Free Poisoned Cherries by Quintin Jardine Page A

the door.   “In advance?”
    “Okay.”
    I turned to the barman and made a ‘two more’ sign.   “You can relax,” I told her.   “You don’t have to shag me into it; I’ll talk to him for you.   I’ll do more than that; if Capperauld tells me to piss off, I’ll ask Miles Grayson to do it.   Mr.   Torrent will not turn him down, I guarantee you.”
    Her face lit up; it reminded me of the time I gave her a week in Playa del Ingles for Christmas .. . hey, big spender.
    “You will?   You’re wonderful, Oz.   I knew I could rely on you.   Hell, let’s go to your place; I’ll sleep with you anyway.”
    I laughed.   “You must be really attached to that fiance of yours.”
    “Never mind him .. . this is a special occasion!   We can call it for old times’ sake.”
    “My dear, bitter experience has taught me that going over old ground for the sake of it is always a bad idea.   If it wasn’t right then, it wouldn’t be right now.   And anyway..   . although I am astonished to hear myself say this ... I can’t.”
    The way she smiled at me made me feel good.   “The girl in Glasgow?   The one who had your baby?”
    I nodded.
    “What are you doing in Edinburgh, then?”
    “Taking things one step at a time.”
    “Is it really her, or is it the baby?”
    “Until now I’d have said it was wee Jan, but the truth is, it’s her too.”
    “I’m happy for you.”
    “Don’t be, not yet.   It might not work.   Just let me be happy for you.”
    A cloud crossed her face, as the barman put down two more drinks on the table.   I gave him another tenner and told him to keep the change.   “What’s up?”   I asked as he left.   “You not so sure about him any more?”
    “I was ready to go to bed with you, wasn’t I?”
    “Millions are.   Has the business got more important than him, is that it?   It could be that way with Susie and me, you know.   Up to now, her company’s been her life.   There’s a lot of adjusting to be done.”
    “Maybe.   Probably.   Yes.   But that’s not what’s wrong, or not all of it, at any rate.   It’s David.   I don’t know where he is.”
    “What do you mean?   Have you looked under the bed?”
    “I’m serious.   Anyway, we don’t live together.   No, I haven’t seen him for nearly a week; he hasn’t been into the office since Monday, and he hasn’t been answering the phone at home.   I went round to see him on Wednesday, and then again on Friday, but he wasn’t in either time.”
    “Has he done this before?”
    Alison shook her head.   “No, never.   He’s Mr.   Reliable, usually.   I don’t know what to make of it.”
    “One of two things, I’d guess; he’s either lost his nerve over this problem client of yours and done a runner, or he’ll turn up tomorrow morning smelling very faintly of a fragrance which is not on your dressing table.”
    She pouted.   “He wouldn’t do either of those things.”
    “You were ready to do the second.   Why shouldn’t he be?   What’s his phone number?”   She recited it; I took out my mobile, punched it in and handed it to her.   She listened for a while then shook her head.
    “Answering machine.”
    “Doesn’t mean he’s not there; I do that all the time.   Where does he live?”
    “In Union Street, opposite the Playhouse Theatre.   Why?”
    “Let’s go there now, the two of us, and thump on his door.”
    “I couldn’t do that.”
    “You did already.”
    “Yes, but not with you.”
    “He’ll answer the door if he’s in there and I thump it.   If he’s got a bird in there he’s hardly going to open it if he thinks it’s you, is he?”
    She killed half of her second drink.   “I suppose not.   Okay, let’s do it.   But if he has got someone with him, will you at least pretend that you’re sleeping with me?”
    “How big is he?”
    “About half your size.”
    “Okay.”
    Fourteen.
    David Capperauld lived in a main-door flat; that means that it