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

us.
    â€œWell hello there, Franny,” he called. “And Mr. Dalziel too. Glad to see you’re getting around, sir. You’re looking well.”
    Roote gave my thigh a told-you-so jab under the table. I’d have given him a let’s-wait-and-see kick back, only with him not having any feeling in his legs, it didn’t seem worth the effort.
    â€œAye, I’m not so bad,” I lied. Truth was, I felt distinctly woozy. The ancient geezer had got himself a pint without opening his mouth or handing over money, so far as I could see. Another time I’d have been interested to find out what had just gone off here, but at the moment, I didn’t give a toss.
    â€œGood. And you, Franny, how are you? Coming to Tom’s meeting on Friday, I hope?”
    â€œOf course. Exciting times, Lester. Won’t you join us?”
    Franny and Lester. Like an old music hall act. Roote had really got his useless legs under the table round here. Sounded like his social calendar were pretty full too.
    â€œThanks but I can’t stay,” said the Yank. “Just came out to drop an express package in the post office. My niece’s birthday back home. Almost forgot, which would have been a capital offense. Felt I’d earned a quick one, but I need to be back up at the clinic pretty much right away.”
    I weren’t so ill I didn’t notice there were too much bloody detail. Think a shrink would know summat like that. Plus, most country post offices I’d come across shut up at midday on a Saturday.
    The door opened again. This were getting like a French farce. New arrival were a well-set-up young fellow, one of them craggy faces that has five o’clock shadow at half past one. Looked like he reckoned the world owed him a living and the women in it owed him a shagging.
    He said, “Alan, any sign of my aunt?”
    â€œBeen and gone. Says she’ll see you in Moby’s.”
    â€œOh dear. Bit pissed off, is she? That will mean the lobster thermidor, I fear. But then, she was never going to choose the monkfish pâté, was she?”
    He made a wry sort of face to show he was joking, only he wasn’t.
    Now he let himself take in the others in the bar. Worzel Gummidge he ignored, me and Roote he shot a cocky grin at and said, “Ah, Franny, nursy taking you for a stroll?” then he did a double take, as if he’d just noticed Fester, and cried, “Is that you, Dr. Feldenhammer? Didn’t recognize you in a sitting position, sir. I hope I find you well. Mustn’t keep auntie waiting.”
    Then he left, whistling raucously.
    I saw Festerwhanger flush the color of old port. Either he were seriously narked or he was going to have a seizure.
    He downed the rest of his drink like he needed it, ice cubes clanging against his snowy teeth hard enough to dislodge a polar bear, slid off his stool, gave the landlord a curt nod, and marched through the door.
    I said to Roote, “Got that wrong, didn’t you, lad?”
    He said, “I just think the game changed, but never fear, he’ll remember. That tune Teddy Denham was whistling, I’m trying to recall what it is. I’ve got it on the tip of my tongue.”
    Meaning he hadn’t the faintest idea but would be glad to know what caused the Yank doctor to lose his cool. Didn’t miss much, our Franny.
    â€œSorry, no idea,” I said. Which was a lie. I’d recognized the notes of a little ditty I’ve heard belted out at the back of rugby coaches more times than I care to remember.
    Don’t expect Roote spent much time in rugby coaches, and I didn’t see any reason why I should enlighten him.
    Roote were giving me one of his looks that said he knew I were holding out on him. Then his expression turned to I-told-you-so! as the door opened again and Fester stuck his head back in.
    â€œIt just occurred to me, Mr. Dalziel—would you like a lift back up to the home? Or do you