Blue Genes - By Val McDermid Page 0,7

a three-point turn, and swept out of the cul-de-sac where I live. Anyone seeing him burn rubber as he swung onto the main drag would only mark him down as one of the local car thieves being a little indiscreet.

Dispirited, I sighed and walked back to the house. I'd got the number of his car, but I had a funny feeling that wasn't going to take me a whole lot further forward. These people were too professional for that. At least I had the whole thing on tape, I reminded myself. I stopped in my tracks. Oh no, I didn't. In the confusion of Alexis's visit and the fallout from her shock announcement, I'd forgotten to switch on the radio mikes I'd planted in Richard's living room. The whole operation was a bust.

Not only that, but I was going to have to deal with an irate and very much alive Richard, who was by now stand¬ing on his doorstep, arms folded, face scowling. Swallow¬ing a sigh, I walked toward him. If I'd been wearing heels, I'd have been dragging them. "I know you think being on the road with a neo-punk band is a fate worse than death, but it doesn't actually call for a tombstone," Richard said sarcastically as I approached.

"It was work," I said wearily.

"Am I supposed to be grateful for that? There's a man in my living room-at least, I thought it was my living room, but looking at it, I'm not so sure anymore. Maybe I walked into the wrong house by mistake? Anyway, there's some smooth bastard in my living room, sitting on my settee discussing my gravestone with my so-called girlfriend ..."

"Partner," I interjected. "Twenty-nine, remember? Not a girl anymore."

He ignored me and steamrollered on. "Presumably because I'm supposedly dead. And I'm supposed to be calm and laid back about it because it was work?" he yelled.

"Are you going to let me in, or shall I sell tickets?" I asked calmly, gesturing over my shoulder with my thumb at the rest of the close. I didn't have to look to know that half a dozen windows would be occupied by now. TV drama's been so dire lately that the locals have taken up competitive Neighborhood Watching.

"Let you in? Why? Are we expecting the undertaker next? Coffin due to be delivered, is it?" Richard demanded, thrusting his head forward so we were practi¬cally nose to nose. I could smell the sweetness of the mar¬ijuana on his breath, see the specks of gold in his hazel eyes. Good technique for dealing with anger, focusing on small details of your environment.

I pushed him in the chest. Not hard, just enough to make him back off. "I'll explain inside," I said, lips tight against my teeth.

"Well, big fat hairy deal," Richard muttered, turning on his heel and pushing past the two neo-punks who were leaning against the wall behind him, desperately trying to pretend they were far too cool to be interested in the war raging around them.

I followed him back into the living room and returned to my seat. Richard sat opposite me, the coffee table between us. He started emptying the contents of the three carrier bags onto the table. "You'll find bowls and chopsticks in the kitchen," he said to his giant Gaelic gar¬goyles. "First on the right down the hall. That's if she hasn't emptied it as well." The redhead left in search of eating implements. "This had better be good, Brannigan," Richard added threateningly.

"It smells good," I said brightly. "Yang Sing, is it?"

"Never mind the bloody Chinese!" I waited for the jolt while the world stopped turning. Never mind the bloody Chinese? From the man who thinks it's not food if it doesn't have soy sauce in it? "What was that creep doing here?" Richard persisted.

"Pitching me into a gravestone," I said as the redhead returned and dumped bowls, chopsticks, and serving spoons in front of us. I grabbed a carton of hot and sour soup and a spoon.

"I realized that. But why here? And why my grave¬stone?" Richard almost howled.

The punk with the Mohawk exchanged apprehensive looks with his mate. The redhead nodded. "Look," the Mohawk said. "This mebbe isnae a good time for this, Richard, know what ah mean, but?" The Glasgow accent was so strong you could have built a bridge with it and known it would outlast the civilization that spawned it. Once I'd deciphered his sentiment, I couldn't help agree¬ing with him.

"We could come back another time, by