her Scholl sandals, a whiff of Jeyes Fluid in her wake.
As the luxury homes emptied their occupants on to the hot, semi-circular pavement, Louis was slowing down, practising his line of defence, should there be any awkward questions from the pig's shining lips.
*
Susan Linklater's drive seemed to stick to his trainers. She'd just had it re-surfaced, and even with the sun gone for more than an hour, her south-facing front wall trapped him in its heat. He felt his mind dulling over, just when he needed to be most alert to read the pig's eyes, his body language, to gauge just how much he might know.
Her house was decorated and furnished in every shade of grey - matching her own colouring. The slate-hued carpet, dull paintwork and numerous pewter frames encasing photos of the late Mr Linklater, from boyhood to a golfing holiday in the Jura. There didn't appear to be any children from the marriage, nor indeed any other relations, for the wedding photograph on the hall table showed the couple on their own in front of some gloomy municipal building.
Now, the widow stood thin as a reed in a grey, pleated skirt and flat shoes as each neighbour passed through her semi-opaque glass doors into the lounge.
"This is Constable Derek Jarvis," she announced when all were settled. "And we need to make a prompt start as he's a very busy man. I'd hate to think our being late kept him from an important case, or allowed a murderer somewhere to get away..."
Louis blinked. Felt himself shiver despite the war room filling up with others' post-dinner breaths. He was even more unsettled to see the pig heave his bulk from his chair and come over, bathed in sweat and aftershave.
"Good to see one of the younger generation here." Jarvis’s smile showed bits of a meal lodged between his teeth. "And you are?"
"Perelman. Louis Claus, sir." He almost saluted and clicked his heels. The navy blue uniform was certainly flattering and he especially liked the two-way radio tucked snugly into his belt.
"Excellent." Jarvis then turned to the door as the pink-faced Zellers arrived, and, having re-introduced himself, escorted them to seats near his. He then placed his uniform jacket over the back of his chair and in doing so revealed dark maps of sweat under each armpit.
The room was now full of varying shades of summer skin, from queasy yellow to lobster pink. Susan Linklater unlocked the patio doors, admitting a swarm of flies, one of whom settled in Frau Zeller's hair.
"We'd better make a start, everyone." The widow clapped her veiny hands. "What Constable Jarvis has to say, may take a little while..."
He duly swivelled round to ease a scrap of paper from his jacket's breast pocket while Louis studied his own hands in the strained silence. He noticed dried blood under his right thumbnail, and, recalling a recent Personal Hygiene lesson on AIDS at school declined to dilute it with saliva. Instead he poked at it with his biro’s clip and cleared it.
The Maggot and The Fawn sat behind him. She was getting something out of her bag and clicking it shut. Her
Chloë
perfume way too strong.
"As you know, ladies and gentlemen," the pig finally began, "we have a policy of zero tolerance in this area. Zero tolerance for racist behaviour and incitement to unrest, but above all," his unhealthy eyes roved around and alighted on Louis, "for damage and theft from private property. Now I know many of you leave your desirable cars out on your drives to show them off. Fine, except don't be surprised if envy rears its ugly head. These homes too, are the most expensive and sought-after within the city's urban perimeter. You update them constantly. Electronic garage doors, swimming pools, plunge pools, and we know you, Mrs Murray, have just created a tennis court in your rear garden. So, human nature being what it is..."
"Excuse me, sire," snapped Gerald Murray – aka ‘Mr Spotty’ - whose skin around his vitiligo patches glowed a deep red. "I've worked a
As the luxury homes emptied their occupants on to the hot, semi-circular pavement, Louis was slowing down, practising his line of defence, should there be any awkward questions from the pig's shining lips.
*
Susan Linklater's drive seemed to stick to his trainers. She'd just had it re-surfaced, and even with the sun gone for more than an hour, her south-facing front wall trapped him in its heat. He felt his mind dulling over, just when he needed to be most alert to read the pig's eyes, his body language, to gauge just how much he might know.
Her house was decorated and furnished in every shade of grey - matching her own colouring. The slate-hued carpet, dull paintwork and numerous pewter frames encasing photos of the late Mr Linklater, from boyhood to a golfing holiday in the Jura. There didn't appear to be any children from the marriage, nor indeed any other relations, for the wedding photograph on the hall table showed the couple on their own in front of some gloomy municipal building.
Now, the widow stood thin as a reed in a grey, pleated skirt and flat shoes as each neighbour passed through her semi-opaque glass doors into the lounge.
"This is Constable Derek Jarvis," she announced when all were settled. "And we need to make a prompt start as he's a very busy man. I'd hate to think our being late kept him from an important case, or allowed a murderer somewhere to get away..."
Louis blinked. Felt himself shiver despite the war room filling up with others' post-dinner breaths. He was even more unsettled to see the pig heave his bulk from his chair and come over, bathed in sweat and aftershave.
"Good to see one of the younger generation here." Jarvis’s smile showed bits of a meal lodged between his teeth. "And you are?"
"Perelman. Louis Claus, sir." He almost saluted and clicked his heels. The navy blue uniform was certainly flattering and he especially liked the two-way radio tucked snugly into his belt.
"Excellent." Jarvis then turned to the door as the pink-faced Zellers arrived, and, having re-introduced himself, escorted them to seats near his. He then placed his uniform jacket over the back of his chair and in doing so revealed dark maps of sweat under each armpit.
The room was now full of varying shades of summer skin, from queasy yellow to lobster pink. Susan Linklater unlocked the patio doors, admitting a swarm of flies, one of whom settled in Frau Zeller's hair.
"We'd better make a start, everyone." The widow clapped her veiny hands. "What Constable Jarvis has to say, may take a little while..."
He duly swivelled round to ease a scrap of paper from his jacket's breast pocket while Louis studied his own hands in the strained silence. He noticed dried blood under his right thumbnail, and, recalling a recent Personal Hygiene lesson on AIDS at school declined to dilute it with saliva. Instead he poked at it with his biro’s clip and cleared it.
The Maggot and The Fawn sat behind him. She was getting something out of her bag and clicking it shut. Her
Chloë
perfume way too strong.
"As you know, ladies and gentlemen," the pig finally began, "we have a policy of zero tolerance in this area. Zero tolerance for racist behaviour and incitement to unrest, but above all," his unhealthy eyes roved around and alighted on Louis, "for damage and theft from private property. Now I know many of you leave your desirable cars out on your drives to show them off. Fine, except don't be surprised if envy rears its ugly head. These homes too, are the most expensive and sought-after within the city's urban perimeter. You update them constantly. Electronic garage doors, swimming pools, plunge pools, and we know you, Mrs Murray, have just created a tennis court in your rear garden. So, human nature being what it is..."
"Excuse me, sire," snapped Gerald Murray – aka ‘Mr Spotty’ - whose skin around his vitiligo patches glowed a deep red. "I've worked a
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