Their Silent Graves (Detective Gina Harte #7) - Carla Kovach

Prologue

24 years ago

Friday, 27 September

‘Hey, get my buddy here a pint and pour me another one while you’re at it.’ Terry sniffed, before wiping away the touch of white powder that was irritating the bottom of his nose.

He slapped me on the back, almost knocking me over as I went to sit on the bar stool. I didn’t mind, not while he was dishing out the freebies like there was no tomorrow. I glanced around and nodded at the others, mostly older men. I wasn’t the only one who was enjoying his drunken generosity. It looked like the party had been going on for a while now. My mouth watered as I inhaled the hoppy smell. ‘Thanks, Terry. You’re a gentleman.’ He’s far from it; I don’t know why I said that. It just seemed like the right thing to say.

‘I know I am. I just wish the bitch at home felt the same, my man; but that’s women for you.’ As the server bent over to grab another glass, I saw Terry leering. ‘What you doing later, love? Maybe you and me, we could do things that would have you howling with the wind in pleasure. All the fun with no strings. You know you want to.’ He stuck his tongue out several times before winking.

The woman rolled her eyes and stood, pulling her skirt down as she stepped over to the other side of the bar to pull their pints.

‘Have one yourself, you always do.’

‘I’m okay thank you, and no I don’t.’ She turned away.

‘She’s an ungrateful bitch just like my wife. The key is to stay ahead of them, all the time. Show them their place and if they try to step outside of it, drag them back by the hair. Be in control.’ He grinned and sniffed again.

I let out a wry smile and a slight huff. My takings have been down this month – not enough people are dying. I’m just ticking by. Don’t get me wrong; people are spending less on coffins than ever. I supply quality goods, the most beautiful bespoke boxes that people can rest in for eternity. Rubbing my fingers together, I flinch at the splinters and callouses. I’m not just a carpenter, I’m an artist. I sculpt the wood. I enjoy the feel of it and treat it with love.

Terry gave me a nudge. ‘I mean, that bitch dared to answer me back so what did I do? I left her in the shed. She has to know that she can’t get away with speaking down to me.’

He’s now grinning at me as the server plonks my pint down. ‘Thanks, Terry.’ I take a sip.

‘Might leave her in there all weekend until she learns her lesson. When I let her out, she’ll be so grateful, if you know what I mean. It does wonders for our relationship.’ He winked again.

He has no idea what respect is. Everyone around here knows where she gets her bruises from, but we pretend to be his buddy. Why? I don’t know. A sense of unease washes over me. I should say something, tell someone, but I won’t just like no one else here will. They could call the police or social services, but they won’t. We won’t. We ignore other people’s problems in exchange for free drinks at the pub. We live by an unwritten code of not grassing on our fellow man. That’s just what we seem to do.

‘I’m going to go home and see to ma bitch!’ He guzzles down the pint and slams it on the bar. ‘Me and her have got some unfinished business. I’m going to show her who’s boss. Bye, sexy, you’ve got my number. Call me.’ He staggers to the door and flings it open, almost falling as he leaves.

‘I don’t think so.’ The server leans over the bar. ‘Why do you all encourage him?’ The others turn away and get back to their conversations and games of cards and dominoes.

I recoil, scrunching my nose. ‘Encourage him? I don’t.’

‘Whatever. You accept him buying you drinks, you say nothing when he’s rude to people, mostly women. And the way he speaks about his wife, don’t get me started. You know something, you’re just as bad as him. You’re just as bad as them.’ She points to the others, throws the beer mat onto the bar and turns away from us all. I shrug and turn to them. I can see a couple of them grinning and one of them