Although he recognised the lead could fizz out, Franklin felt excited as he retrieved his car from the garage. He sensed a resolution to the poison-pen case and that they’d see Susan home by sundown.
If he were a betting man, he’d back it on the nose.
This could be the best day in a piss-poor week.
This could be the best day in a piss-poor week.He tensed at the wheel of his Commodore and scanned the landscape while flat-footing the accelerator. Time distorted: on the one hand, he seemed to arrive at Abergeldie quickly, while on the other, it took too long.
Out of the car, silence struck Franklin. His earlier optimism shrank to a marble in his throat. The farm exuded emptiness and melancholy. Dread stroked his nape.
His mobile provided a timely diversion.
‘Yeah,’ he answered Slam’s ca
