Death in the Black Wood, Oliver Davies [short story to read TXT] 📗

home, or not working at all, I doubted we’d find him there either. It was necessary to check though. As both holidays had been booked online, at least we didn’t need to look into local travel agencies as well. That was something to be thankful for. Available man hours were our most valuable currency, and the supply was not without spending limits.

The Millers’ taxi driver had appeared promptly at four yesterday. He’d been a short fat man in his fifties and had nothing useful to tell us either.

Knowing that I wanted it urgently, and that it was a quick and easy job, Shay had marked the pill that he’d found in the jacket lining as a top priority when he’d packed up those samples yesterday. Someone down in the lab had paid his request due attention. The results came in just after ten fifteen. It was the same oxycodone/fentanyl mix as the one we’d found underneath Dominic Chuol’s sofa, just as I’d been hoping it would be. It was time to go and speak to Old Eric.

His last known address was in the case file, no contact number. Apparently Eric McAndrew didn’t have a phone. Hopefully, he hadn’t moved again since last month.

I collected Caitlin on my way out, once she’d passed her unchecked list of airport personnel to Walker to divide up, and we set off for Friar’s Street. That was nearby, on our side of the river, just below Friars’ Bridge.

Eric had been allocated housing in one of a row of small, two-storey houses near the Church at the bottom end of the street. Some were divided into two large flats, for families with kids, but his house was divided into four small ones. It took him a few minutes to respond to his buzzer, and I was beginning to think he was either out or unwilling to receive visitors when he finally came out to see who was bothering him.

“Mr Eric McAndrew? Good morning, Sir. I’m Inspector Keane, and this is Detective Sergeant Murray.” I held up my warrant card for him to inspect. “May we come in to have a word with you about Dominic Chuol?”

He stared at us through rheumy, bloodshot eyes. Old Eric looked to be in his late seventies but I knew he was only sixty six. Years of on and off substance abuse had not allowed him to age well. He still had a good head of light grey hair, although that had receded a little, retreating gradually back from a widow’s peak in the centre of his forehead. The hair fell to his shoulders, and he wore a bushy beard to match. His clothing was well-worn but clean, apart from a few little stains, and he didn’t look, or smell, like a man who didn’t shower or bathe regularly.

“Dominic? Again? I had you people round just last month asking about the poor boy.”

“Yes, Sir, that would have been Inspector Philips.”

“Aye, Philips, that was the name. I answered all his questions too, as best I could. You’ll have read his report. I’ve nothing to add now.”

“Actually, you may have, Mr McAndrew. You see, there’s been another murder, committed by the same man who killed Dominic. We now have some new information and further questions. Did you happen to catch the news last night?”

“A body would need a television to be able to do that, and who can afford the licence fees these days? Well, I suppose you’d better come in then.”

“Thank you.” He was perfectly sober and seemed to appreciate my politeness. I’d say that was a promising start.

His little ground-floor flat was chilly but not freezing. As he was living on a state pension, he’d be careful about how often he turned any heaters on. His Housing Benefit might cover the rent but the heating allowance was pitiful. The small living room he showed us into was sparsely furnished but clean and tidy. One armchair, a small table with two thinly padded dining chairs, a wall unit with cupboards below and shelves above and a well-worn rug covering the middle of the wooden floor. Eric McAndrew liked books. The shelves were full of them and there were more stacked against the wall.

“That’s quite a library you have there, Mr McAndrew. Did you have those stored somewhere before you moved in here?”

“Aye, with my niece, just for a few months mind. You’ll know I hit a rough patch last year, I suppose.”

“I did gather that you were on the streets for a few months, yes. I’m glad to see things have improved for you since then.”

“Are you now?” He settled himself into the armchair and eyed me dubiously before deciding I genuinely meant it. “I’d been seven years clean when I broke my hip last winter, slipped on some ice. They had me on painkillers for a few weeks. I backslid after that, when my GP cut me off… Well, I’m sure you’re familiar with the ups and downs of the life of people like me.”

“The rent money goes, the bills pile up, and soon, there’s nothing left to sell and nobody willing to lend you any more money, not even family. You kept your library though. That’s both unusual and surprising.”

“A really good book’s a pill you can swallow as many times as you like once you have it. The best ones always improve with every reread.”

“Mmm, they’re a healthier escape too. May we?” I gestured to the chairs by the table.

“Aye, pull them over here a bit. I like to look at a man when I’m talking to him, and a pretty woman even more so.” He gave Caitlin a smile, and she threw a cheeky grin back at him which made him chuckle. Once we’d moved the chairs and seated ourselves, I set my bag down and pulled out the slim folder I’d tucked into it before leaving the office.

“Mr McAndrew, the man who killed your friend Dominic struck again last night. This time, his victim was a family