Dead of Winter by Sam Millar

coffees. White, no sugar, for Miss Doyle.’
    ‘Get it yourself!’ snapped Naomi, her voice as cold as the weather outside.
    ‘Um, sorry, but I forgot that the coffee machine isn’t working,’ mumbled Karl.
    ‘It’s okay, Mister Kane.’
    ‘Karl. Everyone calls me Karl.’
    ‘Karl…I’m so glad I came here,’ sniffed Jemma, forcing a smile while blowing her nose on the handkerchief. ‘You’ll probably think this sounds awfully stupid, but something guided me to this place.’
    ‘Guided you?’
    Jemma nodded. ‘I was heading home, when my new car just refused to budge. An engine malfunction, apparently. According to the garage attendant, something about the chip in the car’s computer.’
    ‘The only chips my car knows are the ones I bring home on Saturday nights, plastered with salt and vinegar.’ Karl smiled.
    Jemma smiled in return, but the sad eyes belied it.
    ‘The attendant is working on the car right now. Said Friday night’s his busiest and it could be a couple of hours. So I just took a walk, while waiting. That was when I saw your business cards attached to a telephone box in Royal Avenue,’ explained Jemma, producing one of Karl’s cards from her pocket. ‘Isn’t that strange?’
    ‘Very strange,’ said Karl, feeling his face reddening. ‘I wonder how on earth that got there?’
    ‘Kane’s Able,’
smiled Jemma, reading the maxim inscribed upon the card. ‘I thought that was brilliant.’
    ‘One of my sharper moments, I have to agree.’
    ‘Finding this card and coming here has lifted my spirits.’
    ‘A bit like Lourdes.’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Nothing,’ replied Karl. ‘When or where was the last time anyone had contact with your uncle?’
    ‘According to my father, about six years ago. They had one of those family arguments over the family business, and neither of them backed down. My uncle left on that particular day and hasn’t been seen or heard of since.’
    ‘Nothing like a family to destroy a family business. Any photos of your uncle?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Jemma, removing three photos from her handbag.‘These are about the best. My uncle hated his photo being taken. He was a bit superstitious in that regard. I think my father has one or two others. I’ll get them to you as soon as I can.’
    Karl gave the photos a quick once-over. Uncle Thomas had an over-sized head, crowned with a bird’s nest of unruly hair. The face was unsmiling and stern. A keep-well-the-fuck-away- from-me kind of uncle, thought Karl. ‘Mind if I hold on to these?’
    ‘No, not at all. You can return them to me once you’re finished with them,’ nodded Jemma. ‘Now, your fee. We haven’t talked about it. How much do you charge?’
    ‘I’m not cheap,’ said Karl. ‘I charge two hundred quid a day – plus expenses.’
    ‘That sounds reasonable,’ said Jemma, reaching into the handbag again.
    ‘Wish all my clients were as agreeable with my fees.’ Karl was warming quickly to this appreciative woman.
    ‘My cheque book. I think I left it at home.’ Jemma suddenly looked troubled. ‘Do you take cash, Karl, or must it be a cheque?’
    ‘Cash is my preference. I’m actually allergic to cheques. They tend to burn me, on occasions, when the taxman discovers them.’ Karl smiled. ‘But look, Jemma, I still don’t know if I’m going to take the case.’
    ‘I have about one hundred with me,’ replied Jemma, thrusting the money into Karl’s ever weakening hands. ‘I can stop by tomorrow and pay the rest. Would that be satisfactory?’
    ‘We normally don’t open on Saturday. Look…okay,’ said Karl, resigned, taking the money. ‘For now, though, let me do a bit of investigating. We can talk about the rest of the bill later. Agreed?’
    Standing, Jemma nodded. She looked on the brink of tears,once again, as she wrote on a piece of paper. ‘You’re so kind, Karl. I’ll never forget you for this. Here’s my phone number, if you need to call me.’
    ‘Listen, Jemma, I have to be up