Read Online The Maggie Murders by J P Lomas - Free Book Online Page B

wore a blazer and
whilst he may not have agreed with Roy’s choice of open necked pastel shirt, he
knew no-one with any sense would launch a first strike against any of the Big
O’s opinions for fear of an apocalyptically scathing put down. He’d never in
fact asked why Roy Harrison was known as the Big O, but had simply accepted
this self-description three years ago when they’d met at the Club. Typically,
Roy had positioned himself at a trestle table below the patio which served as
the beer tent. The Big O was not a man to trust to amateur catering
arrangements when it came to servicing his need for a constant supply of
alcohol at social events. Although he’d have wagered Roy would never fail the
breathe test, he just seemed to be one of those people for whom wine was the
equivalent of water – or Hofmeister in Roy’s case.
     If Delia wanted him to ‘network’,
then he would happily share a chat about sport or work over a Pimms with Clive
and Roy, but he was damned if he was going to make polite conversation to every
solicitor and dentist this side of Exeter.  Delia could be the networking whore
if she wanted, he was determined to try and get through the afternoon with the
minimum of effort. Moving out of the direct sunlight into the shade cast by the
green and white striped awning, he watched as Roy’s podgy finger gesticulated
at the barbecue, positioned centre stage in the Newsomes’ large garden whose
immaculate lawn complemented the immaculate neo-Georgian mansion they’d bought
on the outskirts of Exeter.
    ‘Wonder if he’s got any faggots
burning on the grill, eh George?’
    Dent knew when he ought to smile
and obliged Roy with an appreciative grin.
    ‘Or any black pudding for that
new lad of yours!‘ added Clive, trying to top the joke.
    Dent’s smile for Clive was
slightly less appreciative, less out of any sense of having his sensibilities
put out, more down to the fact that it was more important to flatter Roy. The
former was simply a small town estate agent who shared a mutual interest in
fishing, whereas Roy was probably the richest man at the party having made
millions (Delia’s informed guess) from setting up one of the largest chains of
video rental shops in the South-West. An outgoing man, who had previously made
his money in the TV rental market, Dent liked to keep on his right side.
Although literally on Roy’s right side was his near grown up son Terry; little
to his dad’s large – as tall as his father, but of a much slimmer frame.
    ‘You hear about the queer who got
AIDS?’ demanded Roy, virtually shoving his beer glass into Dent’s face.
    Nearly backing into the
herbaceous border behind him, as he tried to avoid being borne down by the
beefy man’s imposing bulk, the slighter Dent wondered for a moment if Roy was
in fact asking a genuine question, or setting up another joke. Failing to
realise Dent’s momentary puzzlement, the bullish Roy cast all doubts aside –
    ‘Asked the Doc if there was a
cure. The quack tells him to eat a plate of chopped liver, drink a pint of sour
cream and swallow a dozen chillies. “But will it cure my AIDS?” asks the poof?‘
    Dent and Clive keyed themselves
up for the punch line, which they would laugh at even if they didn’t get it.
This was usually communicated by the fact that Roy always telegraphed the
climax of any joke he told through his own booming laughter.
    “No, but it’ll teach you what to
use your arsehole for!” boomed the rubicund Roy, spraying them with beery
saliva.
    Dent found the sentiment to his
taste, though not the crass way it was expressed. It seemed that the volume it
had been delivered at had punctured the sedateness of the afternoon; he could
see at least one matronly head turned disapprovingly in their direction and he
knew that Delia would want an explanation for the sudden eruption of vulgarity.
Then again, where better to utter common or garden terms, than in a garden?
     He liked Roy, being in his