and breathed in, salivating, his stomach playing a tune like a brass band. Past a small corridor and a toilet sat a kitchen, but this too looked deserted.

“Hello?”

He walked inside, happy to be out of the sun. Sure enough the industrial oven was on, a joint of beef sizzling inside it. Potatoes bubbled in a pan on the hob. Porter took the only other door he could see, finding himself in another whitewashed corridor.

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