Page 12 of Blood Game

Inspector Simson looked up, met that dark gaze, then quickly went back to his notes, hastily entered into the I-pad.

“We’ll need your contact information, Miss McKenna, if we should have more questions.” Then, with a look about the taproom, “We’ve seen an increase in crime the past few years. Unfortunate business burglary.”

“Friend of yours?” Kris asked as they left the Tavern.

“One of our finest,” James commented drily. “We attended St. Luke’s together, then second levels. He’ll file his report and make a statement to the media because that’s what he’s good at. Then, because of the media coverage, he’ll reassure the public that everything is being done to find the person who’s responsible. But the truth is, he couldn’t find his arse with both hands—the perfect public servant.”

“Little Dickie Simson?” Anne replied. There was something in her voice, not quite disapproval but close enough.

“As I remember, he was always such a disagreeable child, throwing tantrums, banging his head on the floor as a toddler when the two of you were in day care.”

“The same,” James replied, over a cup of coffee.

They'd met Anne Morgan at her office. An appointment had run late and she had just finished signing up a property for a holiday rental.

“He always was a bit of a...” Anne paused, searching for the right word.

“Wanker?” James filled in the blank. “The sort who always does the minimum required, but likes to take full credit,” he explained.

Kris was familiar with the term. Obviously there was no love lost between them.

Anne gave him one of those looks, that held for a moment and said volumes, then a faint smile. She was reserved, the sort who listened rather than jumped into a conversation, an admirable quality in her line of business dealing with clients and rental properties, both local and foreign travelers.

Over the years, she had built up a successful property management business and knew the importance of building strong business relationships. She had worked with Cate to find just the right place to live after she decided to retire to Scotland. The two women were a study in contrasts.

Cate had traveled the world, reporting from war zones, remote outposts, and mountain encampments. She was medium height, outspoken, wore khaki and boots, with blue eyes thatcould cut a person down to size, her hair classically short gone to silver, a look she was famous for in hundreds of interviews from those remote places. She had grown up in a man's world paving the way for other women journalists and correspondents, learned to hold her own, and never backed down from a good argument, or a good bottle of Scotch.

Anne Morgan was refined, understated in wool sweaters and skirts, with either a string of pearls or a simple gold chain and a flash of color in a neck scarf, her thick, dark hair like her son's, with a natural wave and worn chin-length with layers that softly framed her face. She had been married once.

It was a bottle of forty-year-old single malt that had bonded two women so different from each other on the surface. Anne had given the bottle to Cate as a gift to celebrate the purchase of the Tavern after a year of looking for just the right place.

As Cate told it, the two women sat in the main room of the Tavern, both with feet propped up on one of the few tables still remaining—one in hiking boots, the other in three-inch heels, with a fire burning at the stone hearth, the roof sagging over their heads, weeds growing up through the floorboards—and polished off the whisky and another bottle Cate had stored in the bar.

They were as different as two people could be in background and life experiences, but connected in the way that opposites often connect, and discovered they were not so very different after all. Two girls getting together over a bottle of very fine Scotch.

It was a party Kris would like to have attended, just to sit in the corner and watch the two of them.

“Well, I suppose he's good enough at what he does. Burglary, you said?” Anne shook her head.

“It wasn't just burglary,” James commented. “Someone was looking for something.”

Kris frowned. “A famous person dies, no one home, an easy target...”

It was common, and made sense, as much as she hated to admit it.

He gave her a hard look—you're a smart girl, think about it.

“Nothing was taken—cameras, her computer, or this,” he held up the St. Christopher's medal. He dropped it into her hand, then pushed away from the desk.

“Enjoy yourselves.”

“You're leaving?” Anne said with surprise. “I was hoping you'd have supper with us.”

“I'm off to the gym, and then over to Will's place for some hard labor.”

She saw the worried expression on Anne's face. “I ran into Karen at market a few days ago. It seems Will has a new motorbike.”

James crumpled his cup and tossed it into the wastebasket.