Murder Squad 01 - The Yard by Alex Grecian

Author:Alex Grecian
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Crime, Mystery & Detective, Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9780718159160
Publisher: Putnam Adult
Published: 2012-05-28T22:00:00+00:00

45

I’ll stay down here,” Blacker said.

“You’re not coming up?”

“Not a chance, old boy. It was difficult enough the first time around.”

“Wait for me, then. I’ll be a moment.”

“Take all the time in the world. I shall stand out here and enjoy the sun on my face and pity you up there.”

“I’m sure that will sustain me.”

Day smiled and shook his head. He opened the door and stepped through into the foyer of Inspector Little’s building. The space was so tiny and foul that Day kept his arms tight at his sides for fear they’d brush the walls and come away stained or sticky. To his left was a closed door and, directly ahead, a long dark staircase that disappeared into the gloom up above. He took a deep breath before letting the street-level door swing shut behind him, and then trudged up the steps.

“Damn Blacker for a coward,” he said.

He let a small amount of air out through his nose and could taste the old food odors that lived in the hall. The essence of stale spices lodged in the back of his throat and made him want to cough, but he stifled the impulse. He tried to remember the smell of trees outside his home in Devon, but could not.

The landing at the top of the stairs was as small as the foyer, and the door to the Little home was open a crack. Day could hear muffled voices inside, accompanied by an occasional high-pitched wail.

He swallowed, took a breath, and rapped lightly on the jamb. After a moment the door swung open wider and Little’s boy Gregory appeared in the gap. Gregory immediately turned and disappeared, but Day heard him speaking.

“Ma, it’s the policeman again.”

“Get ’im in.”

Day didn’t wait for the boy to come back. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The flat was much the same as it had been on his previous visit, but there were subtle changes. The window over the sofa was still curtainless, but the glass had been washed. Sunlight streamed into the room, lending it a somewhat cheerier appearance. Gregory, the helpful son, was fully dressed in clothes that looked reasonably clean to Day. The simple son, Anthony, was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, stacking wooden blocks. His empty chair sat in the corner, the straps hanging loose. Day was so surprised to see the boy quietly playing that he didn’t notice Mrs Little until she tugged at his sleeve. He jumped and turned.

“He ain’t breathin’, mister.”

Day saw with alarm that she was holding the baby and that its skin was pale blue. Without a thought, he took it from her and turned it over, laying it against his arm. He smacked its back with the heel of his hand, once, then again, and a third time.

Something small and brown thumped against the floorboards at Day’s feet, and a second later the baby began to cry, haltingly at first, its howls interrupted by hiccups, but then building to a startling crescendo.

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