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

said.
    Now she glanced our way and said, “Toodle-pip, Franny. Don’t forget you’re lunching with me this week.”
    â€œEngraved 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?”
    â€œAlas, 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 andher sort of girlishly flirtatious, like an elephant dancing in that old Disney 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.
    â€œIf 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 up these.
    Suddenly I didn’t feel so badly dressed.
    Still he didn’t move or speak. Then the landlord said warningly, “Hen.”
    Now he smiled. Bare gums mainly, and the few teeth you could see through the foliage were greeny yallery shading to black at the roots. I half-expected Festerwhanger to faint.
    Then he stepped to one side and did a piss-taking bow and said, “So sorry, Your Ladyship. Didn’t see you there. So sorry. Would hate to get in Your Ladyship’s way.”
    â€œYou won’t,” she said. And went sweeping past him, young Clara in pursuit, looking a bit embarrassed.
    The old boy kicked the door shut behind them. The landlord said, “Watch it, Hen. It’s me as is responsible for fixtures and fittings. Your usual, Dr. Feldenhammer?”
    The Yank, who’d been watching the incident with interest, nodded. His usual was a short. Dark amber, enough ice to sink the Titanic. Jack Daniel’s mebbe. At least it weren’t purple. Festerwhanger sipped it, then turned and leaned against the bar. His face split into that toothy grin as he acted like he’d just noticed