Potter's Field by Dolan Chris;

Author:Dolan, Chris; [Chris Dolan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 1792562
Publisher: Vagabond Voices
Published: 2014-07-26T16:00:00+00:00

Summer rain. The papers had been crying out for it, when they weren’t panicking about the morality of our youngsters. Coulter was in the front of a marked car, driven by a Uniform. Russell in another car behind him. Together they headed up a little convoy of six, growing at every crossroads. Coulter considered telling them to put on their sirens, jump the red lights. Sometimes he was in the mood for that kind of stuff.

But the night drizzle was having a calming effect on him. It fell steady, speckling the passenger window prettily, the little beads glowing in patterns when car headlights passed. The city looked shiny black. He remembered his gran, blackleading the range in her kitchen till it gleamed sharply.

Tony Kennedy had remembered the name correctly. Ross. The man he had delivered a package to, on behalf of Ian Lennon, in Maryhill Park.

What exactly Colin Ross – whom Coulter and Russell had just interviewed – had to do with Ian Lennon, let alone three dead juveniles, was still a mystery. The main discovery was that Mr. Ross owned two big, black Labradors.

If he’s wrong, Chief Constable Robertson will kill him. But if his reasoning works out, Czar John MacDougall and the whole political system will embrace him like a brother. Coulter’s not sure which is worse. Colin Ross’s wife had no memory of any package being delivered almost two years ago, but was happy to state that Ian Lennon was once their gardener. Lennon, then, was the only link between Tony Kennedy, the father of one of the victims, and a black Labrador hair found at the scene of the crime. Quite apart from his possible American exploits, the bastard had also found Frances Mullholland’s body in a garden where he presently worked… Coulter wanted him safely in custody, with a few charges stacked up against him. He’d invent them if he had to. Tuck him up in a nice warm cell tonight. Let the bastard sweat.

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