22
THE EYES OF A KILLER
Mary stood at the bar. She wore a broad smile as she listened to the young thug boasting about the number of heists he had successfully masterminded.
She was bored, had nothing better to do, so she feigned interest, nodded agreement in the appropriate places, lightly brushed his forearm during the telling of one thrilling escape. She was appealing to his ego, granting him the respect he so clearly craved.
God, men are pathetic, she thought, whilst appearing impressed, interested, thirsty for more of his anecdotes and tall stories.
She’s ripe for a grind, he thought, reading the expression she wanted him to see.
“Only last year, as Kate lay dying in Mitre Square, we was just round the corner on a job. That square filled with coppers whilst we was only a stone’s
