"Lumley, Brian - Necroscope - The Lost Years Volume 2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

'But what did you see?' Inspector lanson pressed, fascinated by the sweat on Strachan's brow, despite that his flat was cool.
The other nodded. 'Hear me well,' he said, for if s the last time, Ah swear. Ah had seen wolves, George! White wolves, or things that moved, crept and snarled like wolves. Certainly Ah had seen one wolf -- the one that came frae the house, after scarin' Liz Bishop half tae death. But the hell o' it is that as the thing made for the trees, just before Old Bishop let go wi' that double blast it looked more like a lassie! Aye, just like the old lady had said. But wolf, bitch, girl or some
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Necroscope: The Lost Years -- Vol. II
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sort of weird mixture -- whatever it was -- it stood on its hind feet, George, upright! Now how can ye explain that?'
The Inspector believed he had evidence that might explain it. "What if she wasn't a dog?' he queried. 'Or a she-wolf, if you insist Could it be that what you saw was a mad woman running with rogue dogs? How about it, Gavin? Could I be right?'
'Eh?' Strachan licked his lips, frowned, and finally said: There's more tae yere visit than meets the eye. Now how about you tell me a story for a change? Like, how it is wi" this case ye're workin" on?'
There are -- might be -- similarities,' lanson admitted. Then, sighing, he said, 'OK, it's a deal. Ill tell you something of it, on the understanding it's for your ears only.'
'Done! But let's go through intae mah study...Well, Ah call it a study. As for what Ah'm studyin' -- what Ah've been readin' intae for years -- Ah've learned better than tae put it on open display.'
He got up, crossed the floor and opened a door to a room scarcely bigger than a closet. There was space for a desk, two chairs, and bookshelves built into the walls; and there was one small, high window to let in a little light in daylight hours. That was all.
As Strachan saw lanson seated, and went off to fetch his bottle and glasses, the Inspector stared at the shelved books, so close at hand, and read off some of their tides to himself. And because of recent events and conversations, it didn't take him long to recognize the nature of Strachan's obsession. Lycanthropy: werewolves. Anything and everything in literature to do with them. But there were also a good many books on predators -- real-life predators -- in general, but mainly wolves...
'Even comic books, aye,' Strachan said grimly, as he entered, sat opposite his guest and poured a drink. 'If if s tae do wi' the beast, Ah probably have it. An obsession? -- maybe.' He offered the Inspector the bottle but lanson turned it down.
Thanks, no. I've other people to see tonight. But Gavin, are you telling me that all of this springs from that night up in the wildlife park?'
Strachan's nod was his answer, qualified by: 'So maybe Ah really am as daft as they say, eh? Anyway, now ye know what Ah dream of nights, and why Ah'm reluctant tae talk about it. And, now it's yere turn tae talk.'
lanson had spotted a book he recognized. Its subject was nature's meat-eaters, its predators of course, but the Inspector was more interested in the author. If only because he knew him. And as he told Strachan some of the details of the murder at Sma' Auchterbecky, so he took the book down, opened it, and idly flipped the pages. Wild Dogs, Big Cats, by Angus McGowan. This was an earlier printing than the one lanson had seen previously at Angus's place during a rare,
rare visit; it was an old and shoddy copy, strained at the spine and badly thumbed, with creased and discoloured pages throughout. Later editions contained a lot more information, the Inspector knew.
It was definitely McGowan's work, though; despite that the paint had flaked out of the spine's stamping, still the lettering clearly displayed his name. And then there was his picture on the inside back flap.
Finally lanson finished telling Strachan about the murder. And putting down the book (frowning as he rapped his fingers on it; something bothering him that he hadn't as yet pinned down), he said: 'So now you see why I remembered that business at the wildlife park and wanted to talk to you. Even now the connection may be weak to nonexistent, but however remote the chance, still I had to look into it.'
Strachan nodded. 'Oh, Ah see well enough. But now tell me, George, and honestly, mind: do ye believe mah story?'
The Inspector thought about it. Til tell you what I believe,' he finally answered. T believe there are some things we simply don't know, can't understand. But I also believe that fear is contagious, and that when people are afraid they .become victims of their own imaginations.'
Strachan said, 'Huh! So ye don't believe even now, eh?'
lanson shrugged. 'What does it matter?' he said. 'I certainly believe that you believe! And also that when you left the force we lost...well, "a good yin."'
He glanced at his watch. It was time he was on his way.
But at the door he paused, frowned again, and looked back in the direction of Strachan's small study. Strachan followed his gaze, lifted an eyebrow and asked, 'Is there somethin'?'
'Do you mind?' the Inspector said. He crossed to the tiny room, entered, and picked up McGowan's book again. And turning to the opening pages, he checked something. Then, frowning yet more deeply, he said, 'May I borrow this? And when I return it, can we talk again?'
'As ye will,' the other shrugged. 'As long as we can talk about yere case, not mine.'
The Inspector agreed, and taking the book with him went to keep his appointment with Bonnie Jean Mirlu.
But first he called in at Police HQ to pick up the file on Strachan's Highland incident, and some photographs of John Moffat, plus one or two other pieces of information that had begun to trickle in. For one thing, the Inspector's investigators had tracked down Moffat's address, and for another they'd found his car in a snowdrift half a mile from Sma' Auchterbecky. At least the frame of the jigsaw was taking shape, if not the finer details...
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The street was awash in snow turning to slush as the Inspector was let into BJ.'s just ten minutes ahead of his appointment But she was ready to see him. And:
'As ye see,' she said, in the bar-room, 'business suffers a bit on nights like this. Who in his right mind wants tae turn out for a drink on a night like this, eh? So Ah'm sorry, but as ye can see no all mah girls are in tonight. Margaret's no in -- Ah've given her a few days off -- and no point bringing all four of the others in tae sit around doing nothing. So there's only mahself and these two. And besides, as Ah told ye on the phone. Ah can't see how we can help anyway.'
lanson's coat was taken from him by one of the girls, and as he gave the place a cursory once-over BJ. said, We'd best talk upstairs in mah rooms. It being so quiet, Ah don't expect well be disturbed.' She was right: there were only two men in the place. One was at the bar chatting to the second girl, and the other at a table, head down, nursing his drink.
So now the Inspector could concentrate more fully on B J. Her accent puzzled him face-to-face no less than on the phone. It was antique, yet modern, too -- 'stage' Scottish. When she used it, it sounded unreal: a sort of'designer' brogue. Maybe she had an upper-class background while her assumed tongue was that of the lower- to middle-classes, as befitted her position. For what was she in reality but a barmaid? lanson told himself that this wasn't his own snobbish attitude but merely a factual observation. And perhaps that was the essence of it: she didn't want her clients thinking she was 'a posh yin.'
As for the girl -- or woman -- herself:
Well, her age was hard to gauge, as witness lanson's indecision. But then again (he was obliged to ask himself), what is the difference between a girl and a woman anyway? And has age got anything to do with it, or is it a matter of experience? As for his own experience: lanson had never been much of a one for the girls. Having never married, he had to admit that his knowledge was limited.
BJ. was undeniably attractive. Tall and well-formed, her figure was all curves and her posture self-assured as any model's. Her hazel eyes were interesting. They had an almost Eurasian slant, and yellow flecks in their cores that loaned them a golden gleam in the bar's muted lighting. One might even say she had feral eyes. Her ears were large but not obtrusive; they lay flat to her head and seemed elflike with their pointed tips. BJ. was probably sensitive about them, however, for she kept them not-quite-hidden in the swirl and bounce of her shining, oddly neutral hair. Her nose was tip-tilted and a little flattened, and her mouth too ample by far, yet perfect in the curve of its bow. And her teeth were as white and well-cared for as any the Inspector had ever seen.
Thus he captured her description, as years of practice had taught him to do, while she took him upstairs and made him comfortable in her living-room over the bar. There she offered him a drink, which he politely refused, and when she was settled he quickly got down to it.
'Did you know the man who attacked Margaret Macdowell? His name was John Mof fat and he lodged on the other side of town.' He showed her a photograph taken from Moffaf s lodgings.
'Ah recognize him, yes,' she answered, staring at the picture. 'But did Ah know him?' Now she glanced at lanson. 'Not at all. The girls get tae know some o' them, but Ah steer clear.'
'Your girls -1 mean your staff -- form romantic attachments?'
'No such thing!' she bridled. They get tae know the regulars, that's all, just as yell know all the crooks.'
'I see. But he did used to come in here. A frequent customer, was he?'