Evil Turn (Nathan Hawk Mystery) by Douglas Watkinson Page A

but within seconds I’d seen myself turn to the back door, yank it open and leap out onto the gravel just as he dropped the nine or ten feet from the edge of the thatch. He crouched into a classic squat to break his fall, sprang up again and ran. I could already hear Grogan, inside the house, crashing down the stairs, curse by curse.
    I caught up with Kinsella at the big beech tree and kicked out at the back of his knee. He went down in a flurry of anger, the gist of which was, “Bastard coppers, you never bloody change, never lose the will to make other people’s lives a misery...”
    He was trying to get to his feet and when he reached all fours I kicked his arms out from beneath his shoulders and turned to see Grogan, loose vest, boxers, nothing on his feet, prancing over beech husks towards us. I stepped back and when he reached Kinsella he stood over him and punched him in the neck. Kinsella dropped again. Grogan showered him with expletives.
    “You fucking sod, give you an inch you take a fucking yard! No more of that, you little shit!”
    It was the first time any of us had seen Grogan’s temper. We knew it was there, we knew that unleashed it would be dangerous. Kinsella groaned. Grogan stooped down and punched him again, then again and then again. It wasn’t me who stopped him, it was Laura.
    “Hey! Just a second!” she called from the kitchen door and headed towards us.
    Grogan froze, fist clenched, conscious of a stranger looking on. He must have missed her on his way across the kitchen, leggings and sparkly top notwithstanding. He looked at me.
    “This is Doctor Laura Peterson,” I said. “Laura, Sergeant Bill Grogan. On the ground, Liam Kinsella. At the back door, Detective Constable Petra Fairchild.”
    They turned to see Fairchild, who was looking pretty good, considering. A shiny pink dressing gown was tied firmly at the waist and she was spiking up her hair.
    “What’s happened?” she asked, approaching.
    “Your star witness just made a bid for freedom, though why he should need to’s a mystery. I’ve made coffee, by the way.”
    I led them back into the house. Grogan, who had dragged Kinsella in behind me, threw him into a chair with such force that it tipped backwards. Arms and legs akimbo, Kinsella struggled to keep upright and just about managed it.
    “Five minutes,” Grogan said to me. “Keep an eye.”
    He meant that he needed five minutes to go and get dressed and would I mind making sure that his charge – his prisoner, it seemed – didn’t make another break for it. He nodded at Laura, a mixture of gratitude that she’d stopped him from doing serious damage to Kinsella and apology for having been caught in a state of undress. As he passed her I saw her eyes stray to the tattoos on his bare flesh, the neck and upper arms. They were violent and tribal and at some stage he’d tried to have them removed with minimal success. He left the kitchen and we heard him go up the stairs two at a time.
    Laura clapped her hands, just once, to alter the mood.
    “Right, what does everyone have for breakfast?” She went on to stress the importance of the first meal of the day.
    “Would you like some help?” Fairchild asked.
    “Thank you, dear, get some bowls out...”
    “So you’re the lady of the house,” said Kinsella.
    “I most certainly am not.”
    “All the same I apologise for what you’ve just witnessed. My part in it, at least. As for the others involved...”
    “Kinsella, zip it,” said Fairchild, pointing above her head. “You’re in a heap of trouble as it is.”
    Laura took a packet of Quaker Oats from the cupboard and measured a couple of mugfuls into a china bowl. She added milk, a rough amount, stirred the result and placed it in the microwave. It might have been breakfast in a million households across the country. I was pouring coffee. That was becoming routine. In the morning I poured coffee, in the evening I poured wine or whisky.
    I set a mug of black down in