Good leadership is about delegation.
And I’m delegating to you.
You’re a DI now, remember?
So be a good leader.
(as long as it gets done)
Tufty was reaching for the bell again, when the door finally opened a crack and a bloodshot eye peered out at them.
A rough voice slithered after it, reeking of stale booze. ‘Frelling smeg. Have you gotanyidea what time it is?’ There was a cough, and a sniff, then a long, sticky moan as whoever it was twigged. ‘Oh...wank. It’s the cops.’
Either the Cunninghams were aproperbunch of slobs, or they’d thrown some sort of hedonistic rave last night.
The living room was littered with crumpled beer and lager cans, empty wine and alcopop bottles, and overflowing ashtrays. Making everything smell like a pub carpet from the eighties. In what was probably meant to be an ironically retro touch, the remains of a cheese-and-pineapple hedgehog wilted on a fat dinner plate. The hollow bones of Pringle tubes crushed into the floor. Along with whatmighthave been Monster Munch.
Framed film posters adorned the walls –Close Encounters,Alien,Silent Running,Star Trek IIandIV,TheEmpire Strikes Back,The Fifth Element...– and although there wasn’t a single ornament on display, a pair of crossed lightsabers glowed above the fireplace. One red, one blue.
A pair of patio doors were cracked open an inch, letting in the grinding snores of a large man sparked-out in the paddling pool. Lying flat on his back with his arms hanging over the inflatable sides, head dangling towards the house. Greying stubble wrapped around a slightly chubby face.
Going by the flush of angry red spreading across his round,pale, hairy belly and chest, he’d been snoozing out there in the sun for a while.
Tufty bumbled over to the doors, stood on his tiptoes, and peered into the garden. ‘Oooh...They does got a firepit that looks like theDeathstar!’
Of course they did.
Logan swept a scattering of popcorn and cigarette papers onto the floor, then whumped down on the couch, making the black leather squeak.
Which had the added bonus of giving him a clear line of sight into the kitchen, to make sure their host wasn’t doing a runner.
Alexis Cunningham must have partiedheartylast night because she shuffled about like a broken banana today. Limp hair hanging over her heavy dark eyebrows, pale washed-out face, dark circles under her eyes, and a large mole on her top lip. Not really dressed for company in a grey ‘NOSTROMOMAINTENANCECREW’ T-shirt, pink running shorts, bare legs, and fuzzy Yoda slippers.
She thunked the fridge door shut, cracked the ringpull on a fresh tin of Rampant Gorilla – ‘CAFFEINATETODOMINATE!’ – and took a big long scoof. Before belching, sagging, and slouching back through into the living room.
Alexis blinked her way over to the lightsabers and flicked a hidden switch, killing the glow. Then turned to survey the devastation. ‘Urgh...Shazbot.’ Another scoof. ‘You here about Charlie?’
Logan checked to make sure Tufty was writing this down. ‘Let me guess: Orphan Grapevine?’
‘Our drums have been pounding in the darkness for days...’ She banged a palm against the patio doors. ‘GRAHAM, YOU DAFT BUGGER: YOU’LL FRY! COME IN!’ More Rampant Gorilla. ‘Swear to God, that man cannotdrink tequila.’
‘Quite the party last night.’
She pulled her top lip back, exposing little pointy teeth. ‘Well, aren’twean observant little Samuel Vimes.’
Nope.
No idea what that was supposed to mean.
Tufty looked up from his notepad. ‘He’s the big detective character in Terry Pratchett’s Diskworld novels, Sarge.’
Alexis squinted her bloodshot eyes at the wee loon. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’
‘Any chance we can circle back to Charles MacGarioch?’ Logan pointed at the scattered party debris. ‘Was he here, last night?’
‘Charlie?Nah.’ She crumpled down into a matching black-leather armchair and put her feet on the coffee table. ‘Haven’t seen him since that night in The Hare and Parsnip. Friday before last?’ Her heavy eyebrows scrunched together. ‘Or was it a Wednesday...?’ She balanced her energy drink on the arm of the chair and rummaged a small metal tin from beneath a pile ofEmpiremagazines – popping it open to reveal a pack of Golden Virginia and a thing of rolling papers. Then turned to look through the patio doors. ‘You think it’s OK to leave him out there? You know, with melanomas and drowning and that?’
‘And does the Orphan Grapevine say anything about where Charlie might be hiding?’
