Read Online The Ashes of an Oak by Chris Bradbury - Free Book Online
Authors: Chris Bradbury
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one?’
Milt looked wearily at Frank. ‘When I finally get to cut you open, Frank, I’m going to find acid instead of blood, you bitter old bastard.’
‘Yeah, yeah and a song in my heart! What else?’
‘Bear with me. Robinson Taylor had a ring missing from the third finger on his right hand.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’m an expert, Frank. The place where the ring had been was still pitted, plus the skin was torn as if the ring had been tugged off in a hurry or had been a little tight and needed some forcing. He had a degree of heart failure, so his fingers might have been a mite swollen, making the ring tight. There was an effort made to get the thing off because the finger was dislocated.’ Milt paused to let that soak in.
‘Did Mrs Dybek have anything missing?’ asked Emmet. ‘She have any jewellery on?’
‘Engagement ring and wedding ring,’ said Steve.
The Captain got up and rubbed at his aching back. ‘Milt, are you saying there’s a connection between them?’
‘No. That’s for you to say, not me.’
Steve ran though the rooms of the apartment in his head. ‘I can’t think of anything missing. No gaps on shelves. Nothing out of place. Nothing obvious.’
‘Christ almighty!’ said Frank. He jumped up from his seat and slapped himself across the forehead. ‘Christ almighty! The shoe. The fucking shoe! What’s the matter with me?’
‘What shoe?’ asked Steve.
‘In her wardrobe. She had all these old clothes. They were all hung up, no gaps. They were old and worn, but she’d taken a pride, you know?’ The others nodded. ‘At the bottom of the wardrobe were three sets of shoes. Only there wasn’t. There was a set of shoes, a set of winter boots and a single shoe, one of those high-heeled things that women wear to big events. It was sort of nineteen-fifties in style. I assumed that she’d kept it as a keepsake, you know, one magical night sort of thing, that the other had got lost with the track of time. But it was on its side. She wouldn’t have left it on its side. She was too tidy. She was crazy clean.’ Frank looked around the room. ‘He took her shoe.’
Emmet asked the question that everybody wanted to ask but dared not. ‘And our man in the furnace? What about him? What was he missing?’
Milt’s mouth twisted as if he didn’t want to answer. ‘He was missing his heart, Emmet. He was missing his heart.’
Frank stood at the end of his street. The lights were on. They dropped a pale yellow haze through the trees which landed softly on the ground, as if the sun had left a part of itself behind.
He stood on the corner, his jacket over his shoulder, his hat tilted low over his eyes, his crumpled white shirt lazy on his tired body. His right hand hung at his side. A cigarette burned between the first two fingers, the smoke unwavering on the airless night. He would occasionally take a drag, then let the hand drop again. His thumb would flick absently at the filter and send ash and sparks to his feet.
He was looking for the man in the smart, sharp, dark grey suit.
When he’d left the precinct, his mind a mess of whys and wherefores, he had determined to stand here all night in case the man returned. Then he would shoot him and that would be an end of it. He would lie and say the man drew on him, that he tried to make a run for it, that he had confessed and pulled a knife. Then Mrs Dybek and Robinson Taylor and whoever the man in the furnace had been could let their spirits wander through the ether and into the light, to their rest.
They were dead, but he could feel their hands on his shoulders, pressing him down.
He left at half past midnight. He was too tired to stand around, his mouth too full of the stale taste of tobacco, his body reeking of the day’s sweat.
Despite the whys and wherefores, those four men in that small, smoky room had all come to the same unspoken conclusion: if there was a connection between the bodies, however tenuous, they
Milt looked wearily at Frank. ‘When I finally get to cut you open, Frank, I’m going to find acid instead of blood, you bitter old bastard.’
‘Yeah, yeah and a song in my heart! What else?’
‘Bear with me. Robinson Taylor had a ring missing from the third finger on his right hand.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’m an expert, Frank. The place where the ring had been was still pitted, plus the skin was torn as if the ring had been tugged off in a hurry or had been a little tight and needed some forcing. He had a degree of heart failure, so his fingers might have been a mite swollen, making the ring tight. There was an effort made to get the thing off because the finger was dislocated.’ Milt paused to let that soak in.
‘Did Mrs Dybek have anything missing?’ asked Emmet. ‘She have any jewellery on?’
‘Engagement ring and wedding ring,’ said Steve.
The Captain got up and rubbed at his aching back. ‘Milt, are you saying there’s a connection between them?’
‘No. That’s for you to say, not me.’
Steve ran though the rooms of the apartment in his head. ‘I can’t think of anything missing. No gaps on shelves. Nothing out of place. Nothing obvious.’
‘Christ almighty!’ said Frank. He jumped up from his seat and slapped himself across the forehead. ‘Christ almighty! The shoe. The fucking shoe! What’s the matter with me?’
‘What shoe?’ asked Steve.
‘In her wardrobe. She had all these old clothes. They were all hung up, no gaps. They were old and worn, but she’d taken a pride, you know?’ The others nodded. ‘At the bottom of the wardrobe were three sets of shoes. Only there wasn’t. There was a set of shoes, a set of winter boots and a single shoe, one of those high-heeled things that women wear to big events. It was sort of nineteen-fifties in style. I assumed that she’d kept it as a keepsake, you know, one magical night sort of thing, that the other had got lost with the track of time. But it was on its side. She wouldn’t have left it on its side. She was too tidy. She was crazy clean.’ Frank looked around the room. ‘He took her shoe.’
Emmet asked the question that everybody wanted to ask but dared not. ‘And our man in the furnace? What about him? What was he missing?’
Milt’s mouth twisted as if he didn’t want to answer. ‘He was missing his heart, Emmet. He was missing his heart.’
Frank stood at the end of his street. The lights were on. They dropped a pale yellow haze through the trees which landed softly on the ground, as if the sun had left a part of itself behind.
He stood on the corner, his jacket over his shoulder, his hat tilted low over his eyes, his crumpled white shirt lazy on his tired body. His right hand hung at his side. A cigarette burned between the first two fingers, the smoke unwavering on the airless night. He would occasionally take a drag, then let the hand drop again. His thumb would flick absently at the filter and send ash and sparks to his feet.
He was looking for the man in the smart, sharp, dark grey suit.
When he’d left the precinct, his mind a mess of whys and wherefores, he had determined to stand here all night in case the man returned. Then he would shoot him and that would be an end of it. He would lie and say the man drew on him, that he tried to make a run for it, that he had confessed and pulled a knife. Then Mrs Dybek and Robinson Taylor and whoever the man in the furnace had been could let their spirits wander through the ether and into the light, to their rest.
They were dead, but he could feel their hands on his shoulders, pressing him down.
He left at half past midnight. He was too tired to stand around, his mouth too full of the stale taste of tobacco, his body reeking of the day’s sweat.
Despite the whys and wherefores, those four men in that small, smoky room had all come to the same unspoken conclusion: if there was a connection between the bodies, however tenuous, they
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