The Wandering Whisperer
Kendrick recognised the car straight away: the huge, long torpedo-shaped bonnet; the swooped over back end; the furry dice; the "nothing to prove" sticker in the rear window. How many C-reg, rusty lime green Capri's could there be in Black Valley?
'You have a hideous taste in cars, Charles.' The Wandering Whisperer's car park was nearly empty. A dozen or so cars were scattered here and there, hot pistons cooling under a multitude of bonnets, metal contracting, waiting for their over the limit owners to return; the short journey back into town was deemed a worthwhile risk for most of the Whisperer's guzzlers. The place was quiet, however, even for a Thursday night. Cursory light spilled across the puddle-strewn car park from the hooded, sentinel arc-sodium lamps that were dotted here and there.
Kendrick wound his window down a bit, sparked up a cigarette, took a deep drag and blew the smoke out through the gap, into the rainy night.
'Blood Weather.' He had a good view of the Capri; his black Ford pickup parked just far enough away to see but not be seen. The Porsche was safely locked away at home, in the garage. Best to drive something a little less conspicuous, he thought.
The time on the digital dashboard clock read: 9:22pm. He'd been sat there for a few minutes, waiting, mulling over the best way to get Charles out of the pub without causing a scene. But Charles had never been one for leaving before closing time, and always under duress. It wasn't going to be easy.
The Whisperer was the only local pub that Charles Greyson hadn't been barred from. The thought of being barred from the only alehouse in the area that would serve him kept him in check, to a certain extent.
Driving wind howled around the pickup, causing it to rock slightly from side to side, suspension creaking.
Kendrick cast a glance towards the pub. He could see people moving back and forth, going up to the bar to order their drinks. The distant roar of laughter could be heard.
He took another drag of his cigarette, burning embers at the tip brightening, and again blew the smoke out the window.
He sighed. This was something he wasn't looking forward to.
With the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he got out of the car, immediately hunching his body in an effort to fend off the biting wind. Rounding the back of the car, he opened the boot and pulled out a long, dark grey coat. He put it on, puffed up the collar and slammed the boot.
Having one last drag, he savoured the intake, then tossed the cancer-stick away, the red-hot ember immediately extinguished in a puddle.
He made his way quickly towards the door, dodging puddles as he went.
