Pray for the Dying by Quintin Jardine Page B

in; belt and braces. Christ, after what happened to Toni, none of us can be sure we’re going to see tomorrow.’

Ten
     
    ‘I could get to like this,’ Aileen said. ‘Bob’s garden in Gullane is nice too, but it overlooks the beach. He refuses to plant trees to give it a bit of privacy; says he likes the view.’ She picked up her glass from the wrought-iron table. ‘Well he’s bloody welcome to it!’
    Don’t get to like it too much , Joey Morocco thought. He had been on the astonished side of surprised when Aileen had called him the night before, almost raving about being imprisoned by her husband and seeking sanctuary for a day or two, but they had enjoyed regular liaisons a few years before, and the occasional fling since.
    Their history together had been enough to overcome his caution about taking another man’s wife under his roof, even when the man was as formidable as Bob Skinner was said to be.
    Nonetheless, when she had defined their renewed relationship, ‘ just fun, convenient uncomplicated nookie, no more than that ’, he had been relieved. He was bound for Los Angeles in a few days, for the film project that was going to make him, he knew, and the last thing he wanted was a heavy-duty woman in Scotland with her claws in him.
    ‘Are you sure that’s really what you want?’ he asked. ‘To end your marriage?’
    ‘Bloody certain,’ she replied. ‘I don’t actually know what drew me to him in the first place.’ She grinned. ‘No, that’s not true, I do. I wanted to find out if he matched up to the waves he was giving out. Very few do, in my limited experience.’
    ‘Did he?’
    ‘At first, yes. Then I made the mistake of marrying him. It all got mediocre after that, but I suppose that’s life. I’ll learn from it, though; once is enough.’
    He smiled.
    ‘And you’re relieved to hear that, I know,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, Joey. My career is all planned out, and it doesn’t take me within six thousand miles of where you’re going.’ She looked around the suntrap garden once more. ‘But this is nice. I like it here; it suits me. I’m guessing that when you go to the US, you won’t be back here very often, so if you need a tenant, let me know.’
    ‘I will,’ he promised. ‘The way my commitments are, I won’t be back for at least a year, so that might work. You’d be a house-sitter, though, not a tenant.’
    ‘No,’ she declared. ‘It would have to be formal. I couldn’t be seen as your bidey-in, even though you were never here.’
    He shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he murmured, hoping secretly that it would all be forgotten by the next morning. ‘Want another drink?’ he asked.
    Aileen pressed her glass to her chest. ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I’m not a big afternoon drinker . . . or evening, come to that. You’ve seen me in action before. You know I can’t handle it.’
    ‘True,’ he conceded. ‘If you’re sure . . . I think I’ll get another beer, if you don’t mind.’
    ‘Not a bit.’
    He wandered back into the kitchen, and took another Rolling Rock from the fridge. He had just uncapped it when the phone rang. He frowned, irked by the interruption, wondering which of the few people with access to his unlisted number had a need to call it on a bloody Sunday, when they all knew it was the day he liked to keep to himself.
    ‘Yes,’ he barked, not choosing to hide his impatience.
    ‘Is that Joey Morocco?’ a female voice asked.
    ‘Depends who this is.’
    ‘My name’s Marguerite Hatton. I’m on the political staff of the Daily News .’
    ‘And I’m a bloody actor, so why are you calling me?’ Hatton, Hatton ; the name was fresh in his mind. Of course, the woman from the press conference, she who had tried to give Aileen’s husband a hard time, and had her arse well kicked.
    ‘I’m trying to locate Aileen de Marco,’ she replied. ‘I’d like to talk to her about her ordeal last night and how relieved she feels that the killer