Hard Place by Douglas Stewart Page A

downer. It squelched from Ratso’s shoes and streamed down his neck. The main road heading north to Richmond was busy enough to give him something to look at but otherwise the soulless surroundings of small shops, traffic lights and forgettable housing were dreary and not worthy of attention. Only the steady beat of Metallica kept his spirits up. Each step took him nearer to facing Charlene and sitting in a chair where Neil used to sit, holding a glass used by his old friend.
    But Charlene must never discover that it was me who sent him to his death. And she’ll get nothing. No widow’s pension. No golden goodbye. Nothing. Just the press boys sniffing round about Neil’s underworld contacts. All because of me.
    No. All because of Boris Zandro.
    It was twenty-five minutes before he was amongst the terraced homes of Wolsey Drive. Would she be alone or would her sister have arrived yet? Or a neighbour, perhaps? He swung open the familiar metal gate set in a wooden fence and walked slowly through the small, well-kept garden, the wintry grass looking lush in the light from the front room. He rang the bell and heard the familiar musical chime, which he had always regarded as naff.
    He heard footsteps. “Who is it?” The fear and confusion was obvious.
    “It’s me. Todd.”
    “Ratso!” There was welcome in the voice and the door was quickly unlocked in three places. Without a word, he stepped inside and she fell into his arms, clinging to him, her body trembling as she stood on tiptoes to press her cheek to his. “Oh God, Ratso! Why, why? He didn’t deserve …”
    Ratso broke away as he back-heeled the door shut and then locked it. Charlene had obviously decided to look her best to go to the morgue. Was she a stunner or what? Her hair was as well coiffured as ever he’d seen it. Brown in color, it was parted in the middle and hung either side of her face to near shoulder length. Her skin was slightly tanned and wrinkle-free. Her hair just hid the tops of her ears, which were each adorned with a dangly earring. The navy trouser-suit, figure-hugging over a simple white blouse, he had never seen before and he guessed she had selected it for the sombre occasion. Her make-up was immaculate, unspoiled by tears. Her eyes! Ratso had always regarded them as her most striking feature, green and of seemingly infinite depth.
    For a moment they stood under the burgundy shade of the single hall light but then she clasped his hand and led him into the front room. Her hand was cold, deathly cold. The living room was silent, empty. The cosy room that used to echo with Neil’s rasping Belfast accent felt unloved and unwelcoming.
    “Thanks for coming, Ratso. There’s nobody I’d rather have here at a time like this. You were so close.” Charlene motioned him to a chair. “Oh, sorry. You’re off duty, I suppose. A drink. Neil bought some single malt the other day. There’s plenty …” Her voice faded away.
    “I’ll get one for both of us. You sit down.”
    But Charlene did not. Instead she followed him to the kitchen, standing close to him as he studied the array of bottles and selected a Macallan. “He loved his whiskies,” she explained. “Well, I guess you knew that!” Her laugh was nervous and her voice quavered with each word. “The Macallan! I just knew you would choose that one. Neil was planning to share it with you.” She bit her lip and wiped away a tear.
    Ratso took two tumblers from the Formica-fronted cupboard and poured generously, then splashed in a drop of water. The kitchen light was bright but her beauty held as they chinked glasses. “To Neil.”
    Charlene nodded. “God rest his soul.” They both swallowed a good mouthful before heading back to the comfort of the easy chairs. The room smelled of sandalwood from a candle burning on a small table.
    As if reading his mind, Charlene volunteered that Neil had never told her much of what he did. “A dark horse,” Ratso agreed. “He had skills learned in