Page 21 of Copper Script
Fowler humphed.“I’ll talk to him.”
“You know him?”
“I do, yes.It’s, ah, possible he thought he was doing me a service by warning you off.”
He looked slightly embarrassed, as well he might.Joel glowered, then reminded himself Fowler was—not on his side, as such, but being decent.“Yes, well.If you could disabuse him of that?”
“I will talk to him,” Fowler repeated.“If you’ve done nothing more than make some very lucky guesses, you’ve the right to go about your business unimpeded.That said, your line of work seems very likely to bring you trouble of this sort.You might consider that.”
“Thanks for the advice, but I don’t have a great deal of choice,” Joel said.“And, you know.Thank you for...”Being honestwould probably offend.“I realise you don’t believe in what I do, and you didn’t have to listen to me at all, so—thanks, that’s all.”
He made to rise as he spoke.Fowler said, “No, wait.”
“What?”
“Well—finish your drink.That’s decent Scotch.”
“Shame to waste it,” Joel agreed automatically.It tasted like most Scotch to him, which was to say burning leaf mulch, but he settled back and sipped at it.
Settled back into the sofa of a policeman’s home.What the blazes.He’d have expected Fowler to welcome his departure, not delay it.He wondered whether he was obliged to make light conversation while he finished his drink.“Family well?”he tried.“Roses coming along?”
“It’s November,” Fowler pointed out, with what felt to Joel like a similar awkwardness to his own, then relapsed into silence.Maybe this was a new interrogation technique.You put someone in an embarrassing social position and they confessed everything just to get out of it.
“So is there a Mrs.Fowler?”he asked, mostly out of desperation.
“No.No, I’m not married.”
“Didn’t think so.The place lacks a woman’s touch.”
“I’ve seen where you live,” Fowler riposted.“You could put up a picture or two.”
“Yes, hammering in a nail is very much a one-handed job.”
Fowler winced.“Of course.I’m— No, hold on.You’ve surely friends who would do that if you asked.”
“What do you know about my friends?”
“Someone bet you to grow that moustache.Only a friend would be so malicious.”
Joel couldn’t repress a grin.“Fair enough.Yes, I know people who would wield hammers for me.To be honest, a picture feels like more commitment than I want to make to that hovel.”
“That seems entirely reasonable,” Fowler said.“At ten shillings the half hour, I’d have thought you could do better.”
“It’s a fine rate if you have enough people paying it.Once I’m turning clients away, I’ll move somewhere more salubrious.”
“Just you?There’s no Mrs.Wildsmith?”
It was a perfectly reasonable question of the light conversation type, and yet there was something about it, or the asking, or the way he was watching Joel’s face, and in that instant, something sprang to delicate, tingling life.Joel found his lips curving.
Not that he was going to do anything stupid.He’d only just got out of one lot of trouble, and he had too much sense to screw a policeman again, especially not knowingly, and it wouldn’t do to alienate Fowler, who was going to help him.
Unless Fowler was expecting a quid pro quo.He had, after all, asked Joel to stay.He didn’t seem the sort of man to demand it, but if he thought Joel was interested...well, he might not even be far wrong.Those dark liquid eyes, the mouth that needed to slacken and gasp—Joel had a lot of ideas about that mouth.
None of which he would be putting into practice, because he’d learned his lesson about obliging coppers.
“Afraid not.Probably for the best.”He knocked the last gasp of whisky back on that, and rose before he did anything stupid such as suggesting another drink.“I’d better go.Thanks again.I won’t say you’ve restored my faith in the police...”
“Yes, well, I lack faith in graphologists,” Fowler said, with a smile that didn’t look quite right.Disappointed?“Goodbye, then, Mr.Wildsmith.”
