Forty-Three
Monday, 31st March, 2014
"Where the hell have you been, Tom?" Alisdair whispered when Guthrie slunk into the incident room. It was already half past nine. “Buchanan's been looking for you. I’ve been looking for you. I had to make up some excuse for you missing the briefing.”
Guthrie walked past Alisdair without saying a word. He pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. He leaned forward, placed an elbow on the desk and sank his head into his hand.
“Jeez, Tom. You look like crap. Are you okay?”
“Can’t say I’m in top shape this morning, Alisdair, no.” The tone was sarcastic.
“Are you sick?”
“Let’s just say I had a little too much of the self-pity at my local last night.”
“Ah.” Alisdair took a seat opposite. “Anything I can do to help?”
“You can solve this bloody murder.”
