Free The Price of Butcher's Meat by Reginald Hill Page A

said, “Only because as a disciple of Third Thought, I have a deep interest in the human condition. Doesn’t Paul tells us that the love of money is the root of all evil?”
    “Paul?” I said. “Thought that were one of Ringo’s. No, sorry, bit further back. Adam Faith, right?”
    Not often you can shut Roote up, but that did it.
    The women fi nished their drinks and slipped off their stools, the lass like a snowflake, the old lady like an avalanche.
    Clara gave a shy little wave as her aunt said, “Alan, perhaps my scat-terbrained nephew has gone straight to Moby’s. If he does turn up here, tell him that’s where we will be. And don’t forget to get payment for our drinks. A gentleman does not invite guests and expect them to pay for themselves. Talking of money, these ideas you have about modernizing T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 5 5
    the cellar, I think we really need to do an in-depth costing. I need quota-tions, not estimates. If I have time I’ll drop in later to take a closer look.”
    The landlord bowed his head deferentially, or mebbe he were worried in case his expression showed this weren’t the best news he’d had today!
    “Of course, Lady Denham,” he said.
    Now she glanced our way and said, “Toodle-pip, Franny. Don’t forget you’re lunching with me this week.”
    “Engraved on my heart, Lady D,” said Roote.
    Her gaze shifted to me and she ducked her head and gave a little snort like she were wondering whether to charge but headed for the door instead.
    I muttered, “Will that be lobster at Moby’s?”
    “Alas, no. Belly pork at Sandytown Hall, I fear,” said Roote with a little shudder.
    Afore I could ask what he meant, the door opened as the women approached it and a Yankee voice gushed, “Daphne, Clara, how nice.
    How are you, dear ladies?”
    Toilet-tooth Festerwhanger.
    Well, at least they really had sent Prince bloody Charming, not some snotty-nosed orderly to round me up. Always supposing that’s why he’d come. I could see Roote thought it was. He gave me one of them little looks. Quizzical, I think they call ’em. Like Pascoe sometimes. Mebbe him and Roote had more in common than I realized.
    Stepping into the bar, Festerwhanger flashed the young lass a spotlight smile, then got folded into buffalo woman’s arms. It were like watching one of them Cumberland wrestlers tekking hold, except they don’t clamp their gobs onto their opponent’s face and give his tonsils a tongue massage. I saw now what Roote’s little insinuation were all about.
    Eventually he broke loose, staggering a bit, like a diver who’d come up too quick. But to give him his due, he made a quick recovery, and soon him and Lady D were chatting away—him all Yankee charm and 5 6
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    her sort of girlishly flirtatious, like an elephant dancing in that old Dis-ney cartoon. I almost felt sorry for old Fester. Got the feeling she could chew him up and spit him out all over his consulting room couch. Finally she gave him a farewell kiss that made the first one seem like a rehearsal and set off again but stopped dead in her tracks as the door opened to admit another man.
    Different this time, but. No gush and hugs. In fact, if I can read a face, there’s neither of them would have lost sleep if t’other had dropped dead on the spot!
    The new guy had halted right in the doorway so she couldn’t get by.
    “If you don’t mind,” she said, haughty as a duchess talking to a game-keeper she don’t fancy shagging.
    He didn’t move. He looked about ninety and I’ve seen healthier-looking faces at an exhumation. His eyes were deep sunk, his few bits of hair clung to his pate like mold on an old plum, and he had a beard like a wildlife sanctuary. Despite the heat, he were wearing a mucky old donkey jacket, an old-fashioned striped shirt without a collar, and the kind of baggy pants farmworkers used to tie up with string, only no self-respecting rat would have cared to run