Free The Judas Sheep by Stuart Pawson Page A

complaint from Mrs Norris he reverted to his normal uncooperative self, but it was all an act. The big investigation hadn’t moved forward, but it was good to have an arrest, even if I did arrive home too late to keep my appointment with Doc Evans.
     
    The little girl, nearly nine years old, sat on the edge of the bed, engrossed in watching her mother apply her make-up.
    ‘Me, please,’ she demanded, puckering her lips.
    Mother reached across and with three deft strokes converted the tight little rosebud into a gaudy dahlia. She blinked the surplus mascara from her eyes, checked that her false eyelashes weren’t dislodged, and smoothed her short leather skirt.
    ‘Will Uncle John be coming home with you?’ the little girl asked.
    ‘I don’t know. But if he does I want you to stay in bed. Otherwise he won’t leave you any sweeties. Understand?’
    The little girl nodded gravely. She’d never met Uncle John, but he was very generous with the sweeties. She thought she would have liked him.
    Mother did a twirl, arms outstretched. ‘Ta da! How do I look?’ she asked.
    ‘Beautiful!’ her daughter confirmed enthusiastically.
    She pulled on a denim jacket that had a sequinned guitar and the word Elvis on the back. Woven into the pattern were several tiny light-emitting diodes that usedto sparkle at random, but they had long since ceased to work.
    ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Now I want you to be in bed by half past nine. No later, or it’s no sweeties. And if little Joshua wakes up or starts to cry, dip his dummy in the sugar. All right, darling?’
    The little girl nodded. All of a sudden she didn’t want her mummy to go out and leave her; she stood with her head bowed.
    Mother bent down and pecked her on the cheek. ‘And turn the telly off before you go to bed,’ were her last words.
    Outside, she click-clacked on her highest heels along the concrete corridor and down the stairs of the block of flats. Five minutes later she was on the bus into town.
    The pub where she began her evening’s trade was nearly deserted. ‘Match on,’ the barman explained. ‘Replay. Be packed later.’ He gave her a half of lager and she dropped a pound coin into his hand. At the till he pressed the No Sale button and whanged the drawer back home. She reached out her painted fingers and he gave her the same pound coin back. A free drink brought the toms in, toms brought the punters in.
    ‘Ta, love,’ she said, and went to sit with the only other woman in the place.
    The other woman was eight years older than her, but looked more like her mother. She confirmed what the barman had said about a football match. ‘Thank God I’ve got a regular on Tuesdays,’ she said. ‘I warn you – don’tget mixed up with any football ’ooligan. He’ll probably ’ave ten mates waiting in a Transit van somewhere. Gang bangs is all right if they pay the going rate, but they’ll just dump you on the motorway. It’s all a joke to them.’
    The first woman, who became Danielle as soon as she stepped across the threshold of her flat, shuddered. ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ she confessed.
    They made their drinks last for over an hour. ‘’Ere’s my regular,’ the older woman told her as a little man came in. He was wearing a flat cap and a cardigan under his jacket. Danielle thought that he probably had something going with his meals-on-wheels lady and giggled at the thought.
    The other woman read her mind and smiled. ‘He’s a good payer, love, and that’s all I ask.’ She stood up to leave, then leant across and said: ‘Mark my words about what I said. No football ’ooligans.’ She nodded towards the bar. ‘’Ow about ’im in the Army jacket? ’E’s interested, if you ask me. Seen ’im looking at you. Tara, love.’
    Danielle had seen him too, and noted how ugly he looked. You didn’t have to kiss them, though. Kissing was for friends, kissing was intimate. She went to the ladies’ for a pee and to replenish her Youth