The Fish Kisser. James Hawkins

were it?” she demanded, craning to peer into the blank windows, suspecting a female; suspecting she was being cheated on.

      “Just a friend,” he repeated, knowing it would drive her insane.

      “Sergeant 247639, Mitchell,” George introduced himself to the sergeant at his door, thinking—“Quite a day.” “I’ve just been talking to your lads, Serg. Nasty stain one of ’em had. Doubt if it’ll come out.”

      “Yes, Sergeant Mitchell,” he started, then changed his tone and added conspiratorially, “Mind if I call you George?”

      He hadn’t minded, placing the policeman from London as a peer, and they sat in his kitchen like a couple of old soldiers, chin-wagging over a cuppa for fifteen minutes before getting around to Roger.