The Bug House by Jim Ford Read Free Book Online Page A

nightclub, lurching along the edge of the dance floor to where a bouffant-haired woman in a low-cut T-shirt and tight-fitting jeans was sitting alone at an alcove table, running a long, dark fingernail around the rim of a cocktail glass and giving him an approving look.
    ‘Fancy a dance?’ he’d shouted over the music.
    ‘Why not?’ the woman had said, taking the can of Red Stripe from his hand and leading him by the other into the thin coppice of bodies swaying drunkenly on the strobed parquet. And at first light, as he silently let himself out of her house and made his way through the godforsaken council estate to the nearest main road, he’d cursed Huggins for leading him astray but felt nothing but disgust for himself, for his own weakness.
    And now he is home, untying his trainers on the doorstep and stowing them neatly with all the other outdoor shoes beneath the coat rack in the hall, padding upstairs on the pristine cream carpet and entering the bedroom, where Shirley has already smoothed the duvet to eradicate any evidence that the bed has been slept in. He takes off his running gear and deposits it in the washing basket, picks a perfectly folded towel from the heated rail and steps into the en suite bathroom. He showers, dresses and goes downstairs to the kitchen, where she has already set the table for supper and left a note propped against the Tupperware cornflake container that he will be expected to clear away once he has had his breakfast.
    ‘Please empty dishwasher before you leave,’ it says.
    Fallow puts the note in his pocket, empties the dishwasher, puts the cornflakes container in the cupboard and leaves the house without bothering to eat.
    Bernice Seagram is in her dressing gown, watching breakfast TV and munching on a bacon sandwich, when Huggins emerges from the spare room. He is wearing boxer shorts and one of Seagram’s T-shirts, which only comes down as far as his navel, exposing the incipient beer belly that only his lanky frame keeps from being prominent. He grunts ‘Good morning’ and heads directly for the frying pan, tweezing a slice of cooling bacon and flopping it on a slice of white bread.
    ‘Did we make love?’ he says presently, squirting ketchup over the bacon.
    ‘Did we make love,
guv
’
nor
,’ Bernice corrects him, her eyes fixed on the TV screen.
    ‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ Huggins says. He reaches for the tea bags and drops one in an empty mug. ‘Where’s the milk?’
    ‘I’ve run out.’
    He slumps into a chair and shoves most of the sandwich in his mouth. ‘This will all change when we’re married, Bernie,’ he mumbles. ‘You will bide my words and ensure that when I come down for breakfast the larder is well stocked.’
    ‘What time did you come in last night?’
    ‘Dunno. One-ish?’
    ‘Bullshit. You rang here begging for a bed at two. Where did you end up?’
    ‘Talking bollocks with Frank Jarvis and the lads at Adriano’s.’
    ‘Was Fallow with you?’
    ‘Nah. John’s going through one of his periods of self-flagellation. I think he’s taken up running this time. It won’t last. It never does.’
    ‘You don’t help him,’ Seagram says.
    Huggins feigns hurt. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper, Bernie? He’s a grown man. A grown
married
man.’
    ‘Not for much longer if he keeps hanging round with you.’
    ‘Dah, Shirley’s never liked me. I don’t even think she likes John. She just likes wheeling him out on social occasions so she can tell her friends from the riding club that she’s married to a policeman.’
    Seagram slides off the kitchen stool and makes her way to the door. ‘I’m going up to get dressed now, DC Huggins. Then I will be leaving for work. If you want a lift – and I expect you do – you’d better be ready. And don’t get ketchup on my T-shirt.’
    Seven forty-five a.m. Ptolemy is in Asda’s car park in Gosforth, watching the staff arriving for work. Although they don’t call them staff any more; they