not leaving Eve’s eyes once as he reached and picked up one of the Godfathers and held it out in front of him, glass tilted towards her.
‘And are you a man that generally gets what he wants?’ Eve asked, her own voice now low, lavished in a sultry whisper. She reached over and took the second Godfather in one hand, running the tip of her perfectly manicured forefinger around the rim of the glass.
‘Possibly not as often as you get what you want, judging by that dress, those diamonds, the passion in your eyes and the fifteen hundred pound cocktail that you wanted: which is now in your hand.’ Ettrick replied, with a teasing lilt entering his still brooding rasp.
‘Are you suggesting that I played for this drink?’ Eve countered, her finger not breaking its sultry circling, her eyes enlivened with the challenge in Ettrick’s words.
‘I don’t see a date arriving, do you?’
‘He’s not due for another ten minutes. I like to arrive early and get to know my environment. I like to take control on a date, rather than be controlled.’ Eve tantalised.
‘I guess I have ten minutes to persuade you to come back to my room then.’
‘If it takes you ten minutes Douglas, I won’t be coming back to your room. You have one more sentence to persuade me.’
Ettrick’s grin widened and he started nodding sagely, not breaking contact with her, totally engrossed in the challenge. ‘In that case, I think you should pay for the drinks Lady Harriet Farquhar, Princess of Persia.’
Eve’s emerald eyes didn’t leave his for one moment as her finger stopped circling around the glass and she lifted her Godfather up to his, clinking the glasses together.
‘Let’s see how hard I have to slap you then, before I do touch the sides. As lovely a name as Lady Harriet Farquhar, Princess of Persia is, I would prefer you to call me by my real name.’
‘That wouldn’t be a problem, if you told me what it is?’
‘Call me Evangeline.’ Eve pronounced, her lips pouting gently towards him as she alluringly rolled the words. ‘Call me Madame Evangeline.’
Chapter 8
A setting sun hung low over the ululating verdant folds of the Cheviot Hills, casting concealing shadows which rolled over the contours, enigmatically obscuring the evening splendour of the craggy outcrops. The sky was tinged a washed out pink, which edged the low lying dappled stratocumulus cloud cover caressing the top of the hills. Rolling fields of yellow rape, golden wheat and pasture green stretched out from the peaks in a patchwork of tranquillity. The A697 road wound its way through the fields, mainly bereft of traffic, save for a single silver people carrier leisurely traversing the spectacular scenery.
Saul was driving, occasionally taking in the views in between focusing on the winding road, but primarily deep in conversation with Rebecca who was sitting in the passenger seat. Jacob was strapped into a child seat in the back, fast asleep.
‘We know it can’t be Eve. I think we can safely say, given she committed suicide on National TV, that she is out of the picture. That leaves Adam, or the ‘man who makes murderers’ as our prime suspects. Do you remember seeing Connor McFetrich in your time at the clubs? Can you recall him being with anyone regularly?’ Saul asked, after relaying the events that took place at Adam’s flat to Rebecca.
‘Yes, I think I do.’ Rebecca mused, deep in thought for a moment. ‘You mentioned he was with a short, stout man. I saw them together a few times at different clubs. He was a businessman: what was he called? Eve did tell me his name. I think he also knew Gordon Ennis. Yes, he did. He was the politician coming off the fields at the foot of King Arthur’s seat with Ennis the night Eve and I were there. God, what is his name. Parrick, Patrick….Ettrick: the short man was called Ettrick, Douglas Ettrick.’
‘And he knew Ennis as
‘And are you a man that generally gets what he wants?’ Eve asked, her own voice now low, lavished in a sultry whisper. She reached over and took the second Godfather in one hand, running the tip of her perfectly manicured forefinger around the rim of the glass.
‘Possibly not as often as you get what you want, judging by that dress, those diamonds, the passion in your eyes and the fifteen hundred pound cocktail that you wanted: which is now in your hand.’ Ettrick replied, with a teasing lilt entering his still brooding rasp.
‘Are you suggesting that I played for this drink?’ Eve countered, her finger not breaking its sultry circling, her eyes enlivened with the challenge in Ettrick’s words.
‘I don’t see a date arriving, do you?’
‘He’s not due for another ten minutes. I like to arrive early and get to know my environment. I like to take control on a date, rather than be controlled.’ Eve tantalised.
‘I guess I have ten minutes to persuade you to come back to my room then.’
‘If it takes you ten minutes Douglas, I won’t be coming back to your room. You have one more sentence to persuade me.’
Ettrick’s grin widened and he started nodding sagely, not breaking contact with her, totally engrossed in the challenge. ‘In that case, I think you should pay for the drinks Lady Harriet Farquhar, Princess of Persia.’
Eve’s emerald eyes didn’t leave his for one moment as her finger stopped circling around the glass and she lifted her Godfather up to his, clinking the glasses together.
‘Let’s see how hard I have to slap you then, before I do touch the sides. As lovely a name as Lady Harriet Farquhar, Princess of Persia is, I would prefer you to call me by my real name.’
‘That wouldn’t be a problem, if you told me what it is?’
‘Call me Evangeline.’ Eve pronounced, her lips pouting gently towards him as she alluringly rolled the words. ‘Call me Madame Evangeline.’
Chapter 8
A setting sun hung low over the ululating verdant folds of the Cheviot Hills, casting concealing shadows which rolled over the contours, enigmatically obscuring the evening splendour of the craggy outcrops. The sky was tinged a washed out pink, which edged the low lying dappled stratocumulus cloud cover caressing the top of the hills. Rolling fields of yellow rape, golden wheat and pasture green stretched out from the peaks in a patchwork of tranquillity. The A697 road wound its way through the fields, mainly bereft of traffic, save for a single silver people carrier leisurely traversing the spectacular scenery.
Saul was driving, occasionally taking in the views in between focusing on the winding road, but primarily deep in conversation with Rebecca who was sitting in the passenger seat. Jacob was strapped into a child seat in the back, fast asleep.
‘We know it can’t be Eve. I think we can safely say, given she committed suicide on National TV, that she is out of the picture. That leaves Adam, or the ‘man who makes murderers’ as our prime suspects. Do you remember seeing Connor McFetrich in your time at the clubs? Can you recall him being with anyone regularly?’ Saul asked, after relaying the events that took place at Adam’s flat to Rebecca.
‘Yes, I think I do.’ Rebecca mused, deep in thought for a moment. ‘You mentioned he was with a short, stout man. I saw them together a few times at different clubs. He was a businessman: what was he called? Eve did tell me his name. I think he also knew Gordon Ennis. Yes, he did. He was the politician coming off the fields at the foot of King Arthur’s seat with Ennis the night Eve and I were there. God, what is his name. Parrick, Patrick….Ettrick: the short man was called Ettrick, Douglas Ettrick.’
‘And he knew Ennis as
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