Free Borrowed Light by Graham Hurley

every corner of the kingdom. The skills he picked up on the terraces should stand him in good stead in the cut and thrust
     of political debate.”’ She looked across, grinning. ‘How’s that sound?’
    ‘They’re taking the piss. Either that, or Baz is.’
    ‘On the contrary, they’re telling him he’s passed the test. Believe me, you don’t get profile like this by accident.’
    Winter nodded, returned briefly to the remains of the rice. There was a name he wanted to run past her. Someone who Bazza
     was keeping under wraps.
    ‘Leo Kinder?’
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘You know this guy?’
    ‘I’ve met him a couple of times, yes. Lawyer? Young? Good-looking? Political ambitions? Right wing? Fell out with the Tories,
     big time? What are you telling me, Paul?’
    ‘Nothing, love. Just curious.’
    ‘Curious, bollocks. Is Kinder thick with Mackenzie? Is that it?’
    ‘Might be.’
    ‘Has to be. That’s where all this comes from.’ Her eyes returned to the laptop. ‘Kinder knows the Tory manifesto by heart.
     He probablyhelped write the thing. In the end his face didn’t fit, and for my money he’s gone looking for a new political home.’ She
     laughed. ‘They’re made for each other, those two. Beauty and the Beast. Shit …’
    Winter was studying his hands. He hadn’t been so effortlessly kippered for years. Lizzie was a class act.
    ‘So who’s the Beauty?’ he enquired
    ‘Kinder, of course.’
    ‘I’ll tell him that.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The Beast.’ Winter pushed his stool back and stepped away from the breakfast bar. ‘So where’s young Jimmy?’
    ‘You asked me that before.’
    ‘I know I did. I’m asking you again.’
    ‘Same answer. No comment.’
    ‘Shame.’ He stooped to give her a kiss. ‘But thanks for the hospitality.’
    She saw him to the door, said goodnight, promised to remember him to Jimmy when he got back. Only when Winter was back in
     his car did he scribble down the number he’d clocked beside her phone.
    01983 prefix. The Isle of Wight.
    Je suis à Salisbury, chéri. Avec la petite. Gros bisous. G.
Faraday was back in his room, rechecking Gabrielle’s text. She was evidently in Salisbury.
La petite
, the little one, had to be Leila. Somehow she’d secured the funding and flown the broken little doll he’d glimpsed at El
     Arish to the UK. He knew nothing about the Burns Unit – what it entailed, where he might find it – but for the time being
     that didn’t matter. More important was the fact that Gabrielle was still intact, still in touch. The word
bisous
flooded him with a deep sense of relief.
Gros bisous
meant ‘Lots of kisses.’
    Twice he’d tried to phone her back but both times she was on divert. Now, almost light-headed, he checked his watch. It was
     gone nine and he hadn’t eaten since a snatched sandwich in the police station at Newport. He knew that Suttle had joined a
     bunch of detectives at a pasta place on Ryde High Street. He’d been nice enough to leave directions in case Faraday fancied
     it, but the thought of an evening of Job-talk filled him with gloom. Thanks to Gabrielle, he seemed to have regained a little
     of the ground he’d lost since the accident. He didn’t know how much faith to place in this welcome moment of sanity but he
     knew he didn’t want to squander it. On the point of wandering out on his own to find somewhere quiet, he had another thought.
     He’d stored Meg Stanley’s mobile number. No, she hadn’t eaten yet. And yes, she’d like to join him for a curry.
    They found a restaurant in Union Street, the Ryde Tandoori. Midwinter, with flurries of rain still blowing in off the Solent,
     the place was empty. They chose a table beside the Calor gas heater and ordered drinks. Cobra for Faraday. Orange juice for
     Meg.
    ‘Strange being here …’ She was gazing out at the street.
    ‘Why’s that?’
    ‘I went to school up the road. Five of the worst years of my life.’
    It had been a boarding school, she