My Deadly Valentine by David W Robinson

Author:David W Robinson [Robinson, David W]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Cat Books
Published: 2013-01-30T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

His route back to the Lazy Luncheonette took Joe past the spread of Sanford Memorial Park, a large, open expanse of greenery offsetting the dour, former industrial landscape of the town.

He noticed a team of council employees hard at work, dragging dead wood to a mobile crusher, and amongst them, he could clearly make out the burly figure of George Robson shouting orders to the younger men in the team.

Ignoring the double yellow lines outside the park gates, Joe pulled into the kerb, and the dark Peugeot which had followed him from the town carried on past. As he climbed out, he saw Rosemary Ecclesfield pull in further along the road.

Ignoring her, he hurried into the park and across to the workers. “Hey up, George,” he shouted above the deafening roar of the machine. “How long have you been the ganger?”

George lifted his ear protectors and shouted over the cacophony. “Since they sent a team of kids here. I’m one of the few trained to work with this machine.” He waved at the crusher where the younger men fed sawn-off branches and twigs into the hopper while others stood at the far end where the shredded product emerged into large sacks, some of it as fine as sawdust. “And I don’t get any extra dosh for it, you know, but if we left it to these noddies, they’d end up jamming their arm in the bleeding thing. What’s cooking, anyway, Joe? Have plod let it all drop, yet?”

“Officially, no, unofficially, yes. I’ve just been to the Sanford Dating Agency.”

George grinned. “Angie Foster.” He smacked his lips. “Tasty. And a right little raver when you get a few Bacardis inside her.”

Joe puffed agitatedly on his cigarette. “That’s not how she tells it. Comes across as more of a right little miss prim.”

“Well, she would, wouldn’t she?” George turned on the young men, one of whom was trying to free a jam in the machinery. “Hey, you, dipstick, are you trying to lose your arm? Turn the bloody thing off while you clear out the hopper.”

“Yeah, well, I just thought—”

“If you were capable of thinking, I could nip to the Fettlers for a pint. Turn it off.” As near silence fell, George turned his attention back to Joe. “Sorry, mate. What was I saying. Oh, yeah, Angie. Hot as one of your bacon butties, Joe.”

Joe blew out another lungful of smoke. “Hot as Letty Hill?”

George laughed. “Letty? You’ve gotta be joking. My freezer is hotter than her.”

“Hotter than she was,” Joe corrected. “She’s dead, remember.”

“Yeah, well, you know what I meant. I took her out coupla times last year, when she was on the bounce from toffee-nose, Dalmer. No go, man. And if I can’t get to first base, no man can.”

“I did,” Joe argued.

“She was drunk, wasn’t she?”

“Was she hell as like dru… Look, it doesn’t matter. According to Mort Norris, Letty had been round the block more times than a number eight bus.”

“He’s been listening to Dalmer spinning the tale,” George swore.

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