Chapter 20Elis’s flat was just as he’d left it, cold and almost completely empty. A pile of clothes was still sprawled across the floor in need of laundering. The bed was unmade. His mug was sitting on the table by the window, coffee dregs clinging to the sides and a thick, dark puddle at the bottom. The air was stale, and the only heat rose from the flat below.
He stripped off Farrell’s fur and threw it onto the bed.
Perhaps it was his sour mood or his fatigue after a long, cold journey, or the disquiet he felt re-joining civilization after the near silence of Latham’s estate. Whatever it was, it stopped him noticing something amiss, why he didn’t see the drawer in which he kept his spare gun open and bare, or the distinct odor of stale beer and clove scented cologne lingering in the ai
