By Christopher Brookmyre
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Extra info for A Tale Etched in Blood and Hard Black Pencil
He needs to play it back to be sure of what she said, then again to write down the number she left. He has to go searching for a pen, finds one next to Kara’s phone. The notepad is missing, though, possibly up by her bed, so he has to fish a copy of the Evening Standard out of the bin from a host of apple cores. He scribbles the number across the top of the front page. It’s the first time he’s ever seen anything worth reading in the loathsome shite-rag. He looks at his watch. It’s after two, but the message said to call urgently, no matter when.
We’re fine, aye. It’s Coco. ” “He’s deid, Martin. ” “Murdered? ” There’s a pause. Martin doesn’t really know what to say, or more pertinently what he ought to say.
Martin likes the look of Scot. He is smiley and seems unperturbed by his new surroundings. ” Martin doesn’t actually know what this belt is that his daddy was talking about, but thinks it will make Scot like him if he sounds as though he already knows something about school. “Aye,” Scot agrees. “Tsh, tsh, aiyah,” he says, giggling and doing some sort of action with his hands that Martin doesn’t follow, though he grasps that pain is involved. A little later, the mummies have all finally gone and all the crying seems to have stopped.