Free Murderers Anonymous by Douglas Lindsay Page B

the fact that she wasn't really into men.
    'So some woman phones you up if there's a spider in the bath, and you charge her fifteen pounds for the all of two seconds it takes to remove it?'
    Socrates finished off his pint with a spider-be-gone flourish.
    'Right there,' he said, 'you've hit the nail on the head. Women. It's always women. No bloke's ever going to have the neck to call me out, even if they're scared. No bloke's going to let his bird call me out if they're in the house. So it's aye women on their own who give us a call. Think about it,' he said, tapping the side of his napper, 'it's the biggest phobia in Britain. There are about a gazillion spiders out there, and most of them find their way into someone's house at some stage. It's perfect. And, of course, the best bit is that these birds are usually so grateful that I've rid them of their pest that they give us a shag.'
    Socrates smiled. Winters smiled too, shaking her head.
    'You're serious?'
    'Aye, hen, it's brilliant. The perfect job. I get paid good cash, and I get laid at least twice a day. Brilliant. Mind you ...' he said, rising to head off to the bar.
    'What?'
    'Spiders give us the willies. The bath ones are all right, 'cause you just stick a glass over the bastard. But see garden sheds, I fucking hate them. Another vodka, hen?'
    Winters smiled, a move which enhanced the small, pale hairs along her top lip.
    'Aye,' she said. 'Another vodka. No ice.'
    'Right, hen,' said Socrates, and off he went. The hunter-gatherer.
    The Hammer smiled too. Socrates was all right. In his way. Now it was time to talk his own brand of bullshit.
    Dillinger was politely listening to Billy Hamilton's thesis on how Britain and Ireland could have won the Ryder Cup in 1987, and maybe another few times as well, without the addition of the European players. Not even sure what sport the Ryder Cup was, Dillinger, but was nodding in all the right places.
    Galbraith leant over her, completely ignored Billy Hamilton. He could have crushed wee Billy like a paper cube. Didn't care if he annoyed him.
    'Sandy Lyle, brilliant player, brilliant. Faldo couldn't lick his shoes, even now,' were Hamilton's last few words on the subject.
    'Here, Katie, can I have a word?' said The Hammer.
    Billy Hamilton attempted to give him a Robert de Niro, but with the foosty moustache and insipid eyes, it was more of a Terry-Thomas.
    'Sure,' said Dillinger, delighted to escape. 'Sorry, Billy, I'll be back in a minute.'
    'Aye, right,' said Hamilton, and his moustache wilted.
    The Hammer and Dillinger wandered over to the bar, away from the crowd. To their right Arnie Medlock and Sammy Gilchrist exploded in near-violent argument over the nature of Wordman's Theorem, but they ignored it and leant against the sodden bar. Brushed away the beer and the peanuts, and the detritus of urine from unwashed fingers.
    'What's up?' she said.
    The Hammer nodded, lips clenched. Looked her in the eye.
    'Got a few things to do this weekend,' he said.
    Dillinger's eyebrows plunged together.
    'What are you saying?'
    He shrugged, lifted his pint and waved it around a little.
    'This and that. Stuff, you know. And the bastard is us going on Saturday and coming back on Monday. Just can't get the day off work.'
    'It's Christmas Eve!'
    'You know what it's like at that place.'
    'So you're not coming?'
    He stared at her. Expressionless.
    'Pretty much,' he said.
    'Paul?' she said, a little pained. She could be cool, she could achieve her air of aloofness, she could be judgemental, but she still had feelings same as every other human, and a lot of those feelings were for The Hammer. A good man; brutal, perhaps, but always a good bet on the weekend away in case tempers frayed and the true nature of some of their crowd emerged. 'I thought, well you know ...' she said, and let the sentence drift off.
    The Hammer shrugged again. Stay firm, he thought.
    'Just got things to do, you know. Sorry, love, but that's the way it goes.'
    'What are you