“I need a beer.”
Pete reached back and hooked the fridge door open without looking around. “I thought you might.” What had been bare earlier tinkled now. “Or I have spirits.”
“Whisky makes me maudlin. Vodka makes me vomit. I can’t stand Southern Comfort. And brandy….” Joe selected a bottle of Snecklifter. “Actually, I’ve never drunk enough brandy to form an opinion.”
“Was it him?” Pete laid the knife down and looked around from the messily filleted chicken this time.
Joe was paying undue attention to the bottle cap. Happy it was clean he drew out his keys and levered it off with the bottle opener that nestled amongst them. “It was him.”
Pete didn’t see the expression that flashed across Joe’s face, like someone had whacked him in the ribs. He took a drink of the beer. “He had his throat slashed. Not a way to go, even for a prick like him.”
The fillets went into bags for freezing. The carcass went into a pan for stock. Joe took his beer through to the living room.
Joe was two thirds of the way through the bottle when a thought struck him. “They must have his fingerprints on file. Maybe even DNA. They didn’t need me to ID him.”
“But they dragged you in anyway.” Pete bore more beer. “And they knew where to find you.”
“Some bastard on the force really hates me. Thanks.
“They probably checked my place than came hunting. How does it feel to be an accomplice?”
National Novel Writing Month starts today. This is not my NaNoWriMo entry, rather something I scribbled down whilst working on the helpdesk a few weeks ago. It’s being serialised in honour of the event. After this I’m going to put up some of Post & Publish, including new chapters written recently, and then whatever I get done this month. Hopefully I’ll have enough material for daily updates for the rest of the year and maybe beyond.
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