Death Surge by Pauline Rowson Page A

the dirty narrow hallway with filthy clothes and toys littering the threadbare carpet. The smell of urine, dirt and fried food was cloying.
    Ryan Spencer appeared at the top of the stairs in low-slung jogging pants and a baggy, dirty, grey T-shirt over his skinny frame. He shuffled down the stairs, eyeing them with alarm. ‘I ain’t done nothing,’ he whined.
    ‘We’d just like a word,’ Cantelli answered, having to raise his voice above the sound of the television. ‘Shall we go in here?’ He indicated the scuffed and yellowing door on his left.
    Cantelli stepped inside while Horton followed the skinny anaemic-looking Ryan into the dirty room that stank of nicotine and soiled nappies. Horton caught sight of one poking out behind the sagging old settee and quickly turned his attention from it to the widescreen gigantic plasma television set that dominated the room, almost blocking out what little light managed to break through the grime on the window behind it. In front of it, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was a boy of about four. Horton feared for his eyesight, not to mention his hearing. Horton asked the mound of tattooed flesh to turn down the volume. She looked as though she was about to tell him to sod off or worse, but holding her gaze she must have seen something in his expression that made her obey, albeit grudgingly. The instant the sound decreased minimally the boy looked up, startled, and began to cry, and the baby decided to join in.
    ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ the mountain of flesh declared, glaring at Horton with real hatred. She grabbed the boy by the arm, violently wrenching him up from the floor so that he wailed even louder. Cantelli looked as though he was going to scream. Horton addressed Ryan Spencer, who seemed oblivious to the commotion.
    ‘Outside,’ he curtly commanded.
    Ryan Spencer sniffed, grabbed a packet of cigarettes from the mantelpiece and shuffled out. They followed him.
    ‘When did you last see Johnnie Oslow?’ Horton commanded sharply as soon as they were standing in the littered front garden. The quicker they got this over with the better. He registered a flicker of surprise in Ryan Spencer’s shifty eyes.
    ‘Not for years.’ Ryan lit his cigarette, adding, ‘Why, what’s he done? Set fire to something again?’
    Horton felt Cantelli tense. He wasn’t a violent man, but extenuating circumstances might provoke him, and this looked like being one of them. Horton quickly interjected: ‘Has he been in touch by phone, text or email?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Never?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Where were you last week?’
    ‘Eh?’ Ryan eyed Horton as though he’d just asked him to explain Newton’s theory of relativity.
    ‘Your life that exciting that you don’t remember?’ Horton said facetiously.
    Ryan wiped a hand across his nose and drew on his cigarette. Horton could hear the children crying inside the house and Ms Tattoo shouting at them to shut the fuck up. Poor little blighters didn’t stand a chance.
    ‘OK, then let me be more precise,’ Horton continued. ‘What were you were doing on Wednesday?’
    ‘Signing on.’
    The answer came so promptly that Horton knew it must be the highlight of his week. ‘All day?’ he sneered.
    ‘Nah, course not.’
    ‘So after signing on …’ This was like pulling teeth.
    ‘I went down the town, hung around the shops a bit, then went for a drink.’
    ‘Where?’
    Ryan flinched at the sharpness of Horton’s tone. ‘The White Swan. Guildhall Walk.’
    That wasn’t far from the town centre, but it was a fair distance from the harbour. ‘How long were you there?’ Horton asked as Cantelli took notes.
    ‘Dunno. A few hours.’
    ‘When, exactly?’ Horton felt like shaking him.
    ‘Didn’t look at the clock.’
    ‘What time did you get there?’
    ‘Look, what is this? The third degree?’
    Horton leaned forward and fixed his cold stare on the little weasel. ‘Yes. And if you don’t feel like answering my questions