32‘Calling Mr Rick. Come in, Ricky.’
Vince looked around. He was sitting at a table at the Whalers Hotel opposite the performing arts centre, staring at the wall. Sarah, resplendent in a sleek, silvery flapper-style dress with a brightly coloured silk shawl across her shoulders, had just put their drinks on the table and sat down, her question slicing into his tired mental meandering.
‘Thanks, Ilsa. Just daydreaming.’ He picked up his lemon, lime, and bitters. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ She raised her glass of champagne. ‘What did you think?’
‘Gruelling, but rewarding,’ he said, dragging his attention to the present. ‘You get no free kicks with Hamlet.’
She smiled. ‘Even more murders than in that Midsomer village on TV.’
Vince laughed. ‘True. There must have been an equally high homicide ra
