Rhys-Morgan put the phone down, poured himself another cup of coffee and took a big swig. His face contorted. It was not a pretty sight, and not only because of the day’s stubble on his chin, the coffee-stained teeth and the big bags under his eyes.
The expression he wore was one of gross disapproval. This was partly because his coffee tasted like mud – mud that had been stewed in a wrestler’s jock strap for a week or two. But the coffee was not the main reason for his displeasure – Rhys-Morgan’s coffee was not so much a hot beverage as it was a caffeine-delivery system, and he had long become accustomed to its dreadful flavour.
Although not entirely unexpected, it was the identification of the two victims that had just been phoned through to him that had annoyed him so much. If there was one thing that got on Rhys-Morgan’s nerves, it was mime artists. And small yappy dogs wearing little coats. And Westlife. But more than all these things, it was loose ends. And rather than tying things up, the scribbled notes on the jotter next to his phone might open the door to a veritable jamboree of loose ends, frayed knots and general poor quality rope-work all round.
This may not be suicide after all. It was going to be a long night.
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