Thunder in the Blood by Graham Hurley Page A

for a handful of local firms and although he appeared to have done well enough, there’d been recent rumours that he’d overstretched himself. In his line of business, Priddy suggested drily, that wasn’t difficult. The man would have big overheads: airline tickets, city-centre hotels, hospitality and the incessant need to keep up appearances. If the orders dried up, he could quickly find himself in real financial trouble. And that, it seemed, was what had happened.
    I nodded, watching him reach for his third cake. ‘How do you know?’ I said.
    Priddy looked up, surprised. Like many men, he excelled at being patronizing, scarcely bothering to conceal his amusement. My mother always said it came from insecurity or a deep hatred of women. Watching Priddy, I wasn’t sure about either. ‘My dear,’ he licked a curl of cream from one finger, ‘how do you think I know? The man’s a mess. His marriage is on the skids. His business is up the chute. His poor bloody wife’s a basket case. And his bank manager’s threatening to foreclose. We call that a disaster in my trade.’ He smiled. ‘What’s your word for it?’
    I said nothing, favouring him with a smile of my own.
    After a moment or two, he bit deeply into a chocolate éclair, savouring it, then wiped his mouth with a corner of his napkin. ‘I suspect you owe me a proper briefing,’ he said at last, brushing the crumbs from his lap. ‘And I suspect now isn’t the time.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘No.’ He shook his head, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘I’m in London after the weekend. I have a little place round the back of Dolphin Square.’ He paused. ‘Lunch or dinner? Your choice.’
    By the time we got to the Alloways’ place, it was nearly dark. The cottage was beside a river. The lights were on upstairs and the empty bottles were already on the step for the milkman. I stood in the road for a moment, listening to the sound of water over rocks.
    Priddy’s window purred down. ‘Alloway’s abroad,’ he said briefly, ‘as I expect you know.’
    I nodded, glancing down at him. ‘Are you coming in?’
    ‘Briefly. To pay my respects. Then you’re on your own.’
    Beth Alloway opened the door at the second knock. I’d left it to Priddy to make the arrangements for my visit and I could tell at once that she didn’t like the man. She offered him a brief nod and invited us in, a small, busy woman, strands of greying hair escaping from a badly secured bun at the back of her neck. She was wearing a thick jumper and a pair of paint-stained tracksuit bottoms. One knee had a hole in it. I stood by the door while Priddy did the introductions. I liked her on sight.
    Priddy, his camel coat carefully buttoned against the cold, turned to go. He was already treating me like an old friend, as if we’d known each other for years.
    ‘Sure about the taxi back?’
    ‘Yes, thanks.’
    He looked at me a moment, one eyebrow arched, then kissed me lightly on the cheek and walked out into the night. We were still standing beneath the tiny porch, watching the lights of his Rover disappear round the bend, when I decided there was little point not voicing the obvious.
    ‘What a terrible man,’ I murmured and glanced at Beth.
    ‘Yes,’ she said, turning back into the house.
    I stayed at the cottage most of the evening. Downstairs, the place was a mess, piles of ironing on a chair beside the fireplace, bundles of rhubarb in a bucket of water under the table, dog biscuits scattered around a bowl behind the door. A fire was laid but unlit and the room felt cold enough for me to regret taking off my coat. While Beth hurried from room to room, apologizing for not being ready, I looked around for family photos, clues to the way the marriage had started, snaps of the kids I knew she’d had, but the only photo on display was a small black and white shot of the wedding itself, carefully mounted in a cheap woodenframe. The couple were standing, arm in arm, outside a registry