SENTINEL: an exciting British detective crime thriller by JOHN STANLEY Page B
Authors: JOHN STANLEY
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nasty.’ Gaines was relieved that his voice was steady. Something about Radford’s calm demeanour was giving him strength. The sergeant looked at Cranmer. ‘Very nasty indeed. Not sure you’ve done a murder yet, Des? In fact, it’s probably all you need to complete the set. Maybe the vicar is the one, eh?’
Cranmer looked even more anxious.
‘So,’ said Radford, ‘either of you care to tell us why you did him over?’
‘Nowt to do with me,’ said Garvin, who had been stung by the inspector’s taunts. ‘Not my style.’
‘And what about you?’ asked Radford, switching his attention back to Cranmer. ‘You into beating up vicars, Des? That one of your little sidelines? Bye, you’ve got to be a brave man to do that.’
Cranmer said nothing and tried not to think about his father and the last time they had met, the altercation that had left the old man with a fractured eye socket and his eighteen-year-old son doing a two-stretch for assault. They never spoke after that, not even when Cranmer found out that his father was dying from cancer. Sweat started on his brow under the inspector’s stare.
‘Not suffering a bout of conscience, are we?’ asked Radford, enjoying his discomfort. ‘Regretting what you’ve done?’
Still, Cranmer did not reply.
‘See,’ continued Radford, noticing that Garvin had bunched his fist even tighter (go on, give me an excuse, sonny Jim, not that I need it. You’ve got it coming, like it or not, it’s going to happen. Got to stick to the rules of the game), ‘we know that you were both outside the church at around the time the vicar was done over and that made us think that maybe you were the ones who…’
Radford got no further with the sentence because with an angry roar, Garvin leapt to his feet, turning over the table, sending the glasses flying, and making for the door. Expecting, hoping for the reaction, Radford was the first to move, quicker than his startled sergeant. He sprinted after Garvin and caught him by the bar, spinning him round with an expert flick of the arm and throwing him off balance.
Garvin swayed slightly and eyed the inspector uncertainly. Eyed the glint in those blue eyes, noted the muscular build. Was not sure that he fancied his chances but knew that his reputation as a hard man meant that he could not back down. Not to a copper, especially not someone who spent most of his time behind a desk. And while he was thinking all of those things, he did not even see the fist that snapped out and sent him crashing backwards. Garvin was already unconscious by the time he slammed into the bar and his knees buckled. Did not even hear the sickening sound of his head hitting the floor. Radford looked down at him with satisfaction.
For mum, that was. For all those nights she lay awake in her bed waiting for the slam of the door downstairs and the heavy tread on the stair. And for a fucked up childhood at the hands of a man just like you, a man who knew only violence. For me. And also for the game. Always for the game.
Radford turned back to look at the stunned Cranmer, who was still standing by the overturned table and gazing in disbelief at his prostrate friend. He had never seem him felled like that. Over the years, Garvin and Cranmer had found themselves in many a tight spot, bar brawls, breaking up political demonstrations, street riots but never had Cranmer seen Neil Garvin felled. Standing beside him, Gaines also stared in amazement at the prostrate form lying motionless next to the bar.
The inspector walked back to the table and gave Cranmer a disarming smile.
‘Coming quietly, Des?’ he said, walking back to the table, bunching his fist, ‘Or would you like some of what he got? Plenty more where that came from.’
Cranmer shook his head and, almost before he realised he had done it, dumbly held out his hands to be cuffed by the inspector, who then led him across the lounge, watched by the astonished barman. The old man nursing his pint
Cranmer looked even more anxious.
‘So,’ said Radford, ‘either of you care to tell us why you did him over?’
‘Nowt to do with me,’ said Garvin, who had been stung by the inspector’s taunts. ‘Not my style.’
‘And what about you?’ asked Radford, switching his attention back to Cranmer. ‘You into beating up vicars, Des? That one of your little sidelines? Bye, you’ve got to be a brave man to do that.’
Cranmer said nothing and tried not to think about his father and the last time they had met, the altercation that had left the old man with a fractured eye socket and his eighteen-year-old son doing a two-stretch for assault. They never spoke after that, not even when Cranmer found out that his father was dying from cancer. Sweat started on his brow under the inspector’s stare.
‘Not suffering a bout of conscience, are we?’ asked Radford, enjoying his discomfort. ‘Regretting what you’ve done?’
Still, Cranmer did not reply.
‘See,’ continued Radford, noticing that Garvin had bunched his fist even tighter (go on, give me an excuse, sonny Jim, not that I need it. You’ve got it coming, like it or not, it’s going to happen. Got to stick to the rules of the game), ‘we know that you were both outside the church at around the time the vicar was done over and that made us think that maybe you were the ones who…’
Radford got no further with the sentence because with an angry roar, Garvin leapt to his feet, turning over the table, sending the glasses flying, and making for the door. Expecting, hoping for the reaction, Radford was the first to move, quicker than his startled sergeant. He sprinted after Garvin and caught him by the bar, spinning him round with an expert flick of the arm and throwing him off balance.
Garvin swayed slightly and eyed the inspector uncertainly. Eyed the glint in those blue eyes, noted the muscular build. Was not sure that he fancied his chances but knew that his reputation as a hard man meant that he could not back down. Not to a copper, especially not someone who spent most of his time behind a desk. And while he was thinking all of those things, he did not even see the fist that snapped out and sent him crashing backwards. Garvin was already unconscious by the time he slammed into the bar and his knees buckled. Did not even hear the sickening sound of his head hitting the floor. Radford looked down at him with satisfaction.
For mum, that was. For all those nights she lay awake in her bed waiting for the slam of the door downstairs and the heavy tread on the stair. And for a fucked up childhood at the hands of a man just like you, a man who knew only violence. For me. And also for the game. Always for the game.
Radford turned back to look at the stunned Cranmer, who was still standing by the overturned table and gazing in disbelief at his prostrate friend. He had never seem him felled like that. Over the years, Garvin and Cranmer had found themselves in many a tight spot, bar brawls, breaking up political demonstrations, street riots but never had Cranmer seen Neil Garvin felled. Standing beside him, Gaines also stared in amazement at the prostrate form lying motionless next to the bar.
The inspector walked back to the table and gave Cranmer a disarming smile.
‘Coming quietly, Des?’ he said, walking back to the table, bunching his fist, ‘Or would you like some of what he got? Plenty more where that came from.’
Cranmer shook his head and, almost before he realised he had done it, dumbly held out his hands to be cuffed by the inspector, who then led him across the lounge, watched by the astonished barman. The old man nursing his pint
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