The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (best summer reads of all time txt) 📕

cathedral. He did not think of caution, went forward and tried to believe he was not alone, was again where – briefly – he could gather comfort.

Ice-creams had been brought in from the town, proper ones with cones and chocolate sticks, and the adults had been separated from the children.

Tristram and Izzy nowhere to be seen, and friendly smiles from the staff at the holding place.

The children alone with a minder, and then the door opening, the attending uniform gone. The boy and the girl were left with Tristram and Izzy. He had a broad smile and she had a grin that said conspiracy and mystery.

The ice-creams were handed over.

The photographs were placed on the table.

They had come through onto Tristram’s mobile phone. A room had been found where he could hook up to a printer. They were A4 images. Perhaps the kids when they saw the photographs would have accepted the truth of that old adage, however it was expressed in their culture: no such thing as a free lunch. Good ice-creams but cheap when set against the photo gallery on display. The girl, older, understood. She turned away and looked at the Annigoni portrait of the Queen painted more than 60 years before. The night before the boy had been in the water, his breath seeping away between his lips, darkness and noise all around him, and a hand had grabbed him. His life had been saved, and for a moment he would not have known, confused and open-hearted, that he was about to betray the best man he had ever known.

One by one, the pictures were pushed in front of him by Izzy.

The student from Westminster University, and the shop worker who specialised in vinyl. A shake of the head and another mouth-ful, the chocolate dribbling from the sides of his mouth. The last picture was marked with the initials “CJ”, and the child had rocked and his eyes had bulged and there was a gasp of recognition.

The child bent over the table. Held the ice-cream cone away from his mouth. Kissed the image of the monochrome face. An uninhibited kiss – out of innocence, as they had hoped for and as Jonas Merrick back in London had indicated might happen.

The girl, older, wiser, better able to read the moment, saw what her brother did. She kicked him hard. Her toe, in the flip-flops, careered into his shin. His head came up and he would have seen his sister’s contempt . . . Tristram wondered if, in their Christian teaching and whatever equivalent to a Sunday School they had, either of them knew of a Judas kiss . . . The girl dropped her ice-cream on the floor and reached out to grab the picture. Not fast enough. Tristram had it, and palmed it behind him, and Izzy took it.

They left the room.

In the yard, Izzy said, “Sort of leaves me with a bad taste. And you?”

Tristram said, “No sort of taste at all. Wobby had it right. Not known as a Wise Old Bird for nothing. You going to call him? Sorry, we could have beaten three shades of shit out of them and they’d not have done the identification. I don’t feel good and I don’t feel bad. It’s not a fun world, Izzy, but you know that. But didn’t know it when you joined.”

“Pompous fucker,” she said and punched him, grinning. He was looking at the picture, good-looking young man, clean and neat, with the stain of the ice-cream around his lips.

“Heh, old cocker. Fancy . . . bloody hell.”

Cammy’s way was blocked. He had left the grounds of the ruined abbey, was heading for the Burgate opening in the city walls, sitting close to the cathedral.

“That is you? Cameron? Yes?”

The guy stood in front of him. Joey Pickford, a year ahead of him at the comprehensive, no friend. Had been the kind of guy who could recognise a kid coming down in the world, literally down from the college on the hill overlooking the city and whose scholarship had been binned. Could recognise and milk an opportunity.

“It is you . . .? That’s a turn-up. Old Cameron – Shit, thought you had been blown into small pieces. You all right? Look like you’re not. And dressed like a bloody pensioner.”

He had not examined the possibility of being recognised, identified, had not seen that as being relevant to him . . .

Was in his home city because his mum was there, and it was her birthday tomorrow and that would be her present – to have him back – and she’d pull faces and complain that he had not written, and never a phone call, and he would do the smile that had always won her. She would be in the kitchen and the rings would be lit, and she’d be cooking him something that was a favourite and special, might be chops with chips and mushrooms thrown in, and of course she’d have a can in the fridge, a beer for him, and then he would hug and kiss and smile all over again, and would slip away in the night when she had given him some money. First train of the day out and going to his meeting with the man who had facilitated the hit, then being driven to the target and its fence. Had to be here for his mum, owed it her, and had to be back at the cathedral where there had been big times. There he had been a star, then had been rejected – cut off. Joey Pickford blocked his way.

“Have I got this wrong? Don’t think I remember every kid I was at school with, but you’re special. Were special at school, got the chop from the private place, and then got more special. All that stuff in the papers . . . everyone said you’d have your arse blown off.”

Cammy said, “Don’t know who you are. If you’ll excuse me?”

“But you’re Cameron, Cameron Jilkes. Lived up the hill from Sturry? Had a thing with that Vicky . . . Are you not Cameron