Page 17 of First Blood
He’d sent text messages to all of his friends. Some hadn’t even bothered to reply and the ones that had replied hadn’t bothered to cushion their refusals with excuses. Just two-letter responses, but Jesus he couldn’t turn up for work again tomorrow looking like shit and his overdraft was at its limit.
He scrolled back through the list of contacts on his phone, half wishing he’d been nicer to his new colleague. Maybe she had a spare room going.
A smile began to tug at his lips as he had an idea.
His relationship with Ally had turned himalmostmonogamous. But not quite.
He scrolled down to a certain number and pressed.
The call was answered on the second ring, which offered him a ray of hope. A part of him expected her not to answer his call at all.
‘Hey Lou, how are you doing?’
‘What do you want?’ she asked, coldly, but the emotion in her voice gave her away.
He silently fist pumped the air. He knew just how to play this one.
He hesitated for just a few seconds before lowering his voice.
‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot. There’s something… I dunno what it is but there’s unfinished business. I don’t know if I made a mistake when I broke it off with—’
‘But didn’t you ditch me for the love of your life?’ she spat angrily, giving him even more hope. She still had a lot of emotion coursing through her at losing him. Perfect.
‘It’s not how I thought it would be, Lou.’ He paused again for dramatic effect. ‘It’s not how it was with us. None of it,’ he said, meaningfully.
He knew she’d get it.
The sex had been explosive.
He heard an intake of breath and knew she was recalling exactly what he’d intended.
‘I mean… I dunno… maybe we should meet up. Just chat about stuff?’
She hesitated. ‘Okay, maybe we…’
‘Seven at our usual place?’ he asked, tremulously, humbly, hopefully.
More hesitation.
‘Okay, I’ll see you there.’
He ended the call and smiled widely.
Now he could concentrate.
Because now he knew he had a bed for the night.
Chapter Fourteen
Kim was surprised at how much bigger the morgue seemed under Keats’s supervision. The three metal dishes were lined up as they had always been.
The fixed shiny metallic work surfaces hadn’t been moved or rearranged since her last visit, but there was something different.
Keats’s predecessor had filled the space with his height and girth, and although the area had not been what she would call messy it was now positively sterile. Folders and books and measuring guides had been moved to the small desk in the far corner and all tools had been arranged onto a moveable trolley which sat between the first and second dish.
She remembered the first time she’d attended a post-mortem. For a full two minutes she’d been unable to rip her gaze away from the tools. The pathologist had talked her through the different types of forceps; some for bone cutting and some for bone holding and others used just for arteries. Amongst the knives, scissors, retractors, clamps and chisels the most unnerving tools had been the selection of saws. She had expected the tools to look drastically different to the ones in the hardware shop. She had expected something that looked more gentle, less intrusive, more respectful, somehow.
She was disappointed to see all the dishes empty. The workspace had been arranged to reflect the man’s tidy, efficient mind, but maybe it would have been time best spent arranging the body for post-mortem at the agreed hour.
