Dead Beat by Patricia Hall Page A

for a gap in the traffic speeding towards King’s Cross.
    â€˜There’s flats over there.’ The boy waved vaguely towards Bloomsbury.
    â€˜Big houses,’ Hamish said. ‘I ken them.’
    â€˜Flats,’ the boy said, his face obstinate. ‘I know where he lives.’
    They dodged through the traffic as the boy led the way north again and then into side streets lined with nineteenth century terraces, grey and decrepit in the bright morning sunshine. They could see the gothic brick bulk of St Pancras now at the end of the grid of streets, like some dilapidated medieval castle looming over the neighbourhood. Still within sight of the station, the boy stopped at the doors of a neglected-looking six-storey mansion block, its brickwork chipped and its windows grubby.
    â€˜This is it,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right now.’ He glanced down at himself with some satisfaction. ‘Good old Sally Ann,’ he said. He ran his hand down the green duffel coat he was wearing over a warm wool shirt and dark slacks which were only slightly too big – nothing that could not be disguised by turning over the waistband to stop them flapping too obviously round his ankles, and the nurse’s warm boots he had insisted on keeping. His new outfit was topped off with a tweed cap which covered the dressing he still wore on his head.
    â€˜He won’t know me in this clobber.’ And nor will anyone else , he thought, with some satisfaction. In the end he had given Hamish a sketchy version of the murder scene he had stumbled into, but had not admitted that his accident had been the result of panic at the thought of being recognized in the street. His fear now was that the old Scot would abandon him if he thought he was at risk of violence. Best, he thought, to keep that to himself.
    â€˜I picked the smallest things I could find,’ Hamish said. ‘I told them you’d just come out of hospital, which was true enough.’ He was wearing a thick duffle coat himself, which he had also acquired that morning, and he had tucked his matted grey beard and hair into the collar, but his boots were split where the soles joined the uppers, revealing a couple of filthy toenails like claws on his left foot. While the boy, in his new clothes, could pass for normal, in spite of his thin features and the fear in his eyes, Hamish had failed to disguise what he was.
    The boy looked at him warily. ‘You can’t come up with me,’ he said.
    â€˜Aye, I know that, laddie,’ Hamish said, but still seemed reluctant to turn away. ‘I wish . . .’ He did not finish the sentence.
    â€˜It’s all right,’ the boy said. ‘This bloke’s all right. He won’t hurt me.’
    â€˜And he’ll give ye money?’
    â€˜He will.’
    â€˜Aye, well, if ye say so. I’ll wait for ye over there.’ Hamish waved at a small patch of grass with a couple of wooden benches overshadowed by the tall brick blocks all round. ‘Naebody’ll bother me there.’
    The boy watched as his friend crossed the street, settled himself on a bench and pulled a bottle from his pocket. Then he turned and walked up the steps to the heavy doors which swung open with a push to let him in and made his way up the stairs with more confidence than he felt.
    Barnard leaned back lazily in his chair and smiled at the man across the beer-stained table between them. But there was no warmth in the smile, more the anticipation of a shark circling in murky water knowing that sooner or later a swimmer’s leg would conveniently appear above his head. The man opposite wriggled uncomfortably and took a sip of his half pint. Barnard’s companion was small and dark-haired, with a thin, almost wizened face, calculating eyes and an ingratiating smile which he was offering Barnard now, between sips.
    â€˜I haven’t heard a whisper, Mr Barnard, and that’s the