Poetic Licence by Kevin Price

Author:Kevin Price [Kevin Price]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fremantle;Perth;political corruption;australian federal election;art lazaar;contemporary crime thriller;boundaries of truth and freedom, crime thriller, political thriller, Freantle noir
Publisher: Logorythm
Published: 2022-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Show Me What You’re Working With

Smith and Jones were entertaining company. Boulter arrived at Balsamic & Olives a minute or two before the appointed time and mounted the steps to the main entrance. A tall gaunt-looking man with a deep olive complexion guided her to a table — the only one occupied — from which two men were rising. A man with a close- cropped haircut around a receding hairline, perhaps in his late thirties, dressed in well fitted jeans, white sneakers and a red polo shirt under a dark grey zip-up sweater, smiled in recognition. She’d never seen him before.

‘Detective Sergeant Boulter,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Good of you to come.’

The other person, a tall, disarmingly good-looking man — square jawed, short cropped light coloured hair, also wearing well fitted jeans and sneakers, and a smile that emphasised his eyes — extended his hand for her to shake. He appeared a few years younger than his partner.

‘Smith or Jones?’ she asked, taking his hand and feeling a warm, confident comfort as it enveloped hers. She allowed the grip to linger just a moment longer.

‘I’m Smith, he’s Jones.’ He let go, as if with some regret.

‘Smith and Jones. Aliases, right?’

Jones laughed. Clearly not the first time he’d heard it. ‘Actually, they’re our real names. I’m Ross, he’s another Kelly, like you. Is it okay if we call you that? He can keep Smith.’

Boulter took the seat that Smith had pulled out, gesturing towards the room as she did. ‘So, where are all the people?’

‘This place is closed to the public on Mondays,’ Jones replied. ‘Our boss has a special relationship with the owner. It’s useful for private conversations.’ The thin, olive-skinned man approached the table. ‘This is Milorad,’ Jones continued. ‘He’s going to look after things for us.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ Milorad said, his south-eastern European accent lilting above his words. ‘As you know, Mondays are only for ve’ry private affairs, hmm? So we ’ave lighter offerings than other days. The lady prefers vegetables, I think, and you sir’ — directing his glance at Smith — ‘I think ’ave a taste for warmer meats. We ’ave for you a special Spanish flavour, hmm?’ And he proceeded to unveil what was about to be served.

Boulter opted for water, Smith made his the soda variety with a splash of Angostura, which arrived with a twist of lime. Jones took an Alhamra Mezquita. ‘A fine Catalonian beer,’ Milorad said, complimenting him on his choice.

A waiter arrived with a collection of appetisers, including diced bread with grapes and chopped winter melon, bell pepper excalivada and a chef’s special of garbanzo beans.

‘Malaga brought ’ere to you, to excite your palate,’ Milorad purred, as he placed Boulter’s napkin across her thighs. ‘To prepare for Ramon’s famous Couseila, a ve’ry aromatic dish of couscous paella with dried rosebuds and white and purple grapes flown in fresh from Cap Bon, and deglet nour dates from Tunisia. You will enjoy, hmm? Buen provecho.’

‘This is very flash, boys,’ Boulter said, watching the waiter’s back disappear towards the kitchen, and reaching for a stuffed capsicum.

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