Thicker Than Water читать онлайн

He soared across to the shelf over the street door, where he stared down at us with beady-eyed fascination. It’s hard not to see him and his brother Arthur as Pen’s Hugin and Munin - spies in bird form sent abroad to gather intelligence in situations where she can’t eavesdrop herself.

‘Did I walk in on something?’ Coldwood asked. ‘Not that I give a monkey’s, you understand. But your mate Rafi checked out of his digs a fortnight back, didn’t he? So if you’re knocking off his lady love behind his back, you’ll probably wake up some day soon wearing your entrails as a bow tie.

’

I gave Gary a look that might have dropped him where he stood if my hangover headache hadn’t taken the edge off it.

‘Leave it,’ I suggested.

‘Only too happy to.’ He looked at his watch, rubbing the ugly scar on his right cheek absent-mindedly. ‘Half past four,’ he mused. ‘Going to take us the best part of an hour, even at this time of night. Get some clothes on, Fix - and bring your paraphernalia.’

I could see in his face that there was no room for argument.

‘What’s it about?’ I asked.

‘You’ll see. Don’t worry, I’ll get you back in time for breakfast.’

Edgar gave a derisive caw. I knew what he meant: I’d heard that one before too.

Coldwood was right about it being a long drive, because we ended up south of the river, crossing foul old Father Thames at Lambeth just as the sun came up. The sky was clear apart from a few wisps of cirrus dead-centred in the windscreen of Coldwood’s unmarked Primera: it was going to be another scorcher.

I looked between the maculate white chimneys of Battersea power station for a flying pig, but there wasn’t anything moving up there. We were on our own as we tacked south by east through the rat runs of Southwark."

"‘How much further?’ I asked Coldwood, since he didn’t seem to want to tell me what it was I was going to be looking at. He didn’t answer: just looked at his watch again and made a vague calming gesture, like a stern dad to a child whining ‘Are we there yet?’ He seemed to have forgotten his earlier promise to brief me in the car.

‘Tell them we’re coming,’ he instructed his stolid, hatchet-faced driver. The driver nodded and muttered into a walkie-talkie. ‘Got the sarge and the . . .’ He hesitated and flicked a glance over his shoulder at me. ‘Exorcist,’ I filled in helpfully, but he decided to leave the sentence unfinished. ‘We’re on our way to the scene now.