Read Online The Ashes of an Oak by Chris Bradbury - Free Book Online Page B

Pinto. He recalled how the Japanese believed that everything had a spirit. That was why they didn’t make cars with grilles that frowned. But somehow, through the all-knowing eye of whatever wooden god that deigned to observe, to participate, to lay their harsh benevolence upon the world, the dead Pinto passed its utter sadness on.
    Once upon a time this car had rolled off the line and shone and been the pride of someone’s life. They had washed and polished it and cared for it like they had given birth to it. Now, it was dead. It was sad. It had no spirit and, if it could speak, it would have a sadder tale to tell, about how the person who owned that car, who travelled the miles and shared his innermost thoughts with it, was now most likely himself in spirit.
    ‘Anything in the trunk?’
    ‘Spare tyre and tools. Some boxes with pens and paper and stuff in. Mostly melted or burned. That’s it,’ said Buckley.
    ‘Chassis number?’
    Buckley took his notebook out again and tore out a page.
    ‘Good man,’ said Frank taking the paper.
    Frank tilted his hat back. A flick of black hair fell forward over his right eye. ‘Okay. I’ve seen enough. Steve?’
    Steve nodded.
    ‘Thanks, John. Give me a call at the precinct if you hear anything, okay?’
    ‘Sure, Detective.’
    ‘Frank. Call me Frank.’
    ‘Sure, Frank.’
    Frank and Steve made their way back to the Plymouth. The sun was already high. In the open space, it beat down relentlessly and sucked the air from their lungs and the strength from their legs. It sapped at their will. The ground was hard and uneven. They stepped over rubble, the bleached bones of what once was alive and full of promise and was now nothing but a broken word.
    ‘You think it was him that phoned in?’ asked Steve.
    ‘It would make sense.’ Frank lit a cigarette. ‘The arrogant bastard! If he’s not staring at us from a distance, he’s teasing us with anonymous phone calls.’
    ‘That aren’t anonymous at all.’
    ‘You think he wants to get caught?’
    ‘I think he wants to show us how clever he is.’
    Frank opened the door. ‘Son of a bitch. Let’s go find out who that car belongs to.’
     
    ‘Mrs Curtis?’
    Mrs Curtis, a woman in her late forties with a cheerful ruddy complexion and kind eyes, who had begun the inexorable slide south that came with middle-age and comfortable living, that added a roll to her hips as she walked, regarded Frank and Steve with a friendly anxiety.
    ‘Yes.’ She stepped back a foot into the house and wiped her hands upon a white apron. She looked like she had been baking. Her hands were white, her ribboned hair slightly astray and flecked white with the constant fight to push it aside. She had a frosting of snow on her flat, black shoes.
    Frank took his hat off and made an attempt to straighten his tie. He felt shabby all of a sudden.
    ‘Mrs Curtis, my name is Frank Matto and this is Steve Wayt.’ He held up his ID. ‘We’re with the NYPD. May we come in?’
    Mrs Curtis hesitated. There was something crow-like about these two men, something which told her that they only appeared once there was carrion to be found. They hid in the long grass and waited for the scream. They had brought fear with them. She stepped back and lowered her eyes in consent.
    ‘Sit down,’ said Mrs Curtis.
    Frank and Steve sat on the edge of a dark orange sofa. Mrs Curtis sat opposite them in an armchair. She had on a bright yellow dress, almost too bright for Frank to take in. He felt himself squint as he looked at her. She sat perched on the edge of her chair, as they were, only her back was rod straight and her hands were folded into her lap. She turned her wedding ring around as she waited.
    ‘Mrs Curtis, is your husband George Curtis?’ She nodded slowly as if afraid her head would detach. ‘Does he own a brown Pinto?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Do you know where he is?’
    She laughed nervously. ‘Of course. He’s working. He’s a salesman. He sells stationery,