Free The Stone Gallows by C David Ingram Page B

finally boil. When it finished, I poured, mixed milk and sugar and took both mugs into the office, catching Joe just as he placed his phone back on the cradle. He took the coffee with both hands and a grateful look on his face. ‘You might need to make another one.’
    â€˜Uh huh?’
    â€˜Miss Sloan was calling from her mobile. She’s on her way up.’
    â€˜What did she want?’
    â€˜Wouldn’t say.’
    I took the seat opposite him and sipped my coffee. Joe was still poking away at the Blackberry. At any minute, I expected it to spontaneously combust in his hand. He chewed on his lower lip, stabbing away at the screen like he was trying to kebab it. I gave it until the end of the week. If it was lucky.
    Eventually he looked up. ‘Good weekend?’
    â€˜Alright.’
    â€˜Wendy had a football game on.’ He shook his head. ‘Girls playing football. It’s fundamentally wrong.’
    Wendy was nine, and the apple of her dad’s eye. He didn’t say it aloud, but he was less than thrilled that she preferred contact sports to My Little Pony.
    â€˜What about you?’ He asked. ‘You do anything with Mark?’
    â€˜I was meant to take him out. Showed up at Audrey’s on Saturday, but she’d taken him out already.’ I tried not to let the frustration seep into my voice, but it was there. I’d waited outside the empty house for nearly an hour, hoping that she had just forgotten about it, knowing in my heart that she was once again using our son as an excuse to hurt me.
    â€˜She’s a bit of a cow, your ex, isn’t she?’
    I was spared from having to agree with him by the sound of the door buzzer. Our potential client had arrived. I stood up. ‘You want me to let her in and then leave you to it?’
    â€˜No. I don’t think so. We’ll see what she wants.’

    3.3.
    Sophie Sloan turned out to be stunning. The silly little Marilyn Monroe voice I had heard on the phone had suggested a fluffy blonde in a frilly pink blouse and pleated skirt. Instead, we were treated to a fashion model in a Metallica T-shirt and skin-tight jeans. She carried a small blue handbag whose simplicity was probably inversely related to its retail value, and her hair was very shiny and black, falling down her back in an elaborate French pleat. Her face was strong, with pale skin and a mouth edged in red lipstick. As I showed her into Joe’s office, he stood up. I could tell that he liked the look of her.
    Hell, so did I.
    There was a ring on her third finger. Small, discreet, but with something that caught the light. Married and rich; right up Joe’s alley.
    He held out his hand. ‘Mrs Sloan.’
    They shook, and Joe waved in my general direction. ‘This is my associate, Cameron Stone. You don’t mind if he joins us?’
    She hesitated, then shrugged as if she didn’t care. I held out my hand. Her fingers were slender, but there was surprising strength in them. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Sloan. Can I offer you some tea or coffee?’
    â€˜No, thank you.’ She looked around. ‘This isn’t what I imagined it would be.’
    Joe made the vague but universal gesture that meant “have a seat”.
    â€˜What did you expect?’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t know. A bottle of whisky on the window sill. Filing cabinets. You with a week’s worth of stubble and a gun tucked in your belt.’
    Joe’s tastes were less stereotypical. A Partick Thistle calendar on the desk, a picture of him shaking hands with former labour leader John Smith on the wall. Also, framed pictures of the wife and kids. ‘It’s not like it is in the movies.’
    â€˜I guess not.’ She sat down opposite the desk. Taking that as our cue, I took the seat next to her.
    Joe sat down on the padded leather monstrosity behind the desk and crossed his legs. ‘Now, how can we help you, Mrs