Книга Dead Men's s Boots — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

‘Why, you fucking piece of—’

He started to open his door, but a middle-aged couple came out of the terminal behind us, walked right past us and got into the cab: the door closed again, and the cab rolled away, the driver shooting us a look of frustrated venom.

‘Nicky,’ I said, ‘if you’re going to pick fights with guys who are bigger than me, could you give me at least a couple of seconds’ warning?’

‘First cab could be a plant,’ he said. ‘Second, too.’ He was already walking past the next cab in line as he spoke, and now he pulled open the door of the third.

‘You’ve got to go from the front of the-’ the driver began.

‘Just drive,’ Nicky snapped. ‘I’m not paying you to fucking talk at me.’

Nicky skootched over and I climbed in beside him, putting the briefcase at my feet. This driver was – fortunately – older and less solidly built ³ soandthan the first. His balding head, wispy hair clinging in loose tufts around his ears, and his bulbous nose made him look like a moonlighting circus clown. He turned a solemn gaze on Nicky, then on me, weighed dignity against discretion and went for the easy option.

We pulled away while the cabbie in front of us in the rank leaned on his horn in futile protest.

‘Where to?’ our driver demanded.

‘Walthamstow,’ Nicky said. ‘Top end of Hoe Street. And turn your radio on.’

The driver leaned forward. Tinny country and western music filled the cab.

‘Louder,’ Nicky said. ‘All the way up.’

I’ve got to know Nicky’s moods pretty well over the years, so the paranoia came as no surprise.

His coming out here to meet me, in spite of the fact that he saw me as the source of his troubles, was more revealing: something heavy would have been needed to counterbalance his spectacularly overdeveloped survival instincts. The only thing I knew that was heavy enough was his spectacularly overdeveloped ego. He wanted – really wanted – to tell me what he’d found.

‘So go ahead,’ I invited him, as plunky guitar noises echoed around our ears.

‘Make your day?’

‘If you think you can, Nicky, yeah.

Make my day. It’s going to be a pretty tall order, though.’

‘Well, how’s this for starters?’ He threw the newspaper in my lap: The Sun. With the pressure of his hands removed it started to unroll. I smoothed it out and read the headline. PREMIER MANAGER IN BUNGS SCANDAL. Okay, that was the sports page. I flipped it over.

TWO DIE IN M1 INFERNO.

And a photo – an old photo, too flattering by about thirty pounds – of Gary Coldwood.