“BLOODY HELL!” THE PROFANITY came from Rod Baylor; the mechanic was standing outside the pub with the rest of the smokers. “That’s that Wild bastard, isn’t it,” he said, pointing down the road with his cigarette to the Aston Martin outside the shop.
“Yeah, looks like,” Gary Fredericks agreed as he puffed on his cigarette. “He’s the only one in the village with a car like that. What the hell’s he doing out of hospital?”
“How’m I s’posed to know?” Baylor asked. He looked around at his fellow smokers, but none of them showed any sign of knowing the answer. “I guess Glen didn’t do a good enough job of dealing with him. Useless bastard!” he swore. “He can’t have been more than a dozen feet from Wild, with a shotgun, and he still couldn’t manage to kill him.”
“I suppose you’d have walked up t
