Free MONOLITH by Shaun Hutson Page B

piece of tobacco that had been sticking to his tongue.
    Jess slowed her pace and moved nearer to him.
    ‘Mr Gibson?’ she said, quietly.
    He looked up and met her gaze with large watery eyes.
    ‘James Gibson?’ Jess went on.
    The man nodded and took another drag on his cigarette.
    ‘My name is Jessica Anderson, I’m a reporter,’ she told him.
    Gibson eyed her blankly and didn’t speak.
    ‘I was wondering if we could talk,’ Jess said.
    ‘About what?’ he wanted to know. ‘I’m working.’ He nodded towards the ambulance that was parked in the road across the street its blue lights turning silently.
    ‘You don’t look very busy,’ Jess told him.
    ‘What do you want?’ Gibson snapped.
    ‘You know Spike?’
    Gibson looked blank.
    ‘Oh come on, Mr Gibson, you called him this afternoon about that accident at the Crystal Tower. You were one of the paramedics in attendance weren’t you?’
    Again Gibson said nothing; he merely drew on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in Jess’s direction.
    ‘Can I get one of those?’ she said, pointing at the cigarette.
    Gibson dug his hand in his pocket, pulled out a pack of Marlboro and offered her one which she took, also accepting his somewhat reluctant offer of a light. The flame of the Zippo danced in the breeze for a moment then Jess backed away, the end of the cigarette glowing red.
    ‘Spike said you’d pay for what I’ve got,’ Gibson announced.
    ‘Depends what it is and whether it’s worth paying for,’ Jess told him.
    ‘I took some photos of the guy this afternoon,’ Gibson informed her, pulling out his phone.
    ‘Let me see them.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘They might not be worth anything.’
    Gibson hesitated.
    Jess reached into her bag, took a twenty from her purse and shoved it into the paramedic’s hand.
    ‘That’ll do for a start,’ he said and held up the phone before her.
    Jess looked at the first picture.
    ‘Jesus,’ she murmured, studying the shot. It showed Alan Reed skewered to the wall, blood staining his upper body and overalls. ‘Death by forklift truck. That’s original.’
    Gibson scrolled through several more pictures.
    ‘He was dead when you got to him?’ Jess asked.
    ‘What do you think?’ Gibson chided.
    ‘Was anyone else injured?’
    ‘No. Just him.’
    ‘What do you think happened?’
    Gibson shrugged.
    ‘The brake on the forklift must have failed somehow,’ he said. ‘He was standing in front of it and …’ he allowed the sentence to trail off.
    Jess frowned and inspected the pictures more closely.
    ‘There’s virtually no blood,’ she murmured.
    ‘What?’ Gibson grunted, peering over her shoulder.
    ‘Around the body,’ she repeated. ‘There’s hardly any blood. Not on the wall behind him, not on the floor under him. Don’t you think that’s strange?’ Gibson nodded.
    ‘Major arteries would have been severed by an injury like that wouldn’t they?’ Jess said.
    ‘Definitely.’
    ‘And yet there’s very little blood other than on his clothes. Was the scene cleaned up before you guys arrived?’
    ‘Why would anyone do that?’
    Jess shook her head.
    ‘They wouldn’t,’ she muttered.
    Gibson reached for the phone but Jess kept it out of his reach, still scrolling through the pictures.
    ‘Were the police called too?’ she wanted to know.
    ‘There weren’t any when we arrived,’ Gibson told her. ‘There were lots of guys in suits though. I think someone said they were security or something.’
    ‘Voronov’s Private Security Guards,’ Jess murmured. ‘Did they touch the body? Move anything? Clean up?’
    ‘Not that I saw. Why would they do that?’
    Jess shook her head.
    ‘So what about the pictures?’ Gibson insisted. ‘They’re worth more than twenty quid.’
    Jess looked at him then scrolled through a few more of the shots on the phone.
    ‘Fifty,’ she said, flatly.
    ‘Fuck off,’ he snapped, grinning crookedly. ‘I could flog them to another reporter for more than