Read Online Maloney's Law by Anne Brooke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Brooke
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Gay, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Mystery Fiction, England, London, Traditional British, Gay Men, Private investigators - England - London
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me into a family that works?’
‘No. It’s not like that, I was just—’
‘Yes, I know. I was trying to be light-hearted, but it failed. Sorry. It sounds like my idea of happiness. I’m up for it, thanks.’
At the door, I make arrangements to pick Jade up in the morning. As I drive home, out of all the factors I can puzzle over, I choose to focus again on why someone with her looks and heart doesn’t have a regular partner. Or any kind of partner at all.
In the kitchen, the sunlight is fading. When I get up to turn on the overhead light, my knees creak and my neck aches. Too much time spent peering at the laptop, trying to make sense of the information I’ve uploaded from the Delta Egypt CD. I stretch my muscles in the darkness before heading for the switch. It’s part of my business to spend hours going over and over the same facts or following the same person until suddenly the key will fit or the one tiny piece of the jigsaw will cry out to you and you’ll see something no-one else wanted you to see. That’s the kick, that’s what keeps me going.
It’s not going to happen tonight. Four hours and fifty-two minutes of studying the facts, and I am nowhere near the door, let alone the key. The jigsaw is still just a mass of colours and shapes that make no sense.
Only one thing for it. Time for a whisky. But which one? The glass sparkles in my hand, and I smile. It’s not necessary, but I wash and dry the tumbler. Slowly, as if every centimetre of it counts. The traffic outside is thinning, with just one or two groups of teenagers skulking and smoking at the corners where the shadows begin and two or three women wheeling their prams on the other side of the road to avoid them.
I put the glass on the middle of the table, moving the laptop to one side to allow it room.
I open the kitchen drinks cupboard and study the three choices of whisky currently in the flat, though from preference I’d rather have four. First there’s the Glenfiddich, as light as water in colour, but with a smell to it of barley and honey and the deep taste of malt. A whisky for early summer evenings that promise the full heat of the days to come. It’s not for now. Behind it, the Highland Park glistens amber, and if I open it I know the smell of medicine and smoke will envelop me, and the taste once taken will be full and sweet. It’s the drink for when I’m tired or ill. Not too strong and not too weak; it knows where I am and how to reach me. The perfect answer? No, still it’s not quite right. Last of all is The Macallan, rarely opened, its rich toffee glow hinting of secrets not yet understood, not yet known. Yes, this is the one. As I release it, the smell of new leather and dark Spanish sherry settles around me, and I pour a double measure, more, into my waiting glass. The golden liquid swings round, marking its place, waiting for me, calling. I take one deep breath of it, two, and I could already be swimming in its tempting river. My heart beats faster. My skin feels hot.
I savour the first, the best, sip, and the pungent wave of whisky sweeps me away from all lingering thoughts. I could almost be flying.
It’s too good for the kitchen with its smell of stale cooking and damp. So, anticipating my next sip but holding out just a little longer, just a little, I power down my laptop and take the glass and myself into the living room.
The next sip tastes even more powerful. It reminds me of the man who bought it for me. It takes me back to Dominic and the very beginning of it all.
Friday 12 May, 2000. I’d been working for one of my regular clients, a local insurance company, and had carried out surveillance on a bloke who was suing their insured for tens of thousands of pounds. For alleged injuries caused by non-maintenance of the drills he had to use on the road. Load of old baloney. I’d filmed him at least six times pounding away on the running machines at the gym, the idiot, and the case fell apart. One of my most
‘No. It’s not like that, I was just—’
‘Yes, I know. I was trying to be light-hearted, but it failed. Sorry. It sounds like my idea of happiness. I’m up for it, thanks.’
At the door, I make arrangements to pick Jade up in the morning. As I drive home, out of all the factors I can puzzle over, I choose to focus again on why someone with her looks and heart doesn’t have a regular partner. Or any kind of partner at all.
In the kitchen, the sunlight is fading. When I get up to turn on the overhead light, my knees creak and my neck aches. Too much time spent peering at the laptop, trying to make sense of the information I’ve uploaded from the Delta Egypt CD. I stretch my muscles in the darkness before heading for the switch. It’s part of my business to spend hours going over and over the same facts or following the same person until suddenly the key will fit or the one tiny piece of the jigsaw will cry out to you and you’ll see something no-one else wanted you to see. That’s the kick, that’s what keeps me going.
It’s not going to happen tonight. Four hours and fifty-two minutes of studying the facts, and I am nowhere near the door, let alone the key. The jigsaw is still just a mass of colours and shapes that make no sense.
Only one thing for it. Time for a whisky. But which one? The glass sparkles in my hand, and I smile. It’s not necessary, but I wash and dry the tumbler. Slowly, as if every centimetre of it counts. The traffic outside is thinning, with just one or two groups of teenagers skulking and smoking at the corners where the shadows begin and two or three women wheeling their prams on the other side of the road to avoid them.
I put the glass on the middle of the table, moving the laptop to one side to allow it room.
I open the kitchen drinks cupboard and study the three choices of whisky currently in the flat, though from preference I’d rather have four. First there’s the Glenfiddich, as light as water in colour, but with a smell to it of barley and honey and the deep taste of malt. A whisky for early summer evenings that promise the full heat of the days to come. It’s not for now. Behind it, the Highland Park glistens amber, and if I open it I know the smell of medicine and smoke will envelop me, and the taste once taken will be full and sweet. It’s the drink for when I’m tired or ill. Not too strong and not too weak; it knows where I am and how to reach me. The perfect answer? No, still it’s not quite right. Last of all is The Macallan, rarely opened, its rich toffee glow hinting of secrets not yet understood, not yet known. Yes, this is the one. As I release it, the smell of new leather and dark Spanish sherry settles around me, and I pour a double measure, more, into my waiting glass. The golden liquid swings round, marking its place, waiting for me, calling. I take one deep breath of it, two, and I could already be swimming in its tempting river. My heart beats faster. My skin feels hot.
I savour the first, the best, sip, and the pungent wave of whisky sweeps me away from all lingering thoughts. I could almost be flying.
It’s too good for the kitchen with its smell of stale cooking and damp. So, anticipating my next sip but holding out just a little longer, just a little, I power down my laptop and take the glass and myself into the living room.
The next sip tastes even more powerful. It reminds me of the man who bought it for me. It takes me back to Dominic and the very beginning of it all.
Friday 12 May, 2000. I’d been working for one of my regular clients, a local insurance company, and had carried out surveillance on a bloke who was suing their insured for tens of thousands of pounds. For alleged injuries caused by non-maintenance of the drills he had to use on the road. Load of old baloney. I’d filmed him at least six times pounding away on the running machines at the gym, the idiot, and the case fell apart. One of my most
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