Page 13 of The Player

“I thought I’d interrupt,” he says in his usual lazy drawl. “Courting couples die in hot cars, you know.”

Con scrubs his hand through his hair, glaring at Max, and I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure it’s dogs that do that, and I don’t think Con and I qualify as either canines or a courting couple.”

“You sure about that?” Max asks. He’s staring at Con, but when I turn, I can’t see why as Con is just watching Max with a smile now tugging at his full lips.

“Anyway,” Max continues. “I thought I’d see if you want to come for a drink?”

“Well, I will,” I say. “I’m not sure Con will be able to. He’s got a man at home waiting for him.”

“Oh, yes? I think I met him coming out of your drive, Con,” Max says. “He was muttering something about rose bushes and trouser fabric. He got in a taxi and drove off.” He looks at Con with his eyebrow raised. “I’d say you’ve got time for a drink, son.”

Con rolls his eyes and turns off the engine. “Just one,” he says warningly to Max.

Max holds his hand to his chest. “I’m sure I don’t know why you’re directing that remark at me.”

“I do,” I say brightly, happiness running through me at the thought of more time with Con. “It’s because last time we went to the pub with you, Con did Knock and Run on Lucy Scrimshaw’s door.”

“Shit!” Con gasps, looking around frantically as Max laughs. “Don’t say that so fucking loudly, Frankie.”

I snort. “Pah! She’s not here.”

“She has spies everywhere.”

“Where were they when you banged on her door shouting that you were there to liberate Mr Scrimshaw and nothing was going to stop you this time.”

“There was no one around, and I was very glad of the fact.”

We climb out of the truck and fall into step beside Max.

I sneak a look at him. He’s been my neighbour for a few years now and is in direct contrast to Mr Fitzroy on the other side. Max is a retired war journalist and very famous. He’s equally determined not to be treated as such. He has a blithe, lazy air that completely covers up a razor-sharp mind.

“How’s Mrs Finch?” I ask, thinking of his dour housekeeper.

He shudders. “Don’t mention her name. She’s like Beetlejuice.”

“What have you done now?”

We come to the pub, and he holds the door open for us. “Nothing too dreadful. I spilt a tin of paint last night when I got back from the pub and then stood in it. It’s not my fault I didn’t realise and tracked it through the house.”

I laugh. “What did she say?”

“She said if I ever did it again, she would use the leftover paint to draw around my brutally murdered body to save the police the job.”

Con shakes his head. “One drink,” he insists again. “We’ve got gardening to do.”

“You’vegot gardening to do? You and Frankie?” Con nods, and Max roars with laughter. “That’s brilliant,” he chuckles. “One of you has flowers that would give triffids cause for concern, and the other has a garden that was last attended to when Charles the First was on the throne.”

“One drink,” Con insists.

Two hours later, he sets his pint glass down on the table with the care that only the truly pissed can manage. The table iscrowded with empties. “I think my night has gone slightly off the rails,” he observes, giving a hiccup.

Max leans forwards, trying to put his elbow on the table. It slips, and he narrowly avoids knocking himself out. Con and I prop him up, and he smiles his thanks before lifting his glass to his mouth.

“I saw David’s mother today,” he tells me.

I drain my wine and set the glass on the table. “Was she dancing in a circle and invoking my name?”

He laughs. “No. I opened the door of the bank to her. It appears she doesn’t like politeness because she glared at me like I’d farted in church.”

---