Free A Hard Woman to Kill (The DCI Hanlon Series) by Alex Howard Page A

the body of the syringe filled with the drug.
    Jackson knew approximately how much heroin would be in the syringe. Enough for a fatal overdose. Enough to kill him. Jones would know exactly how much; he was very knowledgeable about opiates.
    Morris Jones put the syringe down. He walked round the bar, through the open hatch, and reached for something below the wooden counter. He put the bottle on the bar. Not heroin this time, or any opiate. Drain unblocker. Designed to dissolve hair, grease, soap, organic matter in general. The bottle was predominately coloured red, acidic-based, thought Jackson.
    Jones looked at him steadily as Anderson leaned forward, put his mouth close to Jackson’s ear and said gently, ‘You’re a grass, Jacko, and now Jordan’s dead. Like I said before, just in case you’d forgotten, you’re going to tell me why, when, how and above all, who. One of those syringes is for you, Jacko. You get to choose which one.’
    Jackson felt Anderson’s breath on his ear as he spoke; he was that close.
    Please, my Lord. Please. This is my Gethsemane.
    Jones dipped the needle of the glass syringe into the bottle and filled it. He put it down next to the heroin-filled one.
    Jackson looked at the two syringes: one if he cooperated; one if he didn’t cooperate.
    Jones put a piece of crumpled tissue paper on the bar counter, gently tipped the bottle and carefully poured a few drops on to it. The paper shrivelled and blackened.
    ‘The destination’s the same, Jacko, but how you get there is in your hands,’ said Anderson.
    ‘Decisions, decisions, Baz,’ said Jones. Heroin or Drain-O.
    ‘Can I have a drink?’ Jackson asked. His mouth was very dry. ‘Scotch.’ He had indeed reached a decision.
    Have mercy upon me, oh Jehovah, for I am in distress.
    Jones looked at Anderson who nodded. Jones took a bottle of Bells from the back of the bar where it stood with the other bottles and poured three fingers into a tumbler.
    ‘Water?’ asked Jones pleasantly, as if they were having a convivial drink together. Danny, watching from his place by the door, noticed that the bottle of Cointreau standing with the other liquor bottles was half-full. Who drank that? he wondered. In this place?
    Blessed be thee, Jehovah, for he hath showed me his loving kindness.
    ‘No water for me,’ said Jackson. Jones gave Anderson the glass and he held it to Jackson’s lips while he drank greedily. The Scotch tasted wonderful. Anderson withdrew the glass.
    Into thy hand I commend my spirit.
    ‘Eight days ago my mobile rang,’ began Jackson, and started to tell his story.

7
     
    Joseph Huss looked sympathetically at Enver Demirel standing in his muddy farmyard, obviously ill at ease and out of place. He’d met his daughter’s London colleague several times before and had quite liked him. In some respects the two of them were not dissimilar, big men, powerfully built, placid by nature with a tendency to worry about things. Joseph Huss had a farmer’s natural pessimism nurtured by a fear of DEFRA, bad weather and government/EU regulations, while Enver’s gloom was fed by police hierarchy, crime and government/EU regulations.
    They were both naturally shy too, a similarity that led to a lot of foot shuffling and verbal awkwardness when they met as they both devoutly wished they were elsewhere. Huss, happy with animals, cows in particular; Enver content with criminals.
    Huss Senior was in a faded blue boilersuit and steel-toed, rubber workboots. A fine drizzle fell from the grey, Oxfordshire heavens that to Enver seemed huge and unfriendly after the more restricted London skyline. His cheap, dark polyester suit was sodden with moisture and his highly polished black shoes were caked with mud. He hadn’t given much consideration to his clothes. Footwear just wasn’t a city problem, other than style. He hardly ever left the capital and he’d given no thought to the practicalities of walking around the farm.
    The silence prolonged