The Tale of the Wolf (The Kenino Wolf Series) by Cyrus Chainey

Answering it I heard Marisol’s voice on the other end. The coroner’s hearing for Longy had finished. They recorded his death as ‘suspicious’. He’d suffocated from the plastic bag, but the coroner had found a large quantity of a mind-altering drug in his system.
    She wanted me to know how I was getting on finding his killer. I told her I was checking out a lead. Well I was: Patrice Laussant. Okay, he was dead, and about as much use as a chocolate fire hydrant, but he was a lead.
    ‘ Call me when you find this bastard, Wolfy,’ she commanded.
    ‘ Yes, Marisol.’ I lied.
    I had no idea what to do about Longy, so I went home to plan the diamond heist.

Monday 9:00 a.m.
    I was broke, proper broke. The recession was chewing me out. Things were harder than I’d ever known. I understood Tabatha’s hunger, understood it all too well. I probably would have been just as hungry if all the shoot-outs hadn’t happened. But making money had taken second fiddle to staying alive.
    Sitting in a cafe with the relative peace of the morning, I realised I had to risk it, had to have a go. It was time to move, time to get started. The fry up had given me a little power boost; the energy to keep pushing.
    I’d already phoned Curtis and Colin. Curtis was going to do the stakeout alone and fill me and Tabatha in that night at The Hanging Man, his objective and professional eye being far more useful than either Tabatha or my clouded ones. I still didn’t trust Colin and was relying on Curtis’ judgement.
    I had the rest of the day free and was torn between a few particular options. I was tempted to go look for Michael, Longy’s brother. Longy had said he was going to see him when he left The Hanging Man, but I doubted he’d reached him. I didn’t think there was enough time. I’d phoned Marisol already. Michael still hadn’t reared his head. And as much as he was a scumbag, he loved Longy. His continual absence was definitely cause for query. Then there were the Russians. They were looking for Longy too, but they didn’t know he was dead, which meant the killer wasn’t with the Russians. So who were the Russians with? I considered going on a bit of search for them too. One of them was injured and may have ended up in hospital. I’d have to be a bit careful searching for them though. They opened a conversation with a gun.
    Then there was Tabatha. Longy’s death had put the fire under me. I could feel my own mortality, could feel life slipping away, the swiftness of existence. I wondered whether to just go and see her and tell her how I felt. All of these thoughts were rolling through my head as I returned to Betsy.
    ‘ Is this your car, sir?’ I heard from behind me as I got in the driver seat.
    ‘ What?’ It was a policeman addressing me, a normal constable. ‘Yes, officer, this is my car.’ I said as I got back out. There was a temptation to get sarky but as I didn’t know this copper I let it slide.
    ‘ Have you got your details with you, sir?’ He was your standard six-foot copper, a patrol officer.
    ‘ What’s this about?’
    ‘ This car doesn’t appear to have a registered owner, sir.’
    ‘ Are you joking? That can’t be right hold on.’ I was scrambling around in the glove box. No matter what I’ve done in my life the one thing I could say about Betsy was she was legit. More than legit she was saintly: insured, taxed and MOT’d. I didn’t mess with Betsy.
    I pulled out my details; logbook, insurance certificate her latest MOT pass.
    ‘ Here,’ I said handing it to him. He took it from me, called through the details on the radio. ‘Your driving licence, sir?’ He was being pleasant. None of the hard-arse copper bullshit that you sometimes got. He was just doing his job.
    I pulled out my licence and handed it to him. He took it from me gave it a quick scan and called my details through.
    ‘ What’s going on?’ I was frantic. This was Betsy. Something was wrong with Betsy.
    ‘ Just trying to