Today's Reading
'When they come into the room, he moulds himself into a square, closes his eyes and pretends they're not there,' said Slider. 'A technique he apparently learned from the tortoise.'
The tortoise was a newish accidental acquisition. George had brought it home from school for the Easter holidays, but when school resumed they'd said they couldn't have it back—some parent had complained about hygiene or allergies or possibly religious sensibilities, it wasn't entirely clear—and asked if the Sliders would keep it.
'Poor thing,' Joanna had said. 'Rejected at such a young age. Of course we'll keep it. I always wanted a tortoise.'
''Did you? Slider was amazed.
'They're very restful. And long-lived.'
'Ah. Good point.'
'I should also mention that I wanted a pet pig,' she said. 'We'll take the tortoise,' Slider said hastily. It had been called,
unimaginatively, Tortie, and he'd insisted on a name change if it was going to take up permanent residence. Fortunately, George was sufficiently beguiled by the new name, Habeus, not to object.
'Well, I'm glad they haven't entirely wrecked the place,' Atherton said, 'because I was hoping you might be willing to keep them for another day. I was thinking of staying at Steph's place tonight.'
'Of course,' Slider said. 'They're no trouble.'
'Thanks,' Atherton stood up to look out of the window. The sun shone down from a hazy sky, traffic was Tuesday-light, and no pedestrians were in sight. 'It's quiet out there.'
'What have I told you about not saying that? You'll jinx us.' Slider eyed the elegant back view of his sergeant, bagman and friend, and read studied insouciance. 'What's going on?' he said.
'Nothing.' Atherton turned, hesitated, picked an imaginary piece of fluff from his sleeve. 'I was just thinking—'
'Yes?' Slider prompted.
He looked at Slider and away again. He lowered his voice confidentially. 'I'm thinking of asking Stephanie to marry me.'
'Oh?' Slider said. This was momentous. Atherton, the serial hound, proposing? He didn't know how to react.
'So I thought—at hers, where she's comfortable, without the cats to interrupt...'
'What's brought that on, then?' Slider asked tentatively.
'Portofino. It was so easy. Just us, alone. Not doing anything in particular. Just talking. Not always even talking. You'd think we'd get on each other's nerves, but no. Anyway.'
'I see,' Slider said gravely. The lack of his usual fluency told more than words.
'I suppose you do.'
Slider was so famously happily married there was little danger he would be mistaken for the stereotypical moody, troubled TV detective.
'Well, anyway, I'm just thinking about it,' Atherton went on briskly, heading away from the rocky shores of emotional sharing. 'You won't say anything to anyone, will you?'
'Why would I?' Slider said simply. Time for a change of subject. 'Is anyone going for refs?'
'I'll go, since I've still got my shoes on,' Atherton said.
'I should hope everyone's got shoes on.'
'Figure of speech. Bacon sarnie?'
'Please.'
The call came in the afternoon, late enough for Atherton to claim it was nothing to do with his incontinent invocation at Slider's window.
Slider, however, still blamed him. 'You had to go and say it,' he grumbled. 'Now some poor soul's paid the price.'
'Until the doctor's been it's just a suspicious death,' Atherton pointed out. 'That needn't mean foul play.'
'Nutty Nicholls spoke to Renker after he spoke to despatch, and he said Renker reckoned it was homicide. You play "chicken" with the Fates, you're going to get fowl play.'
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