The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy Read Free Page B

thimbleful by my calculations.
    “Why bulk up on the carbs?” Tim had declared—though I’m sure he’d actually had something for lunch. “You need room for the beer.”
    I end up sitting at the table as Tim buys round after round. He comes back each time a little bit drunker. His tie slightly looser around his neck. A big grin on his face as he slides my beer over to me. “Now, isn’t this perfect?”
    We’ve always been like this. Get us together and the drinks keep coming.
    He’s already bought a packet of cigarettes. We used to sneak off at family parties and sit around smoking whatever cigarettes we could afford, listening to the Smiths on cassette. Things haven’t changed for Tim. If Sally knew about those cigarettes he’d be a dead man. To be honest, I’m not that keen on them either. The last thing you ever want to do is pomp a family member.
    “Look,” he says, well into our fifth pint. He nurses his beer a while, staring at me like I’m some poor wounded pup. “We’re worried about you. Look at you there, all miserable.”
    “Yeah, but I don’t get shot at every day. This is new.”
    “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
    “Don’t you mention her. It was three years ago.”
    “Exactly.”
    “I’m over her.”
    Tim drops his glass onto the table. It makes a definitive and sarcastic crack. “If Sally were here she’d be laughing right now. Just because we’ve stopped setting you up on dates doesn’t mean we agree with you.” He raises his hand at my glare. “OK. So how about work? Is that going well? I hear there’s been a few issues lately.”
    “What are you fishing for?”
    “Nothing—that’s Mr. D. He’s been away the last few days, fishing, hasn’t he?”
    I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t think these were work drinks. You trying to claim this on your tax?”
    Tim shakes his head. “Of course not. I suppose I just get a bit nervous when Mr. D is away for so long. The whole department does.”
    “Shit, you
are
fishing.”
    “Not at all.”
    “You’re going to have to be more subtle than that. Morrigan doesn’t like you that much, Tim.”
    Tim’s face darkens. “It’s not my job to be liked. Besides, he doesn’t like your dad all that much, either.”
    “Morrigan loves my father. He just never agrees with him. That, my dear cousin, is the very definition of a friendship. Mutual admiration orbiting mutual contempt.”
    Tim grins. “Certainly what we have, eh? And may it always be so.” He raises his pint glass. “To immortality.”
    I crack my pint against his. “Immortality.” We’re both aware of how ridiculous we sound. Grow up around Pomps and ridiculous is all you’ve got.
    I want to tell Tim about the dead girl but I can’t quite bring myself to. Truth is, I’m a bit embarrassed. I’m not sure if my feelings for her show that I’m finally over Robyn or that I’m in deeper than ever. Besides, it’s just not the done thing. You don’t fall for a punter. No one’s that unprofessional. No one’s that stupid.
    By mid evening there’s a pretty decent cover band belting out versions of pub rock standards from The Doors to Wolfmother. They’ve only started into the first bars of Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun” when I see the dead guy. I look at Tim, who’s just ducked back from a smoke.
    “That’s odd,” I say, all the while wondering how sober I am.
    Tim raises an eyebrow. He’s not a Pomp but he knows the deal. He can recognize the signs. And they’re very obvious in a crowded pub. Some people reckon that Black Sheep know the deal better than anyone, because if you’re from a pomping family you don’t choose to become a Pomp, you choose not to. “Punter?”
    “Yeah.” I tap my phone with beer-thickened fingers. Is this thing broken? I wonder.
    “Maybe it’s someone else’s gig,” he says, hopefully, looking from me to the phone and back again.
    I shake my head. “No. The schedule’s up. Nothing about a Pomp being