Hard Evidence

Начало книги

Night-time on the river, twenty-five miles west of London. Kevin Norrell, a foul-breathed and acne-scarred man, hooded and sweating, pulled hard on the oars, really getting into it now. Years of steroid abuse had given him strength, if not wisdom, and his blades flashed across the dark ridges of the windblown river like scalpels slicing through mercury. He grunted as they dipped into the water and pulled the boat upwards and forward. In the cloudless sky above, the moon hung full and fat, the sickly colour of a dying man. The colour of Billy Martin's yellowing face, in fact, as he lay huddled in the corner of the small skiff. His hands were bound with twisted coat-hanger wire, his mouth was pulled into a painful rictus by a gag made from his own shirt. Trembling, he pulled his legs protectively in towards himself.

'For God's sake keep still!' A hooded man at the other end of the boat, holding a video camera.

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