Juliana leans close, peering over him, but he’s not moving; never will again. First stowing the gun in her bag, hunkering down, she fishes through his pockets. His wallet goes in her bag. A small notebook or maybe a diary, she tosses to one side. Her poisoner’s herbology joins it. She pockets a small knife and a handful of change.
The corpse ransacked, with the toe of a foot, giggling, she pushes what’s left over the edge of the channel and into the fetid water.
I’ve seen more than my share of murders, committed enough myself, but Juliana’s peculiar brand of hyena-edged lunacy sets my scalp prickling.
She watches the body sink slowly into bowel-blackness. “One more corpse from the world of organised crime,” she says brightly. She could be commenting that it might rain. “Even if he’s eve
