The Kindred Killers (Jake Boulder Book 2) by Smith Graham

Author:Smith, Graham [Smith, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books
Published: 2017-09-11T16:00:00+00:00

40

C-Dude is just as I remember it. I buy clothes here on occasion. Not the high-fashion stuff – the end-of-season lines suit me best. They’re cheaper and I’ve never been worried about staying close to the latest trends.

There’s a young woman with a deep tan working behind the sales counter. She looks close to tears as she bags something for a guy in his early twenties. He’s trying to flirt with her, but she’s not interested. While I can tell she’s struggling to hold it together, the guy is oblivious.

It doesn’t take much effort to work out why a colleague of Gazala’s is upset. News travels fast in a place like Casperton. Bad news travels faster.

At the back of the room a woman wears a disapproving look as she hangs suits on racks.

I wander round until the unsuccessful Romeo realises he’s fighting a losing battle, and leaves.

The tanned woman is wiping her eyes when I approach.

‘Sorry. Must have an allergy to something. How can I help you?’

The lie is unconvincing. I don’t challenge it though. Instead, I nod at her and lean on the counter.

I keep my tone as casual as I can. ‘I’m here for some information. About Gazala.’

‘So it’s true, she’s dead?’

She crumples when I give her confirmation.

Brisk clacks forewarn the older woman’s arrival. She comforts her younger colleague in a way that’s not natural to either. There’s too much stiffness from both of them. ‘I’m sorry but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ Her free arm points at the door.

I don’t move.

She points again. This time she accompanies the gesture with a stamp of her heel. ‘Sir, did you not hear me ask you to leave?’

The stamp itself is enough to make me dig my own heels in. I do, however, recognise this isn’t a fight I should have – let alone try and win. Finesse is called for here.

‘I did indeed hear you, Ma’am, I’m investigating Gazala’s murder and just wondered if your colleague could answer a few questions.’ I almost say daughter instead of colleague as a way to emphasise the woman’s age.

The older woman is pushed away. ‘It’s okay, Marjorie. I’ll be okay. If this man wants to ask me some questions; it’s the least I can do for Gazala.’

I give the girl a mental round of applause for her strength and moral fortitude. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’ I look around the store.

Marjorie points towards a door in a far corner. The girl leads the way, telling me her name is Jenny and she’s worked with Gazala for almost a year.

Jenny’s face isn’t familiar, but I wouldn’t expect it to be. She’s too young to be part of the regular crowd at the Tree and, if her appearance is anything to go by, there’s no way she’s a classic rock fan.

The door opens into a stockroom. There are piles of boxes stacked in neat rows. Rails are laden with unpacked clothes and covered with clear sheets. A coffee machine sits atop a small fridge in one corner.

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