Blood on the Tongue. Stephen Booth

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Название Blood on the Tongue
Автор произведения Stephen Booth
Жанр Полицейские детективы
Серия
Издательство Полицейские детективы
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007372874



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      STEPHEN BOOTH

       Blood on the Tongue

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       Dedication

       For Eric Jefferson

       Epigraph

      Lines from ‘Won’t you let me take you on a sea cruise?’, a rock’n’roll classic recorded by Frankie Ford, reproduced by permission of Sea Cruise Productions, Inc.

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       10

       11

       12

       13

       14

       15

       16

       17

       18

       19

       20

       21

       22

       23

       24

       25

       26

       27

       28

       29

       30

       31

       32

       33

       34

       35

       36

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       By the same author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       1

      It was an hour before dawn when Detective Constable Ben Cooper first began to get the news. An hour before dawn should be the dead hour. But in the bedrooms of third-floor flats on the council estates, or in stone-built semis in the hillside crescents, there were people blinking in bewilderment at an alien world of deadened sounds and inverted patterns of dark and light. Cooper knew all about the hour before dawn, and it was no time of day to be on the streets. But this was January, and dawn came late in Edendale. And snow had turned the morning into shuddering chaos.

      Cooper pulled up the collar of his waxed coat to meet the rim of his cap and brushed away the flecks of snow that had caught in the stubble on his jawline where he had rushed shaving that morning. He had walked down one of the alleyways from the market square, crunching through fresh snow, slithering on the frozen cobbles, passing from light to dark as he moved out of the range of the street lamps. But he had stepped out of the alley into a noisy snarl of traffic that had choked the heart of Edendale and brought its snow-covered streets to a halt.

      On Hollowgate, lines of frustrated motorists sat in their cars, boot to bonnet in clouds of exhaust fumes. Many of them had been driving almost blind, their windscreens covered in half-scraped snow or streaks of brown grit that their frozen wipers couldn’t clear. The throbbing of engines filled the street, echoing from shop facades and the upper storeys of nineteenth-century buildings. Headlights pinned drivers and their passengers in cruel shadows, like silhouettes on a shooting range.

      ‘We have a serious double assault, believed to be racially motivated. Approximately zero two hundred hours. Underbank area.’

      The voice from his radio sounded alien and remote. It was the crackly voice of a tired operator in a control room with