Free Bloodstorm by Sam Millar Page A

but if this gets out, I’m finished.”
    Naomi nodded. “Okay.”
    “I always wanted to be Telly Savalas – but with hair. There. I’ve said it,” smiled Karl.
    “Telly what? Karl, how may of those brandies did you actually have when I was away to the loo?”
    Karl’s mobile suddenly sounded in his pocket.
    “Who the hell could be calling at this time of night?” Removing the phone, he glanced at the screen, and with difficulty pronounced,
Thyre wotchnu. Bcful. Wochyr bac. Dnt trust NE1
. “It’s one of those bloody text nuisances, all mumbo-jumbo. I haven’t a clue how to read these damn things – and the brandy isn’t helping, either.”
    “Let me see it,” said Naomi, grinning, taking the phone from Karl.
    Slowly, Naomi’s smile lessened.
    “What is it, Naomi? A dirty message from a secret admirer?”
    “A hoax, probably. One of those wind-up messages.”
    “What does it say?”
    Glancing at the screen again, Naomi deciphered the message. “‘They’re watching you. Be careful. Watch your back. Don’t trust anyone.’” She shuddered. “Very creepy.”
    “Don’t let it bother you. Probably some pimply adolescent with nothing better to do but bust balls on a cold lonely night,” replied Karl, the making of a smile on his face. “C’mon. Let’s get home and find us that manly man.”
    “Yes,” said Naomi, hugging closer to Karl. “Let’s do that.”
    “Who loves
ya
, baby?” said Karl in his best Telly Savalas voice.
    “Don’t, Karl. That’s creepy.”
    “All I need now is a lollipop …”

C HAPTER N INE
Tuesday, 30 January
    ‘Don’t let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have 
so many real ones to encounter.’
    Oliver Goldsmith,
The Good-Natured Man
    E ARLY NEXT MORNING , the office opened to its first client of the day.
    “Karl? Mister Munday’s here to see you,” said Naomi, smiling, wearing a sky-blue T with the words:
Life Is Liberated As Long As I’m Medicated!
stencilled via a lightning streak across the cloth.
    “You’re like a shark, when it comes to the smell of money. Show him in,” said Karl before blowing his nose, noisily. Early morning sinus had come even earlier than usual.
    A few seconds later, Munday entered, and without being asked, sat down.
    “Well? What have you got for me?” asked Munday.
    Karl removed a thick group of pages from the top drawer of his desk. They looked impressive as he began to read from them. “Theunfortunate man’s name was Wesley Milligan, a one-time prison officer at Woodbank prison. He left the prison service about a year or so ago, practically disappearing without a trace. His estranged wife, Margaret, claims not to have seen or heard from him in all that time.”
    Karl glanced up from the report to gauge Munday’s reaction. Blank, just like most of the pages in Karl’s so-called report. He continued with his reading. “The wife showed little or no emotion when told of her ex’s death, according to the visiting police officer’s report.”
    “Is she a suspect?” asked Munday.
    The tone in Munday’s voice had changed slightly, Karl noted. “Not
per se
, but the police ‘remain interested’ in her, according to one of the reports I read –
illegally
, and at great risk, I hasten to add.”
    “Four sugars, black, Mister Munday? Correct?” asked Naomi, returning, pushing the door open with her arse before setting the cups of coffee down. “Some digestive biscuits for you, as well.”
    “Thank you,” replied Munday.
    A few seconds later, Naomi left the room, still smiling.
    Sipping carefully on the steaming coffee, Munday asked: “How did Milligan die? You haven’t mentioned it yet.”
    “I was just getting to it,” responded Karl, sipping his own coffee, feeling relief as the steam eased the sinus pain. He read from the second page. “Three bullets to the head, plus an initial examination indicated signs of torture on the body.”
    To Karl, the stoic Munday suddenly looked slightly shaken.
    “Are