Page 137 of Joker in the Pack

The man himself bustled in carrying a plate of pineapple pieces. “And if you even think of bringing biscuits into this meeting, I’ll put decaf in all the coffee machines.”

Emmy clenched her teeth. “You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

“For fuck’s sake… Guys, we need to hurry this up so I can go and find cake.”

Despite Emmy rattling through the agenda, Nye was still fidgeting by the end of the meeting. Had Liv finished up at Lilac Cottage yet? He’d seen the charges from Agent Provocateur on his credit card statement, and he kept his fingers crossed she’d be trying out one of those skimpy outfits tonight.

Finally, Emmy finished up. “Anything else?”

Everyone shook their heads, thank goodness. Nye would have cracked a tooth if he’d clamped his jaws any harder.

“What’s up with you?” Emmy asked as she followed him out. “Didn’t you get enough last night?”

Oh, if only she knew. Liv may have been inexperienced, but she was an excellent pupil and made up for it with enthusiasm. The fact that Nye had been late for work was a testament to that.

“I got plenty.”

“Are you coming out for pizza?” one of their colleagues asked.

Emmy shook her head. “I’ve got mayhem to plan. But if you can sneak me a deep-pan pepperoni past Toby, I’d be eternally grateful.”

“Nye?”

“Not today, sorry.”

Three o’clock. Liv should be on her way back by now, which would give them time for a quick trip to the bedroom before dinner. He just needed to pick up the gift he’d ordered for her on the way back. A pair of oven mitts, go figure. She’d mentioned wanting them.

He’d got one arm in his jacket sleeve when the phone on his desk rang. Sod it—Jannie could answer.

“Nye, wait a second,” she called.

He paused, halfway through the door. Dammit. “What is it?”

“Inspector Carling from Hertfordshire Constabulary is on the phone. You know, the guy dealing with the mess in Upper Foxford? He says it’s important.”

Nye huffed, but he couldn’t ditch work in favour of visiting a bakeware shop. “Transfer it through, will you?”

He stomped back into his office and perched on the edge of his desk. A second later, the phone beeped.

“Nye Holmes.”

“Rory Carling. We met briefly the other night.”

“Yes, I remember.” Nye wished he’d get to the point.

“We’ve got a problem here, and I wanted to bounce it off you, if you’ve got a few minutes?”

Nye didn’t want problems. He wanted sex, a chilled Peroni, and pizza. In that order. “What kind of problem?”

“Well, we’ve got Fenton Palmer in custody, and we’ve got a statement, a body, and a murder weapon. But forensics just called, and the fingerprints on the knife don’t match the suspect.”

“You’re kidding me? No way the lab could have screwed up?”

“They’ve checked it twice. There’s one set of prints, in blood, and they don’t belong to Fenton Palmer.”

“Have you run them through the database?”

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