The Retired Assassin's Guide to Orchid Hunting by Naomi Kuttner

Author:Naomi Kuttner [Kuttner, Naomi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Naomi

28

In which Dante is given advice through metaphors.

On Sunday morning, Dante exited his house and crossed the road to the small villa opposite.

He opened the white picket gate and paced up the neat box hedge-lined path to knock on Mrs Haddock’s front door. Dante shifted his feet while he waited for signs of life from within. He was unaccountably edgy. Perhaps it was because he’d never asked anyone for a favour like this before.

In his old line of work, he’d sometimes had to pull in favours — forged papers at an hour’s notice, rushed extraction from a remote drop zone, a quick upgrade in firepower. But those had been ordinary requests, and there was always the unspoken agreement that Dante would honour the exchange in the future by returning the favour when called upon.

This was not an ordinary request.

“Dante.” Mrs Haddock opened the door and waved him inside. “Good to see you.”

Dante followed her into the parlour, taking in the smells of furniture polish, old books, and overlaying it all like a benediction, fresh baking.

“Tea with milk and sugar?” asked Mrs Haddock. Like a conjurer, she had a tray with a bright red kettle, two cups and two saucers already on the table.

“Just milk.”

“You’re sweet enough.” Mrs Haddock had a twinkle in her eye. “Young Charlie was here the other day,” she said as she poured the tea. “Wanted to speak to one of my special guests.”

“You mean a ghost.”

“Quite right,” said Mrs Haddock. “How that boy manages it all, I’m sure I don’t know. I have nothing but respect for him and his mother. She did a good job raising him after her husband passed.”

Dante wasn’t sure if tea was the right beverage to acknowledge the dead, but he raised the cup to his lips in salute.

“Shortbread?” Mrs Haddock took a cake tin from the middle of the table and levered it open, her wrinkled fingers working at the metal seam.

“Thank you.” The golden squares of biscuit still lingered in Dante’s memory as the best shortbread he’d ever tasted. Better than her majesty’s own pastry chef.

“What brings you here, Dante? We don’t have to beat around the bush. You’re not that kind of person, and I’m too old to waste time.”

“It’s my cat.”

“The black one, with three white paws?”

“Yes.” Dante wondered how best to phrase this. “I might be going away for some time. I was wondering if you could feed my cat while I’m away.”

“Ah.” Mrs Haddock leaned back in her chair and smoothed the tablecloth with both hands. “Is this an unexpected trip?”

“Yes.”

“Trouble overseas?”

“No.”

“Trouble at home.” Mrs Haddock considered. “You don’t seem the type to run from trouble.”

Dante thought about this. It all came down to how you defined trouble. He was used to his trouble being dangerous but straightforward. There was never any doubt in his mind as to who needed to be dead. Similarly, there was never any doubt in his adversary’s mind that Dante was the one who ought to be dead. It was simple.

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