Snow Storm by Robert Parker Page B

frown.
    Everyone had inkjet
printers these days and the thing about posh envelopes was that
they didn’t require licking.
    He locked himself in the
bathroom and threw up as quietly as possible.
     

 
11

    Giles Herriot-Watt stood
on the harbour admiring the craft before him, like a man in his
position may have admired the form of a fine thoroughbred steed in
centuries gone by. She was something to behold; the Brentwood
Viking, sleek, long, light and yet most importantly in possession
of brutal power. Her red haunches shone in the winter sun as the
gathered hack photographers and assorted slack jawed yokels took in
her magnificence.
    Drink it in his inner
voice declared. It’s more than you’ll ever afford.
    They lowered her down the
slipway into the mouth of the cold river to much applause. She was
suddenly alive, snorting fire, as the two man crew waved to their
enthusiastic audience. The publicity was important of course. It
was imperative they were seen to be doing such things, adding a
touch of glamour to the area, giving them something they’d never
see the likes of again.
    He cracked a
bottle of Moet & Chandon; hardly Crystal but what did it matter
on such an occasion. Not like anyone here would know the difference. He
preferred to keep the Crystal he had expense accounted and use it
to impress the ladies; the ones who knew the difference, the ones
who knew what clothes to wear and were seen at the right functions,
the ones with the right breeding. Again his mind turned to
thoroughbreds. He appreciated the equine form, knew one end of the
animal from the other. He could happily watch a race or three given
the right quantities of the bubbly stuff and possibly some of the
old marching powder. And polo; that was fine and obviously a decent
social lubricant, but the horses didn’t like him. That was for
sure.
    He charged
the glasses of the local provost and a reporter from the Galloway
Advertiser he might think about getting the number of later and
smiled as he took it all in, this spectacle he’d created. Brentwood
Viking roared to life on top of a foam pillow and her nose lifted
as she powered along the side of the harbour. The crew waved at
some local kids as they ran along the wooden walkways in pursuit.
They tucked themselves down into their respective cockpits as she
howled higher still and powered out into the bay for the nautical
dressage display.
    “ It’s a real
boon for the area,” he heard the provost say and turned to say
something along the lines of the firm being delighted but instead
he couldn’t resist simply saying yes. The provost looked slightly
wrong footed which of course had been his intention and Giles set
about reeling her back in.
    At times he
couldn’t resist saying such things just for the hell of it, just to
screw around with people’s minds and challenge his manipulation
skills. “As, of course is the area to us. I mean let’s face it
where better to test in secret than a place such as
this?”
    “ True,” the
reporter replied.
    “ And as an
added bonus I get to enjoy some of its,” he looked at the reporter,
made a point of doing so, “more natural beauties.”
    She giggled slightly,
covering her mouth in a modest gesture he heartily approved of. He
knew what he would be doing for the rest of the week.
    “ Of course it
would be good if we didn’t go into too much detail, as we agreed.
We don’t want everyone to know exactly what we are doing now do
we?”
    “ No,” she
agreed, as the provost suddenly found she had somewhere else to be
and Giles congratulated himself on being such a skilled manipulator
of the press.
     
    ********************
     
     
    John Campbell
was in his element. The building he had entered felt as if it
should be home. If cop shops looked like they did on CSI, this
would be home.
    He announced
his arrival with the receptionist who looked pissed off in that way
people did when they truthfully didn’t give a flying fuck but
wanted the world and his