Archiwum
- Index
- Giovanni Guareschi [Don Camillo 01] The Little World of Don Camillo (pdf)
- Christine Young [Highland 01] Highland Honor (pdf)
- Angela Verdenius [Heart & Soul 16] Soul of a Guardian (pdf)
- Dahlia Rose, Brenda Steele, Regina Paul, Dorian Wallace Mating Season (anth.) (pdf)
- 33 1 3 087 Serge Gainsbourg's Histoire de Melody Nelson Darran Anderson (pdf)
- Alan Burt Akers [Dray Prescot 07] Arena of Antares (pdf)
- Ciara Lake [Xihirian Shifters 01] Xihirah [Siren Classic] (pdf)
- Alan Burt Akers [Dray Prescot 21] A Fortune for Kregen (pdf)
- Chris Owen, Jodi Payne [Deviations 05] Safe Words (pdf)
- Flejszer Patrycja Szlak niepewnośÂ›ci
- zanotowane.pl
- doc.pisz.pl
- pdf.pisz.pl
- lafemka.pev.pl
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That sofa s plenty comfy enough; I ve fallen asleep on it a few
times myself. I ll just check out Newsnight if that s all right, see
what I ve missed today and what I can expect to read tomorrow,
and then I ll leave you to it.
He stared at her.
It s all right, really it is, she said. You re perfectly safe
with me.
She had blue eyes. He d noticed them before, but they
seemed bluer now. And she didn t smell of perfume, just soap.
We can read the rest over breakfast, she said, switching on
the TV. I need a clear head to take in half of what I m reading.
Bovine spongiform encephalopathy: it doesn t exactly trip off the
tongue, does it? And nor does it trip off the eyeballs. Bloody
boffins just refuse to call it mad cow disease. I hope to God that s
not what this is all about, the beefburgers of the damned and
bloody John Selwyn Gummer stuffing one down his poor sod-
ding daughter s throat. Do you remember that photo?
Why do you say that?
She was engrossed in the TV. Say what?
That you hope it s not about bovine spongy whatsit.
She glanced at him. Because it s been covered, Gordon. It s
old news. Besides, the public are physically repelled by scare sto-
ries. They d rather not know about them. That s why they end up
in the Grauniad or Private Eye. You ve heard of the right to know?
Well, the good old British public has another inalienable right:
the right not to know, not to worry. They want a cheap paper with
some cartoons and funny headlines and a good telly section.
They do not want to know about diseases that eat their flesh,
meat that makes them mad, or eggs that can put them in casualty.
You tell them about the bow doors on ferries, they still troop on
and off them every weekend, heading for Calais and cheap beer.
She turned to him again. Know why?
108
Blood Hunt
Why?
Because they don t think lightning strikes twice. If some other
bugger has died that makes it so much less likely that they will.
She turned back to the TV, then smiled. Sorry, I m ranting.
You have a low regard for your readers?
On the contrary, I have a very high regard for my readers.
They are discriminating and knowledgeable. She turned the
sound up a little, losing herself in the news. Reeve put down
the sheets of paper he was still holding. Sticking out from below
the sofa was a newspaper. He pulled it out. It was the paper Fliss
worked for.
Isn t he a dish? she muttered, a rhetorical question appar-
ently. She was talking to herself about the news presenter.
Reeve went through to the kitchen to boil some more water.
He knew he should call Joan again, let her know the score, but
the telephone was in the living room. He sat down at the kitchen
table and spread out the paper which he d brought through with
him. He started examining each page, looking for the byline Fliss
Hornby. He didn t find it. He went through the paper again.
This time he found it.
He made two mugs of instant decaf and took them back
through to the living room. Fliss had tucked her legs beneath her
and was hugging them. She sat forward ever so slightly in her
chair, a fan seeking a better view, though there was nothing
between her and her idol. Then Reeve was in the way, handing
her the mug.
You work on the fashion page, he said.
It s still journalism, isn t it? Obviously she d had this con-
versation before.
I thought you were
What? She glared at him. A proper journalist? An inves-
tigative journalist?
No, I just thought . . . Never mind.
He sat down, aware she was angry with him. Tactful, Gor-
don, he thought. Nil out of ten for leadership. Had he told her he
appreciated all she d done today? She d halved his workload,
been able to explain things to him bits of journalist s short-
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Ian Rankin
hand on the disks, for example. He might have been there all day,
and spent a wasted day, instead of which he had something. He
had the genesis; that s what Jim had called it. The genesis of
whatever had led him to San Diego and his death. It was a start.
Tomorrow things might get more serious.
He kept looking at Fliss. If she d turned in his direction, he d
have smiled an apology. But she was staring unblinking at the
screen, her neck taut. Reeve seemed to have the ability to piss
women off. Look at Joan. Most days now there was an argument
between them; not when Allan was around they were deter-
mined to put up a front but whenever he wasn t there.
There was enough electricity in the air to light the whole build-
ing.
After Newsnight was watched in silence, Fliss said a curt good
night, but then came back into the room with a spare duvet and a
pillow.
I m sorry, Reeve told her. I didn t mean to imply anything.
It s just that you never said anything, and you ve been acting all
day like you were Scoop Newshound, the paper s only investiga-
tive reporter.
She smiled. Scoop Newshound?
He shrugged, smiling also.
I forgive you, she said. First one up tomorrow goes for
milk and bread, right?
Right, Fliss.
Good night, then. She showed no sign of moving from the
doorway. Reeve had pulled off his blue cotton sweater and was
wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt. She appraised his body for
a moment, and gave a smile and a noise that was halfway between
a sigh and humming, then turned and walked away.
He found it hard to sleep. He was too tired; or rather, he was
exhausted but not tired. His brain wouldn t work as he discov-
ered when he tried carrying on with Jim s notes but it
wouldn t be still either. Images flitted through his mind, bounc-
ing along like a ball through a series of puddles. Snatches of con-
versations, songs, echoes of the two films he d watched on the
flight, his trip on the Underground, the taxicabs, the Indian
restaurant, surprising Fliss in the kitchen. Songs . . . tunes . . .
110
Blood Hunt
Row, row, row your boat.
He jerked from the sofa, standing in the middle of the floor
in his T-shirt and underpants, trembling. He switched on the
TV, turning the sound all the way down. Nighttime television:
mindless and bright. He looked out of the window. A halo of
orange sodium, a dog barking in the near distance, a car cruising
past. He watched it, studied it. The driver was staring straight
ahead. There were cars parked outside, solid lines of them on
both sides of the street, ready for tomorrow s race.
He padded through to the kitchen on bare feet and switched
on the kettle again. Rooting in the box of assorted herbal tea
bags, he found spearmint and decided to give it a try. Back in the
hallway, he noticed that Fliss s bedroom door was ajar. More than
ajar in fact: it was halfway open. Was it an invitation? He d be
bound to see it if he used the kitchen or the bathroom. Her light
was off. He listened for her breathing, but the fridge in the
kitchen was making too much noise.
He waited in the hall, holding the steaming mug, until the
fridge switched off. Her breathing was more than regular she
was snoring.
Morning. She came into the kitchen sleepy-faced and tousling
her hair. She wore a thick tartan dressing gown and fluffy pink
slippers.
Reeve had been out and purchased breakfast and newspapers.
She slumped into a chair at the table and grabbed a paper.
Coffee? he asked. He d bought a packet of coffee and some
paper filters.
How did you sleep? she asked without looking up.
Fine, he lied. You?
As she was folding a page, she glanced up at him. Soundly,
thanks.
He poured them both coffee. I ve found out what OPs are.
Oh?
I ve been doing some more reading.
You were up early. So, what are they?
Organophosphorus treatments.
111
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