Free The Lazarus Strain by Ken McClure Page B

hunt saboteur who probably didn’t give a shit about animals but found some kind of acceptance - like many of these buggers - in a common cause – basically anything that brings them into conflict with the establishment that’s giving them such a bad time as they see it. He was weakest link material if ever I came across it.’
    Morley nodded. ‘So what do we do now, sir?’
    ‘We wait for the phone to ring and pray we get lucky.’
    Thirty minutes after the broadcast went out they got lucky. Morley came into the room. ‘This sounds good. The landlord at the Four Feathers pub in Swaffham thinks he recognised the dead man on the telly as being one of two men drinking in his pub last night. He remembers them arguing.’
    ‘Bingo! Get your coat.’
    Gerald Stanley Morton, the licensee of the Four Feathers pub was a large man without an intellect to match but, in keeping with the undemanding standards of the times, saw his role in helping the police with their inquiries as coming pretty close to stardom and the achievement of celebrity status. Not quite ‘I’m a Celebrity Get Me out of Here’, more a case of, ‘I’m a Nonentity; get me in front of a Camera,’ as Giles was to put it later. The Press were already in evidence when Giles and Morley arrived.
    ‘What the fuck are they doing here?’ exclaimed Giles as he caught sight of the scrum.
    ‘Morton must have called them.’
    ‘Arsehole! . . . Park round the corner.’
    Morley parked the unmarked car round the corner from the pub and the two policemen walked back to where Morton was talking to the Press.
    ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ he was saying. ‘But it would be most inappropriate of me to divulge anything to you at this time without first saying what I have to say to the police. I can however reveal . . .’
    ‘Fuck me; the bugger must have heard someone say that on the telly once?’ said Giles as they approached. ‘Prat!’
    ‘Mr Morton! I’d prefer if you revealed absolutely nothing right now, if you don’t mind,’ said Giles, raising his voice. ‘Police,’ he added, holding up his warrant card. He walked purposefully through the reporters as if pausing weren’t an option and they parted like the Red Sea. ‘Let’s leave press conferences until later, shall we, Mr Morton? Much later.’

 
     
     
     
     
    SIX
     
    Despite his size, Giles ushered Morton inside his pub as if the big man was a schoolgirl being seen over the road. Meanwhile Morley dispersed the reporters by telling them there would be nothing further for them and warning them about obstructing the police in a murder inquiry.
    ‘Where can we talk?’ asked Giles.
    ‘Through here,’ said Morton, leading the way through the back.
    ‘Just what the fuck was that all about?’ demanded Giles.
    ‘You know what the Press are like,’ replied Morton.
    ‘ I might but how the fuck do you know?’ stormed Giles. ‘That lot didn’t just drop in for a pint did they? Somebody rang their bell.’
    ‘All right . . . my missus thought we should give them a ring,’ said Morton, moving his shoulders uncomfortably as if he had a column of ants marching along them.
    ‘Why?’
    Morton wriggled in embarrassment. ‘Wanted to see our names in the papers I suppose.’
    Giles looked incredulous. ‘If any one of these buggers out there prints something that fucks up our inquiry, you’ll get your name in the papers all right because I’ll throw the book at you, along with the shelf it’s sitting on.’
    ‘You’ve no right to talk to me like that,’ said Morton. ‘I’m a law-abiding citizen doing my duty. Maybe I’ve got nothing more to say to you now . . .’
    Giles, a full head shorter than Morton, looked as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He walked slowly towards the big man and said menacingly. ‘What did God give you instead of a brain?’ He prodded Morton. ‘An extra big belly?’
    Morley noticed that Morton had started to sweat.
    ‘You’ve got one chance my friend and that