Читать книгу Cold Granite - Stuart MacBride - Страница 16

PC Steve lurched once, twice, and charged into the bushes to be noisily and copiously sick.

‘You see?’ said the nervous man from the council. ‘Didn’t I tell you it was terrible? Didn’t I?’

Logan nodded and agreed, even though he hadn’t paid attention to a single word on the way out.

‘The neighbours have been complaining about the smell since last Christmas. We’ve written letter after letter, but we never get anything back,’ said the man, clutching his leather folder to his chest. ‘The postman refuses to deliver here any more you know.’

‘Really,’ said Logan. That explained why they never got a bloody reply. Turning his back on the retching constable, he started wading his way through the jungle. ‘Let’s go see if there’s anyone in.’

Not surprisingly, the man from the council let him go first.

The main farm building had once been well cared for. There were little flecks of white paint on the crumbling stone, twisted rusting brackets where hanging baskets would have been. But those days were long gone. Grass was growing in the gutters, blocking the downpipe, and water dripped over the edge. The door hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint for years. Weather and wasps had stripped the last coat away, leaving bare, bleached wood and a small iron number was screwed in the middle, rendered illegible by rust and dirt. The handle didn’t look much better. And over the lot was that big, white, hand-painted number six.

Logan knocked. They stood back and waited. And waited. And waited. And …