Free When The Devil Drives by Christopher Brookmyre

you?’
    ‘No,’ lied Jasmine, who could think of one or two.

Trail of the Sniper
    Detective Superintendent Catherine McLeod didn’t think her husband would have made much of a criminal, or a card player for that matter. All it had taken was for her to make her overture – not even to broach the subject – and he was already wearing his ‘Oh God, do we have to?’ face.
    It was generally one of the things she loved about him: that what you saw was what you got. He had the emotional honesty of a Labrador puppy and a reluctance to put on masks out of deference or decorum. It once amused her to observe that the only thing that could be more out of place than Drew in a Merchant Ivory movie or a Henry James novel would be a spaceship. On the downside, this boyish openness could make him seem terribly vulnerable and cause Catherine to feel every one of the nine years between them, and a good few more besides.
    The look he wore now suggested he was afraid of being scolded. She already knew that she would get her way, but also that the outcome was not the most important aspect of the discussion. Actually having it would be more of a result.
    She had chosen her moment carefully: not just bringing it up when he was trying to watch the Wimbledon highlights earlier, or the moment she was in the door from work, but during a late dinner, with both the boys long since tucked up in bed.
    ‘I need to talk to you about something,’ she had said.
    That wasn’t when he made the face, but it had probably put him on alert.
    ‘It’s about Duncan, and that money we gave him for his report card.’
    Duncan was the older of their two sons, his brother Fraser two years his junior. Duncan’s interim report back in November had indicated he was falling behind in maths; his teacher suggested he wasn’t paying as much attention as he should, perhaps because he was finding the subject a struggle. Mindful of this becoming a vicious circle, Duncan had been encouraged by his parents to do a little extra maths at home until he was more comfortable with the day-to-day classwork and therefore better able to keep pace. It had been a grind at first, for child and parents alike, but all three of them had stuck it out. It had borne results, with his teacher singling out his improvement for special comment ahead of parents’ evening.
    In order to reward this they had given Duncan money to spend on ‘something for the summer holidays’, having listened to him prattle on with promiscuously fickle enthusiasm about everything from goalie gloves to NERF guns.
    (Fraser got money for his report too, following a philosophical discussion around the breakfast table over whether his consistent high standards should merit any less recognition than Duncan’s fall and recovery. No firm consensus was agreed, but Duncan was privately given twenty pounds more than Fraser on the understanding that he kept the information to himself.)
    ‘Has he blown it all on hookers and ice-lollies?’ Drew asked, trying, and perhaps just hoping, to keep the tone light.
    ‘He wants to buy a new game for his Xbox.’
    Drew had rolled his eyes, but that wasn’t when he got the look. He laughed a little.
    ‘I’ll have a word,’ he said. ‘Remind him about all the stuff he was planning to do when he couldn’t get outside for the rain. Mind you, this does mean I’ve officially turned into my mum. I remember her wanting to shunt me outdoors all the time during the summer holidays when all I wanted was to watch videos and play computer games. I could never understand why she did it, but now I’m a parent I’m exactly the same.’
    ‘I’ve already tried. He said he would still be outdoors plenty, but reminded me that we had said he could spend the money on whatever he liked.’
    ‘Apart from hookers, obviously. It’s true, though. We did say it was his money, and choosing what to spend it on was part of the reward.We can’t really go back on that. To be fair, it’ll probably