Free Fairwood (a suspense mystery thriller) by Eli Yance Page A

poorly wrapped in loose fitting skin -- flat in front of him, slapping the counter with a hollow, fleshy thud. They trembled as they moved with an arthritic stutter across the counter; Dexter began to feel sorry for him, seeing the struggle and the pain he suffered.
     
    The wrinkled hands violently shoved into the crisps and chocolate, forcing them away. They tipped off the edge, spilled around Dexter's feet. The old man snarled like a hairless pit-bull, spat a stuttering snigger that seemed to rise through his entire decrepit body before cackling out of his throat.
     
    “Take your goods and fuck off.”
     
    Dexter held the sinister gaze, felt weakened in its grasp. He ducked out of sight to pick up the items, stuffing them into his pocket. When he returned, an annoyed rebuttal on his lips, the old man had turned around. His hunched back, clad in a cardigan that clung tight enough for his protruding spine to poke through, faced Dexter.
     
    He swallowed his words, gave the old man’s back a sneer of his own. He left a few coins on the counter, more than the goods were worth -- the least worthy tip he’d ever given -- and left the shop, keeping his frustration to himself.
     
     
    10
     
    Cawley was hit by the musty stench of piss when Mrs Barnes opened the door. He flashed his badge, struggled to tell her his name whilst trying to hold his breath.
     
    “I’ve been expecting you,” she told him with a sinister and gleeful smile on her cadaverous face.
     
    He rolled his eyes, stuffed his wallet back in his pocket and took a step backwards, keen to avoid the smell. He wasn’t sure if it was coming from her or from her house, but he was sure it was more criminal than anything she was waiting to tell him. If he could he would arrest her for assaulting a police officer with a disgusting smell, or for the intention to incite vomit, because when she grinned at him -- exposing rows of yellow teeth, wedged into blackened gums like burnt-out and boarded windows on a dilapidated tenement -- he felt the need to unleash the contents of his stomach.
     
    He hadn’t exactly rushed to the crazy old woman as he told his superior he would. He stopped off for breakfast first: two fried eggs, three slices of bacon and a slice of dripping fried bread, all swimming in a pool of grease and tinned tomatoes. The owners at the local cafe were happy to give him the extra portions, perhaps thinking that if they didn’t he would arrest them for cooking up heart attacks in kitchens where only men in Hazmat suits should venture. They didn’t like him, they were all smiles and greetings on the surface but, underneath that, he felt an air of distrust, sensing that they were on edge because of their poor food hygiene, the stacks of pirated DVDs, snuff films, drugs or whatever they kept hidden away in their one-bedroom flat above the cafe. They probably spat in his food as well, he didn’t care; the saliva would be neutralised by the oil, the fat or the e-coli.
     
    “Come in,” Mrs Barnes said, stepping aside.
     
    He smiled, burped a noxious waft of fry-up fumes into his hand. “I’d rather not,” he said softly.
     
    She gave him a curious and suspicious look. “I’ll make us a cup of tea,” she said, as if to sweeten the deal.
     
    He had every intention of letting her waste his time inside her hovel, but he hadn’t remembered the smell. The last time he’d been to her house was a few years ago when she said she’d been burgled, apparently by the least picky burglar in the world. She hadn’t lost anything, but was sure that she had one less useless pile of shit than she usually had. The smell wasn’t so bad then, but it had been putrefying ever since.
     
    “No thanks,” he said, taking another step away from her.
     
    She looked both offended and suspicious, as if unable to work out his refusal, like he had just passed up the opportunity to bed a twenty-one year old supermodel with tits the size of his head.
     
    She folded