Dead Men's s Boots

‘Where are you going, anyway?’

‘The United States. Alabama.’

‘Looking for a change of scene?’

‘I’m looking for a dead woman.’

‘Get Jenna-Jane Mulbridge to come down here. I’ll make you one.’

I put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, but only for a moment: I didn’t want to lose it.

I was hoping the crowd might part for me, but I’m no man’s Moses. I picked my way through the massed ranks of the Breathers, trying not to tread on any fingers or toes, trying not to meet anyone’s eyes. They were in a volatile mood, bless their rabid little hearts.

The flight I’d booked was going out of Heathrow at a few minutes past noon. I checked in with just hand luggage at a little after six and went to wait for Juliet in the grotesquely named Tap and Spile bar.

She was already there, waiting for me. So was Nicky, dressed in black from head to foot and wearing shades indoors like some vampire wannabe. He gave me a sardonic wave when he saw me. He had a full glass of red wine in front of him, and Juliet had an empty one.

She also had a UK passport in her hands. That was a relief: Nicky hadn’t been sure he could cobble something together at such short notice and have it pass muster.

‘Another?’ I asked Juliet, pointing at her empty glass.

She shook her head. ‘It reminds me a little of blood,’ she said.

‘Is that a bad thing?’

‘I’m about to spend ten hours in a confined space with three hundred people, Castor. You tell me.’

I let that one go and just ordered a whisky and water for myself. I took it over to the table and sat down in between them.

Nicky nodded his head towards a folded sheet of paper which was sitting on the table.

‘Names and addresses,’ he said. ‘Juliet’s got one too, in case you get separated.’

I unfolded the sheet. ‘Fair enough. Who’s on here?’

He waved vaguely. ‘Anyone I could find who might remember Myriam Kale or have anything interesting to say about her,’ he said. ‘I’ve given you the address of the Seaforth farm – where she lived until she got married – but there’s no phone number I can find so my guess is nobody’s living there now.

There’s a maternal uncle – Billy Myers. You’ve got his last address. And I called through to the local paper, the Brokenshire Picayune.’

‘The what?’ I winced at the first taste of the lousy blended Scotch.

‘Picayune. Means trivial or everyday. Great name for a newspaper, huh? “It doesn’t matter a tinker’s fuck, but you read it here first.” Anyway, the editor’s a guy named Gale Mallisham.