Free Murder Path (Fallen Angels Book 3) by Max Hardy Page B

as she flashed Strange her fierce and forthright glare, tinged with an irreverent sparkle, then headed off towards her car, without waiting for an answer.
    Strange stood gobsmacked, looking on after her short, squat frame as it methodically marched to her car.  ‘Well, you are nothing if not practical and to the point Gaynor Cruickshank, and where sex is concerned, that will always work for me.’  Strange whispered to himself.  He picked up his bag and followed her to the car, jumping into the front passenger seat.
    ‘But before we go anywhere near that little assignation,’ Cruickshank stated firmly, dampening the obvious ardour in Strange’s eyes, ‘what is the story with you and Saul.  Why are you so protective of him?’ she questioned, pulling out of the car park and heading left towards the west end of the city.
    ‘Bottom line Gaynor, John has always been more of a friend to me than a colleague.  We both started work in the same week, god, more than eight years ago now.  He’d just come from uniform, in as a DC.  I had landed in from Jamaica, first black DCI on the Northumbria force.  It was challenging, to say the least, I mean, look at me.  Thin streak of piss with a silver afro.  It was even silver back then.  You can imagine the kind of stick I got from the troops, some of it absolutely racist.’  Strange started, watching the nightlife of Edinburgh go by out of the windscreen. 
    ‘You can imagine the stick a short, uptight, brusque female DCI gets from the troops, some of it absolutely sexist.’  Cruickshank countered, turning right into a cul-de-sac.
    ‘Touché.  John wasn’t like that at all.  I think as we were both new, regardless of rank, we struck up a friendship.  Not that I needed anyone to watch my back, but John did.  He’d pull up publicly anyone who stepped over the mark.  Not just those sledging me you understand, but anyone.  Don’t get me wrong, he enjoyed a laugh, but would always stop it going too far.  I liked that about him immediately.  It made him a few enemies, but many, many more friends.  He has never been anything other than open and honest with me.’ Strange added as Cruickshank brought the car to a halt in the drive of a small, nondescript detached house. 
    Other houses in the cul-de-sac had pleasant front lawns with colourful flowers and plants.  The front of this house was concreted, not a single stem of flora in sight.  The windows were dark, with plain, drab black blinds rolled half way down, the sills bereft of ornaments.
    ‘Up until now.’  Cruickshank answered acerbically, climbing out of the car.  She headed for the front door and opening it, reached inside and flicked the hall light on.  Strange climbed out of the passenger seat, grabbing his bag from the foot well, and followed Cruickshank into the house, closing the door behind him.
    ‘Take your shoes off at the door, put them on the rack and make yourself comfortable in the living room.  I’ll go and get two glasses for that Morgan’s.’  Cruickshank ordered, pointing to an open door to the right. 
    Strange took in the spartan décor of the entrance hallway, the only furniture a solitary shoe rack with one full row of neatly lined up flat brogues and one empty row below them.  He kicked of his shoes and placed them on the empty row.  There were no pictures on the walls, which were painted a bland magnolia, and there was no shade on the stark light bulb.  Strange entered the equally minimalist living room.  There was a single brown corduroy sofa, a tartan chesterfield chair with a blanket over one arm and a small glass topped coffee table with a battery powered portable radio sitting on top of it.  There were no other furnishings.  No pictures on the walls.  No light shades and no colour apart from cream and magnolia.  He sat down on the sofa, reached into his bag and took out the bottle of Morgan’s Rum.
    ‘I like the Army chic you’ve got going on here.’