Free Red Light by Graham Masterton Page B

don’t want to cremate that, too.’
    He went into the kitchen, but Katie followed him. The windows were all wide open and most of the acrid smell had eddied away now. She could see that one of her best stainless-steel saucepans was perched on the window sill, filled with cold water, its interior stained with dark brown circles.
    ‘John,’ she said, ‘hundreds of people in this city owe me favours of one sort or another, from councillors down to shoplifters. Part of being a good detective is knowing when to turn a blind eye, and when it’s more important to keep somebody obligated to you than it is to bang them up for some minor misdemeanour.’
    ‘Okay, I get it,’ said John. He opened the oven door and peered in at the lumpy-looking pie that was sitting on the middle shelf, dripping some of its filling on to the baking sheet beneath it. He checked his watch and said, ‘Ninety minutes … I guess it’s ready now. How about we sit down and eat?’
    ‘You made that yourself?’
    ‘Don’t sound so amazed. I have been known to cook more than baked beans on toast. You’re always saying how much you miss the ham and leek pie they used to serve in Henchy’s, so I made you one.’
    ‘I don’t know what to say.’
    She saw now that John had laid the kitchen table with knives and forks and napkins, and two champagne glasses, as well as a new red candle in a floral holder.
    ‘You didn’t have to do all of this,’ she said. ‘I’m happy that you’re staying, that’s all.’
    He put on a pair of gingham oven gloves and lifted his pie out of the oven. ‘There, look at that, a culinary work of art! I’ll just put the cabbage on to boil. Where do you keep your matches?’
    Katie went to the living room and took the cigarette lighter out of her bag. As she lit the candle, John said, ‘For the sake of argument, supposing you
hadn’t
been able to fix me up with a job. Would you have come with me to San Francisco?’
    She shook her head. ‘John darling, I
have
fixed you up with a job. Or rather, you’ve fixed yourself up with a job. If ErinChem hadn’t wanted you, they wouldn’t have hired you. And it’s not some potty little pretend job, either.’
    ‘Yeah, you’re right. I should stop sounding as if I’m not grateful. I
am
grateful. I love you, Katie, you know that, and that’s the beginning and the end of it.’
    He lifted out the two dinner plates that had been warming in the oven and cut them each a large slice of pie. Then he strained the cabbage and the potatoes that he had managed to salvage and carefully arranged them next to each slice. Katie sat down while he went to the fridge and took out a bottle of Lanson champagne. Once he had eased out the cork, he filled their glasses and raised his own in a toast.
    ‘Here’s to us, Katie. I love you. And thank you for making it possible for us to stay together. I mean it.’
    Katie clinked glasses with him and took a sip.
    ‘Tuck in, now, sweetheart,’ John told her. ‘Believe me, once you’ve tasted this, you will never hanker for one of Henchy’s pies ever again.’
    Katie picked up her fork. The pie smelled strongly of ham and leeks and celery, but somehow its pungency brought back the overwhelming smell of that rotting headless body in Lower Shandon Street, and the smell of the girl who had stayed with it all that time. When Katie put a little of the pie in her mouth and started to chew it, it was sweet and lumpy, and she began to think of maggots.
    She tried to swallow, but she couldn’t. She picked up her pink paper napkin and quietly spat her mouthful into it, and folded it up. John hadn’t realized what she had done, and he smiled at her and said, ‘Okay? You enjoying it? Sorry if the potatoes taste a little burned.’
    He dug up another large forkful and put it in his mouth, but Katie laid her fork down at the side of her plate.
    ‘I’m sorry, John. I can’t eat this.’
    ‘What? You don’t like it? Really? I didn’t think I