The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (english novels to improve english txt) 📗

mattress and where he had been conceived: a one-night stand, a cheerful and convivial man whom she had met at the bus-stop, a commercial traveller. A diversion to a pub, and a couple of drinks, and then a taxi home, and of course he was coming in . . . and long gone when the bump had started to grow. She had loved the boy, doted on him, had been awash with pride when he had sung as a lead chorister in the cathedral choir, with a scholarship to support him – all gone.

She went back on to the landing.

The door of his old bedroom remained closed.

She had forgotten what her elder son would have told her, and had thought the man in the road who had emerged from the shadows respectful and polite. He had not lectured her about “duty” and her obligations to “society”, had given no guarantees nor had she asked for any. Had only made one request . . . she would honour it. She thought she might have had a serious but pointless conversation with her other son were he not tossing on his mattress in his cell, would have discussed the matter of a family’s loyalty to a felon and whether obligation ever ended . . . How far down the road did a son have to go before he was turned in by his own mum. She went downstairs and sat again in her chair, lost in the darkness.

“Jonas’ phone beeped. He had to shift the dog’s head to hold it against his ear.

“Yes?”

“Jonas. Just wanted to clarify our earlier conversation.” The AssDepDG called him on a secure but tinny line.

“Seemed clear to me, thank you.”

“I feel a sense of guilt, you stuck down there, without the resources. Still in the back of that car?”

“Very comfortable, but I’m grateful for your concern.”

“Just wanted to confirm, Jonas, that we will have the bodies in place by seven-thirty this morning. I have a chief constable’s guarantee. There will be a cordon in place, and the guns on hand. I have to say that we have allowed you too much slack, Jonas. That’s down to me and should not have happened. Anyway, by that time I will have a full surveillance team on the ground. Around the Jilkes’ house. I had to shake the tree but finally I have the numbers to put on the board. What we should have had as soon as the Deal news came through. Agnes Burns will be heading them up, first-class operator, as you know. Once they are there, Jonas, then you are free to get on back to London. We really appreciate what you have put in for us, and the weight you have taken on your shoulders – good man. I suppose it’s because of that other business, what you achieved, that we take your skills for granted and also your endurance factor. We should not have. Anyway, you will, please, hold the fort for a few more hours and then we can stand you down . . . No sign of him yet, is there?”

“No, nothing – drawing a blank.”

“Are you happy, Jonas, with where we are?”

“Happy? Yes, sounds a good plan.”

“May I say this, Jonas? There have been times, to be very frank, when you might not have been the easiest colleague to work with. That is not meant to be offensive, but you can be sharp, have a reputation for abrasiveness . . . You have been, on this transfer of tactics, commendably cooperative. If I did not know you better, Jonas, I would say suspiciously cooperative. It’s a sensible attitude and does you credit. Won’t be long now till Agnes has her team in place. Will probably take over that house from your probationers, then you can get some well-deserved sleep. Thank you, Jonas.”

The dog wriggled. In the front they grinned, would have heard every word exchanged.

He cleared his throat. Jonas said that he might have killed for a strong coffee, or a bar of chocolate, or a bacon sandwich of the sort that Vera made for him, and he explained. Told them, as if it were a bedtime story, of a young man who had gone away from his home, shed comfort in the hope of finding adventure. Not an evil young man but not one who gave credit to his family; just another who looked around him and saw no satisfaction and moved on. Adventure had clutched at him, and with it had come a group of comrades, an alliance of brothers, and a sense of invincibility. He spoke quietly and they listened to him with respect. But it was not a fairy story, and no uplifting ending awaited the young man. The adventure had gone sour, the colleagues – one by one – had been cut down. He was alone and the driving force in his mind was one of hatred against those responsible for fracturing the dream.

Told the two police in the front of their car that when the residents of the estate on the hill woke up, went to shower, shit and shave, that the cordon would be in place, and the guns. Jonas offered them two alternatives to the end-game. The young man, inside or outside of it, would identify the cordon, would evade it and disappear . . . Or would do the modern equivalent of falling on a sword and would seem to offer a challenge to the firearms and would be shot dead, would be the martyr, his name lit up in lights. Said that either outcome would be “unsatisfactory”.

“So, what are we, Mr Merrick?” she asked.

“Just a back-stop. A bit of ‘just in case’.”

“When might we shoot, Mr Merrick?” he asked.

“If I am wrong, then you shoot. A bad outcome.”

She dug her fingers into a tight pocket of her vest, brought out a short length of peppermints. Enough for one each.

The vehicle driven by Farouk – better known, only to himself, as Wolfboy – reacted poorly to sharp bends or steep inclines.

The steering was heavy and the engine struggled. To