Page 20 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

“I sucked the bloke off.”

Kenny inhaled sharply.

Aaron chuckled. “Chillax. Joke. I did the whole look-over-the-shoulder thing.” He demonstrated, twisting awkwardly in his chair. “But there’s a camera on the dash. What am I meant to see by looking behind me?”

“Other cars.”

“Obviously. Isawother cars. Saw a blue one. And that hideous putrid green one. Got a real close look when I hi—” He jabbed a finger at Kenny before he could interrupt. “Nudgedit. Back into its own bloody parking bay where it should’ve been in the first fucking place.”

Kenny pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Technically, that’s on you.”

Kenny raised an eyebrow. “How, exactly, is itmyfault you hit another car?”

“Nudged. And I moved it to a better position, so really, you’re welcome. Also, I did whatyoualways tell me. I drove off and parked far away like some law-abiding idiot and got actual frostbite walking to the entrance.”

Kenny opened his mouth.

“Andit was your fault, because you wanted thegoodsherry for the Christmas cake that’s now fermenting in the airing cupboard like a Victorian ghost trap.” Aaron smirked. “You’re lucky I love you. And that the vomit-green Fiat didn’t have a dash cam.”

Kenny sighed. “Brilliant. I’ll look forward to that fine arriving in time for the New Year. A festive little fuck-you from the traffic police.”

“Car’s in your name, lover.” Aaron grinned. “You won’t put it in mine, the consequences are yours.”

“I put it in your name and the insurance triples.”

“Not my fault I’m twenty-four and a high-risk icon.”

“You’re a walking premium adjustment.”

“And yet, here you are. Still stirring my lunch like you didn’t sign up for this voluntarily.”

Kenny drew in a breath. “Right. Well, the call wasn’t about that.”

Aaron stilled. He hadn’t forgotten about the call. The police. His brain had… shelved it. Or maybe his subconscious was doing him a favour. Nothing good ever came from local law enforcement ringing Dr Kenneth Lyons.

“They got my number through the Met.”

“The Met?”

“Metropolitan Police.”

Aaron flipped him off.

Kenny exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose. “Theywant me to consult on a case. Ongoing investigation here on the island.”

Aaron slumped back in his chair. Appetite gone. Even his lingering semi gave up the ghost.

“Is it the boy they found in Ventnor?”

Kenny hesitated. “Yes. How do you—”

“Gerald was gossiping at full volume to one of the book club Betties.”

“Right.” Kenny went off into that thoughtland he sometimes did when trying to dissect something. “How would Gerald know about a murder before its common knowledge?”

“You’ve met him.” Aaron twirled his fork in the air. “He’s the Isle of Wight’s town crier.”