Abattoir Blues by Peter Robinson Page A

you panic, you just get yourself more stuck. They found me and got me out, of course, but I think I must have lost my nerve after that. I thought there could be a sudden shower and I’d just drown like a . . . well, drown.’
    ‘It can be very dangerous down there.’ Gilchrist sipped his coffee. ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Drown.’
    ‘Oh, yes, Me, too.’
    They both laughed.
    ‘Perhaps we could go together?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Potholing, that is. When all this is over.’ He tapped his leg. ‘This wouldn’t be much of a hindrance. Maybe I can help you get your nerve back?’
    ‘Maybe. We’ll have to see.’ Her tone sounded clipped, as if she were cutting off the possibility. Gilchrist felt disproportionately disappointed. After all, he hardly knew her. Was it forward to ask a woman you found attractive to go potholing with you? He no longer had any idea about the propriety or etiquette of such things. Best shut up about it and get to the questions she had come to ask him, stick to the point of her visit. To do otherwise would only be to invite grief.
    ‘Do you remember anything more about those lorries you mentioned?’ she asked. ‘Any markings or anything?’
    Now they were back on familiar terrain, but even this Gilchrist found painful. He used to pride himself on his keen powers of observation and memory – he would probably have made a good detective himself, his CO had once said – but since the explosion, his memory seemed to have gone the same way as his leg. He only hoped it would recover as well in time. ‘I don’t think they had any markings,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember any.’
    ‘When you saw them, what did you think they were doing there?’
    ‘I must admit I had no idea. It’s like when you see all those juggernauts by the roadside at Scotch Corner. Drivers having a nap or something. They have their routines. I know they’re only supposed to drive a limited number of hours per day. They have to sleep somewhere, and it saves on B & B money if they sleep in the cab. These were smaller, so sleeping in the cab was probably out. In the back, maybe.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Winsome. ‘Did you ever get the impression they were delivering something, or picking something up? Ever see anyone loading or anything like that?’
    Terry shook his head. ‘I think I would remember if I had,’ he said, feeling far from certain that he would.
    ‘What about the children you said you saw playing there? Do you know any of them?’
    ‘I’ve thrown their ball back to them once or twice, but I wouldn’t say I know them. Not by name. They’re from the village. As I said, they’re all right, really, but the older ones do tend to be antisocial, or just suspicious of strangers. Maybe rightly so.’
    ‘Do you know where any of them live?’
    ‘I’ve seen a couple of them coming or going from houses when I’ve been shopping.’
    ‘It might help if you could let me know the addresses.’
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember. The streets are all named after trees, and I get confused. I could probably point out some of the houses.’
    Winsome nodded and Terry watched her make a note in her black book. ‘We’ll send someone over when it’s convenient for you,’ she said. ‘Maybe tomorrow morning, if that’s OK? We’d like to have a word with some of them.’
    ‘I’m not going anywhere. I don’t suppose they’ll be able to tell you much, though. After all, they wouldn’t have been there when the lorries were.’
    ‘No, but even so . . .’
    ‘Yes. You have to be thorough.’ Again, Terry felt disappointed that she wasn’t going to accompany him on a walk around the village to identify the children’s houses. He could point out the highlights of Drewick, such as they were. As it happened, he could only remember where one or two of the children lived, so it probably wouldn’t do her any good. They could canvass the whole village if they wanted. It wouldn’t take