Rough Treatment

Начало книги

“Are we going to do this?” Grice asked. Already the cold was seeping into the muscles across his back. January he hated with a vengeance.

Milder than usual days, Grabianski thought, you expected nights like this. “A minute,” he said, and started off towards the garage. For a big man, he moved with surprising lightness.

Through an estate agent’s wide-angle lens it would have been a mansion, but from there, where Grice was standing at the head of the pebbled drive, it was just another oversized house at the southern edge of the city.

Daylight would have made it easier to tell that the cream weather-proof paint had not been renewed this last or even the previous summer; the wood of the fake timbers was shedding its casing like a bad case of eczema. Miniature fir trees sat stunted in barrels at either side of the front door. Three steps up and ring the bell. Grice tried to remember the last time he had gained entrance to somebody’s house by ringing the bell.

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