Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [1]
Effie squeezed his fingers hard, then slid hers out of his grip.
You just had to take one look at her to know she didn't have what it took to be a paid killer. She was no more than an inch over five foot.
But, Fraser wondered now, staring at the tub in his sitting room, what if it was true?
Starting to suspect Effie was just plain crazy. She'd been at the pub with him, so she couldn't have done it. Even if she was some kind of psychokiller. What the hell was he thinking? He should be asking himself smarter questions.
Like, where was the head? And why would anybody want to run away with it? Jesus, maybe it was lying around somewhere. Under one of the chairs, or beneath a cushion or behind the curtain. Christ's sake.
Fraser didn't feel too good.
He was glad Simone wasn't here. She'd probably order him to get down on his hands and knees and start hunting for it.
"Want to take a closer look?" Effie said.
She was as bad as Simone.
Fraser found himself stepping towards the tub. Swaying as he walked, as if he was drunk. Shock. Had to be. Cause he hadn't had much. Just those pints and the neat vodkas Effie'd given him.
The plastic sheet scraped underfoot. He bent over the body, peered down at the neck. Ragged skin and gristle. He looked away. Straight at the inch or so of dark liquid clotting in the bottom of the tub. A bloodbath—yep, that's exactly what it was.
And the smell: sharp and raw. His stomach muscles tightened, cheeks puffed, but somehow he held his dinner down. Amazing he could smell anything, the way his nose was streaming. He wiped it with the back of his hand, beyond caring what Effie would think.
He stepped back from the tub, shaky, a bit fuzzy headed, but okay. Shit, yeah.
The corpse's legs were bent at the knee, flopped sideways. The soles of the feet were white and tender looking. It felt wrong that they were exposed like this. He shouldn't be staring at them.
Effie said, "Recognise that?"
Fraser followed her gaze towards the corpse's hand, twisted behind his back. He wasn't sure what she meant.
"The ring," she said.
Of course. If Fraser got a close-up of that ugly monstrosity, he could be sure, right enough. But he couldn't tell with the hand lying palm-up like that.
"Go on," Effie said. "Take a good look."
Fraser didn't move.
Effie strode over to the tub, grabbed the hand, turned it over, held it out. She bent the ring finger towards Fraser.
No doubt about it. Uncle Phil's silver Viking longboat ring.
Effie raised her eyebrows.
Fraser tried to speak. Nodded instead.
Effie dropped Uncle Phil's hand and said, "I'll call the police."
***
FRASER WATCHED HER step over to the table, pick up the phone, dial. Calm in a crisis. Every bit as capable as Simone.
Fraser didn't feel calm or capable.
If he'd been alone, he'd be shouting fit to rip the lining from his throat by now. If he could summon up the energy. That's what he wanted to do. Open his mouth and yell and yell and yell. And throw up and throw up and throw up. Then probably yell some more, throw up some more. Or just fall asleep.
Anything, as long as this would all go away.
Another line of coke might do the trick.
He stuck his hand in his pocket, but took it out again when Effie said, "Police."
He thought she was warning him, but she was speaking into the phone. Made him think, though. Probably not the best time for him to indulge in any dodgy habits. He listened as she explained what had happened. Gave the cops the address.
Impressive. Memory like a bank vault.
She'd only been here once before. All over him when they'd arrived—clinging to him as he punched in the alarm code—but she'd grown more distant as the night went on. Not that it went on that long. Called herself a taxi after a couple of drinks. Fraser was probably coming on too strong.
But she wouldn't be here now if there wasn't some hope. Thing was, he fancied the pants off her, but he liked her a lot, too. Anyway, he suspected he was creating a bad impression right now, one that wasn't hugely