Blood Falls by Tom Bale

her shoulder briefly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t believe you.’
    Alise let out a sigh. ‘You must ask these questions. I know.’
    ‘Where do you work?’
    ‘For insurance company, in the City. I am an actuary.’
    Joe must have made a bad job of concealing his surprise, for she eyed him with a glint of humour. ‘You think I would be cleaning the toilets?’
    ‘No. But I’m surprised you’re able to get time off to do this.’
    ‘I use all my holiday for the year, plus some compassionate leave. Plus a warning that they will fire me if I am not back one week from now. I am good at my job, but their patience is nearly at the end. I need to find Kamila very soon. Even if she is dead …’
    Alise tailed off, giving a simple shrug. The tears had stopped. In their place was a calm, quiet pragmatism that chilled Joe, even though on another level he understood it perfectly.
    ‘If she is dead, I want the body to bury.’

Nineteen
    IN GENERAL, LIKE most people, Leon thought sunshine was a good thing. Good for business, in a town reliant on tourism. Good for the mood – hence expressions like ‘a sunny smile’ and ‘a sunny disposition’. And good for photographs, taken outside, of a group of important but not particularly attractive middle-aged men, all keen to project an aura of power and prosperity.
    So, for the latter reason at least, Leon was glad when the weather changed for the better. It allowed a bright, optimistic light to shine on the little group of dignitaries as they stood, chests puffed out, trading phoney smiles and frozen handshakes for the cameras.
    Leon was confident that he looked every bit as powerful and prosperous as anybody else – and almost as respectable. A job well done, with all kinds of future benefits in terms of reputation and prestige. Plus, very sweet timing that Giles Haw-hee-haw was there to see it and include it in his article.
    But on the journey home the sunshine wasn’t so kind. During the buffet, while listening to some arse-licker from the chamber of commerce, he’d had a sense that a migraine was developing. A couple of times his vision had distorted, like glancing into a funhouse mirror. There was a vague not-quite-nausea swelling in his throat.
    He’d ignored the signs. Sometimes, if he stayed mellow enough,he could pretty much wish it away. But that meant not thinking about Alise-fucking-Briedis, or this new feller in town.
    On the way back the pain came creeping up on him, intensified by the sunlight lancing through the screens. The Merc’s tinted windows didn’t help; neither did his two-hundred-quid Oakley sunglasses.
    As the car pulled into the wide gravel driveway, Leon reached forward, gripped the passenger headrest and overcame the urge to vomit by the sheer force of his will.
    Giles swallowed loudly. ‘Leon …?’
    Warren, from the driver’s seat, said, ‘The boss gets terrible headaches.’
    ‘Migraines,’ Leon said. If there was one upside, it was that he didn’t have to fake a reason to ditch the journalist.
    When the nausea receded, he got out of the car, keeping his back to the sun. He spotted Glenn in the doorway, his whole posture screaming crisis. Leon tipped his head sideways, discreetly motioning for Glenn to go back indoors. Then he gave Giles some guff about checking out the amusement arcade.
    ‘Used to be a tip. I snapped it up, put Glenn in charge of the renovations. Added a snack bar. A bigger car park. Persuaded the council to stick a skate park and basketball court next door. We even took on some young kids, a couple of the … what do you have to call ’em? “Special needs”?’
    Giles pulled a face. ‘Alas, we do, now the PC brigade have us in their Stalinist grip.’
    ‘Yeah. Soft in the head, we used to say. They do a decent job, though. No fuss about minimum wage. Could pay ’em in jelly beans and they’d be grateful.’
    With the journalist dispatched, Leon hurried inside. Saw Pam, his housekeeper, and tapped