"Michael Scott Rohan - Chase the Morning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rohan Michael Scott)

gaspers, then that she was having a heart attack. Her eyes bulged; she made no
sound but a strange little croak, one hand clutched at her coat. The other she
made as if to lift, then let it fall limply. I stared at her like all the
rest; but when I met her eyes it was as if a curtain had been drawn behind
them.
Clare touched her arm, and she flinched. 'Mrs Macksie! Are you feeling
all right?'
'What's the matter, love?' The CID man spoke softly; but it was a demand
all the same. She turned her hooded eyes away, but he persisted. 'Seen
something? Something you recognize? Somebody left a mark of some sort
-somebody you know? Want to tell us about it, then?' Patently that was the
last thing she wanted. 'C'mon, love!' His voice was taking on just that slight
warning edge. 'You know you'll have to, sooner or later -'
Barry caught his eye warningly, but too late. She glared up at the
policeman, and her jaw set like a rat-trap. 'What you talkin' about?' she
demanded. Tou tellin' me to my face I done this? I had anythin' to do with
whoevah done this?'
Barry spread his arms. 'Mrs Macksie, of course not -everyone knows you
here, but -'
Tm not havin' anybody tellin' me I done a thing like this,' she said
obstinately, a little shrill. 'I'm a respectable woman, my husband was a lay
preacher and I'm a deaconess! How long I've worked for you now? Five yeah,
that's how long! I'm not standin' for this boy heah tellin' me I've anythin'
to do with jus' plain filthy things like obeah -' She'd said too much. She
positively tried to snap the word off, but we'd all heard it. She snorted with
annoyance, then turned on her heel and stalked out. She might have looked
funny on her plump little partridge legs, but she was too much in earnest. I
caught Clare's eye quickly; she nodded, and hurried after the indignant woman.
'Obi-what?' demanded the policeman, of nobody in particular. We all looked at
each other, and shrugged. He turned to Dave. 'Now, sir, I don't suppose you
could - with maybe something of a similar background -'
'No I fucking well can't!' snarled Dave, shedding his usual cool with
startling speed. 'Background? Jesus, you were born nearer her than I was - why
don't you bloody know? She's Trinidadian, and I'm from Nigeria. I'm an Ibo
- a Biafran, if that means anything to you! What's
common about that?'
'Nothing at all, Dave,' I said wryly. 'So slip back into lounge-lizard
mode as usual, please, and go ask her. She does have a soft spot for you,
after all, though there's no accounting for tastes.'
'It's the letters after my name,' he said cheerfully, his flash of
temper gone as fast as it had come. He lit another cigarette. 'Mad keen on
education, all these West Indians are - worse than the Scots. Okay, I'll ask.'
But when he appeared a few minutes later he was looking a little ruffled.
'She'll tell,' he said. 'I think maybe Clare persuaded her, more than me. And
- well, could be we do have something like this back home, though not by that
name. But city folk, educated classes - it's not something we'd ever run into.
Strictly for the hicks in the stix
- straight down from the trees, as you might say,
sergeant, eh? Juju, that's what they call it.' He grimaced.
'That word - my old man'd have a fit if he'd heard me use