The Victory Snapshot (A Chris Tyroll Mystery Book 1) by Barrie Roberts

Author:Barrie Roberts [Roberts, Barrie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2016-10-18T23:00:00+00:00

17

‘Right then, Paddy. We’ve told you our end of the story — now how come you knew where we were and what was happening, and anyway, where’s Cathleen?’

We had dined, crudely but extremely satisfyingly, on huge sandwiches of boiled bacon and mugs of bright orange tea liberally splashed with Jamesons. With food and security, however temporary, the fears from the firebombing and the hunt through the woods were receding and curiosity was taking their place.

Paddy smiled his slow, toothy grin at my question.

‘Well now,’ he said, ‘Cathleen’s Mammy is sick in Manchester and she’s away down to see her and she’s got the young ones with her, so there’s just me and Miley and Martin and I thought I’d come into Wales and have a bit of hunting and fishing.’

‘Poaching!’ I accused.

‘So you say,’ he said. ‘We was on the way up here yesterday and I saw you two in a car that passed us. Then, when we set our camp here I went for a bit of a stroll after dark, just taking the air like. I saw your car again, up by the little house, and I thought it was handy in case I was needing a lawyer. I was up in the woods there, just minding my business and enjoying the fresh air, when them queer fellas came along and did their dirty business.’

He paused and splashed more whiskey into his tea before taking a long draught.

‘When I saw that fire, I thought you was gone, so I did, Mr Tyroll. I didn’t stay there after that. There’s nothing scares a traveller like fire, you know.’

‘Travellers aren’t the only ones,’ Sheila remarked.

‘Then,’ said our host, ‘I got to thinking this morning that I just ought to find out what had happened to you, so I sent young Martin up to look. He said you was both on the run up the hill and the queer fellas was behind you, so I sent him to go back and find you and show you that little hidey place under the water.’

‘You’ve saved us twice today,’ I said. ‘I owe you, Paddy.’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been a help to me and my people. You’ve stood up for us when no one else would do anything but spit on us. You owe me nothing.’

There was an embarrassed silence for moments and we all drank to cover it, then Paddy said, ‘And you really don’t know who them fellas are?’

We shook our heads.

‘They’re not wobs,’ he said.

‘Wobs?’ repeated Sheila.

‘Coppers,’ I translated, ‘scuffers, fuzz, filth, the Old Bill, whatever you call them. The travellers call them ‘wobs’. It’s back-slang for Bows — Bow Street Runners.’

She stared at me as if she couldn’t believe she was drinking with a man who used Regency street-slang. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘we call them ‘blue-heelers’ — for Peelers. But if they’re not coppers, what are they?’

‘Miley says they’re private guards from some big company,’ said Paddy.

‘Private security!’ I exclaimed, then a thought struck me. ‘I suppose they might be from Kerrenwood’s.

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