Free The Rule Book by Rob Kitchin

the moorland. Nothing from the search. If he dumped the stuff from the room, he did it a long way from the centre.’
    ‘How about the Schmidt connection?’
    ‘I’ve had someone checking things out with the German embassy, but it’s going to take a few days to try and work out the family tree of Walter Schmidt. It might prove impossible – Schmidt’s a really common name. Plus the loss of records during the war and the post-war upheaval isn’t going to help things.’
    ‘Jesus! We’ve got bugger all!’ McEvoy snapped, frustrated with his morning – the traffic, the press conference, the lack of progress, Bishop’s pact. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ He tipped his head back against the headrest and stared up at the car’s roof.
    ‘Something’ll turn up,’ Barney tried to reassure. ‘How did it go with the media circus?’
    ‘I think I was the clown. The usual stuff. Someone had told one of the reporters about the note and business cards; Bishop saw red. We’ll see if it does any good beyond generating noise. Look, keep plugging away at your end and I’ll ring you later this afternoon.’
    ‘Okay, I’ll speak to you later.’ The call was disconnected.
    McEvoy pulled the packet of cigarettes from his pocket and ripped off the cellophane wrapper. He flipped open the lid, teased a cigarette from the pack and jammed it between his lips. He fished a lighter from his pocket, lit it, and sucked down the smoke.
    He blew it out slowly, savouring it and regretting it at the same time. He closed his eyes, listening to the rain starting to patter against the windscreen and roof. He took another drag and popped smoke rings, his mind sifting through the past 24 hours trying to find a fresh angle on the case.
     
     
    McEvoy pulled the car to the kerb and looked across the road at the red brick, terrace housing. The properties looked tired, battered doors, paint peeling from window frames, and litter spread across the wet pavement. One of them had its windows boarded-up, a large padlock hung below the door handle. It had probably been bought by a property developer buying up stock for future re-investment. A couple years’ time and the whole area would be gentrified, a different set of people mixing with and pushing the older residents out.
    He crossed the road to the boarded-up house, pulling up the collar of his suit jacket as if that would stop the light drizzle. There was no obvious way in. He headed right to where an alleyway led in past the end terrace. It was the smell, rather than the boards, that told him when he’d reached the right spot – the stench of rotting rubbish heavy in the air.
    The dark green, wooden gate had been wedged shut. He pushed on it, testing its strength and then gave it a hard shove. It creaked open a few inches, enough to let him squeeze past into a yard piled high in household waste, some of it bagged, some of it thrown loose. A rough path had been kicked from the gate to the back door and he crept his way along it.
    He grabbed the handle and let himself into a kitchen that looked as if a bomb had exploded in it. He waded through the debris and into a hallway. There were two doorways and a set of stairs leading upward. He opened the first doorway and stuck his head through the gap. In the dull light he could see a man of indeterminate age lying on a tatty, blue sleeping bag on top of bare floorboards across which were scattered beer cans and cigarette butts. In one corner of the room were a handful of used syringes, jutting at odd angles.
    ‘Fuck off,’ the man spat.
    ‘Where’s Karen?’ McEvoy demanded.
    ‘Who am I, her fuckin’ keeper? Upstairs.’
    McEvoy closed the door and headed up the stairs, two at a time. There were three doors open off the landing. One led into a stinking bathroom. The door opposite the top of the stairs was slightly ajar. He pushed it open. The room was dully lit, the boarded-up window blocking out the sunlight.
    A skinny woman was sitting on top of