Free The Travelling Man by Matt Drabble

start expanding, starting with the insufficient parking outside, but as usual things in the desert moved slowly as though beaten down by the heat.
    Granton was a pleasant enough town and he was making money all right in a world that was struggling to keep a roof over its head, but he wanted more. He wanted more than a greasy diner servicing oafs from the mine with beer and onion rings. What he really wanted was to open a restaurant on the other side of town, a real restaurant where patrons bought wine with dinner, not frothy pitchers. He wanted linen napkins instead of paper ones and he wanted to welcome his guests at the front door after they had made reservations over the phone.
    “All done Glenn?” Becky called from the kitchen as she finished mopping the floor.
    “Sure, Becky, you can take off now,” he called back. She was a good girl and he liked her a lot. He hoped that if he ever got the place off the ground then she would come over and help him manage the place. The girl had entirely too much about her to be dodging ass grabbers for the rest of her life. He knew that she was unhappy here and he didn’t blame her; it was surely no one’s dream job, his least of all.     
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    Harlan’s mind was racing with thoughts about Davey’s body which he had buried in the desert. He had lied to Kravis when he’d told him that he owned the land where the man had been sniffing about. He didn’t know what the guy was up to and he was nervous. When he’d got back to the store, his phone had been flashing appropriately red with messages from the Sheriff about Davey. Everyone knew that Davey worked at the hardware store and Harlan was starting to realise that people just couldn’t disappear, even in the desert. If that bitch of a Sheriff was anything like her old man, then she wasn’t going to stop looking until she found Davey.
    He couldn’t believe that his carefully constructed world was about to collapse on top of him, all for a little slip. That’s what it was: just a little slip, but he might be ruined. His anger started to boil again at the thought of the injustice of it all. If Davey was here right now, he’d probably kill him all over again. 
    His mind was so full of his problem that he didn’t hear the bell of the store at first. He looked up in surprise as he was sure that he had locked it securely when he’d returned.
    “Can I help you?” Harlan called out to the shadow in the doorway, with as much false friendliness as he could muster. It was imperative that he maintained his carefully constructed image about town.
    “Not exactly,” the man replied in a crisply cool English accent. “But I may be able to help you.”
    Harlan stared at the well dressed man. “Look, Mister. I don’t know what you’re smoking but I have no idea what you’re talking about and we’re closed.”
    “Of course you do, Mr. Harris. I was there, after all, or have you forgotten?” the man replied with a pleasant smile.
    Harlan suddenly had a flashback of the man who’d watched him from across the road when he’d smashed Davey into road kill. He’d thought that he’d dreamed the conversation with this guy, the whole afternoon had been so surreal. “We spoke, didn’t we?”
    “For but a brief passing moment,” the man replied. “But I’m afraid that I had business elsewhere in town,” he apologized. “I do hope that you’ll excuse my rudeness.”
    Harlan listened on, entranced. The man had a lilting accent that washed over him in waves of comfort as it flowed with poetry. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said in a small sheepish voice.
    “I know,” the man said soothingly. “You slipped, isn’t that right? Just a little slip that could happen to any of us I’m sure.”
    Harlan nodded in boyish agreement, eager for the verbal lifeline. “I don’t even know your name,” he said looking up in surprise.
    “Where are my manners? Gilbert Grange,” the man replied, offering a formal