In about twenty minutes, the scent of bacon frying took him out of the cat zone and back into Francis’s flat. The living room was still messed up, awaiting SOCO’s forensic examination. He followed his nose to the kitchen—entirely free of cats.
Francis stood at the stove, wearing sweats and a T-shirt with a black cat silhouette on it, his hair damp. His face was lumpy and bruised around one eye, which was almost closed. He smiled wanly at Dez as he chivvied bacon around the pan.
“Let me do that,” Dez said.
“I’m fine. Feel free to butter a couple of rolls, though.” He nodded at the counter, where a packet of bread rolls and a tub of margarine waited.
Between them, they worked on the simple breakfast of bacon rolls and coffee. When it was done, Dez carried it all on a tray to a table in t
