Evil Turn (Nathan Hawk Mystery) Read Free

tackle corroding away rather than being scrapped. He stepped into the shadow cast by an old digger and looked round. Nothing was out of place and he knew these relics like the back of his hand, each piece a memorial to his family’s past. Whoever had disturbed the owls, if indeed anyone had, they were up in the attic, and as he started towards the stone steps on the far wall he heard something in the boarded loft above: creaking rather than a regular tread as somebody moved towards the stairwell. Joe retreated into the shadow and waited. Whoever it was took their time, moved cautiously as if feeling their way as well as seeing it. Eventually the feet appeared at the top, the legs appeared, the body appeared as the man he’d cast as a dosser descended the narrow steps, hugging the wall. Joe stepped into what light there was, closed the shotgun and called out.
    “Hold it!”
    The intruder flattened himself back against the side wall, eyes wide with shock, arms raised. Joe approached him and was about to issue another instruction when the man jumped, down off the side of the steps, and ran towards the door. Joe raised the Purdey and fired, aiming wide, and caught the man in his leg. It brought him down, screaming, cursing then pleading.
    “No, don’t ... please, don’t shoot...”
    Joe walked over to the man as he got to his feet, hopping on one leg while trying to nurse the other. It was bleeding, having taken five or six pellets, but he wasn’t mortally wounded and made a feeble grab for the shotgun. In response Joe whipped the butt of it across his face and felled him like a skittle, rolling and turning before he passed out. Joe took out his phone and called the police.

- 1 -
     
    I never cared much for Tom Blackwell but at least I knew why, and that can’t be said of most people I’ve taken against down the years.
    I certainly never expected to see him again, but there he was strolling down Morton Lane towards my house on a cold August morning. It was unlikely to be a social call, an old colleague seeking me out for a chat about the past, and in hindsight I should’ve pretended not to be in. Like a fool, I went out to meet him at the five-bar gate.
    He was dressed against the British summer, quilted anorak zipped up to the throat in armorial fashion so I couldn’t see what he was wearing underneath. I reckoned it would be tweedy jacket over a crisp shirt and Police Federation tie. The grey flannels, which I could see, had turn-ups and knife-like creases. The shine on the shoes would have dazzled had there been any sunlight to bounce off them. It all meant that he was probably still married to the plain and pernickety Karen.
    Our opening conversation had the sparkle of a spent match.
    “Nathan Hawk, my dear friend!” Typical copper. Two lies in one sentence. ‘Dear’ and ‘friend’. “Keeping well?”
    “Can’t grumble. Yourself?”
    “Likewise, likewise.”
    That was another of his peculiarities that had always annoyed me: his habit of repeating words or phrases. I leaned over the gate and we shook hands. His was warm, mine was cold: his high-tech anorak versus my jeans and T-shirt and a belief in weather forecasts. Warm, sunny with a light breeze from the south, the girl had said...
    “Nice place you’ve got,” he said. “Quiet lane, no through traffic...”
    “That’s the way it is with dead ends.”
    “Right, right.” He looked away as he recalled my late wife. “I was sorry to hear about Maggie, Nathan. I kept meaning to drop you a line, but you know how it is, you wonder if people would rather be left alone. But I am sorry.”
    “It was nine years ago, Tom.”
    “Jesus, was it really?”
    He held the sympathetic frown for a moment or two, then gazed past me to the house, wondering perhaps if I was going to invite him in or just carry on leaning. As it was, my curiosity to know why he’d suddenly appeared in my life got the better of me.
    “Fancy a drink?” I said.
    He glanced at his