the other Son

Chapter 25

Griffin's mood was precarious to put it lightly. With another dead body on their doorstep and Brenda hundreds of miles away in Birmingham with her family he was irritable and moody and just not fun to be around. Likely because he hadn't gotten his dick wet for days now.

Tristan told himself he was merely spending time at the café – therefore with Griffin – for Brenda's sake who had asked him to have an eye on her man in her absence. He couldn't fathom how she'd come to the conclusion he of all people was a good fit for the damn job.

Shortly after Griffin had opened the café for the afternoon guests Tristan had turned up, nabbed the best table in the corner next to the window and changed the music to Limp Bizkit - the living embodiment of all that was beer sodden and brain damaged in post-adolescent American manhood. Griffin, displeased and scowling, gave him the finger.

Eddy dropped by for a cup of coffee soon after. His thick wool pullover smelled of salt, motor oil and cigarette smoke and the boots he'd worn as long as Tristan remembered thumped heavily on the floor – there was a high chance he didn't even own another damn pair of shoes.

"Freezin' ma fuckin' balls off," he grunted and vaguely nodded first in Griffin's and then in Tristan's direction as a form of greeting before he heaved his burly body onto one of the stools at the bar.

"The weatherman claimed it'll snow soon," Griffin remarked over his shoulder while he prepared Eddy's coffee. The machine sputtered and steamed and almost drowned out Fred Durst.

"Whom did he ask, eh? A frog?" Eddy scoffed. "We're not gonna have any snow 'til January."

"I'll take you up on that, Eddy."

"Ya can bet your ass on that." Eddy sipped the hot coffee noisily. Having spent more time out on the water than on land, the man probably knew a thing or two about the weather, especially around the island.

When Eddy finished the coffee he slid off the barstool with a grunt and turned around to where Tristan had quietly enjoyed his own cup. "A word?"

Tristan followed the burly man outside and squinted at the overcast sky. The wind was cold and cut down to the bone that day and Eddy cupped the flame of the lighter protectively in the palm of his hand until the end of his cigarette glowed red. He inhaled and let the smoke escape through his nostrils.

"The copers asked about ya," he stated with the cigarette held in the corner of his mouth.

"Did they?"

"Aye." Smoke curled up to the sky, quickly swept away by the stiff breeze.

Tristan gave a noncommital hum while Eddy watched the sliver of inky water one could see through gaps between the buildings.

"Asked how often I've seen ya goin' to Ramsgate. Told them I don't check IDs." He coughed out a raspy laugh. "Thought ya might want ta know."

"Thank you," Tristan replied with something like amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. "Do you remember their names?"

Eddy squinted his eyes thoughtfully. "A blonde lad, called Baran or somethin'. And a kid pasty white as a babe's buttocks."

"Beran?"

"Aye, Beran." Another drag. "Lad didn't believe me but what can he do, eh?"

Tristan nodded silently. Beran prodding around, trying to stir up some dirt didn't worry him yet. The Detective was fishing in murky waters, so far relying solely on vague guesses than on actual knowledge. Nevertheless Tristan wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating him. Beran had the persistent bite of a fucking hound.

When Eddy went to tug out his wallet Tristan waved him off. "Coffee's on me."

Eddy tipped his imaginary hat and walked off down the street to the harbour, a trail of smoke in his wake.

Tristan endured the sharp cold a few moments longer and then went back inside where Griffin had changed the music to Queen which Tristan let slide this time – his boss was experiencing an emotional state of emergency without his better half after all.

He hadn't even had a fucking chance to lift the mug to his lips when the door was shoved open once more and Becks rushed inside. She waved and smiled at Griffin and made a beeline for Tristan's table.

"Sit down, will ya," he muttered sarcastically around the rim of his mug as she peeled herself out of her coat and slid to the edge of her seat, successfully invading his personal space.

"Well, hello Tristan." She grinned and looked over her shoulder at Griffin who'd watched them with raised eyebrows. "Would you mind brewing a cup of black tea for me? Two teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk, please."

Griffin rolled his eyes and threw Tristan an accusing look. As if he'd ever made a voluntary effort to become Becks' friend.

"Tea?" Tristan questioned, tone bored.

She shrugged her bony shoulders. "I'm trying to cut back on caffeine at the moment. It can lead to heart attacks and stuff."

"Were those studies done on mermaids?"

"What's the difference?" Another dismissive shrug. "They identified the other victim." She pulled a crinkled newspaper out of her bag and slid it across the table. Of course the murder occupied the whole front page.

"Colm Stewart."

"Should I know him?" Tristan skimmed the article which was mostly a recap of the previous murder – the unsolved case of Martin Guttman – and wild speculations about a serial killer.

Griffin approached their table with a steaming cup. "Here you go, sweetheart."

"Thank you!" Becks wrapped her slim, manicured fingers around the porcelain and smiled brilliantly up at Griffin.

"Brenda will turn you into fucking fish fingers if you keep eyeing her man," Tristan warned dryly and flipped through the newspaper in search of anything interesting and substantial.

"I'm not keen on her man – nothing against you, Griffin – and still very happy with Ralph," Becks replied unimpressed.

Tristan glanced at her and she held up a hand to stop him from saying anything.

"We're not talking about Ralph."

"Thank God." Tristan handed the newspaper to Griffin who studied the front page with a shake of his head and furrowed brows.

"What if it's indeed a serial killer?" Becks asked, voice dropping conspiratorially and eyes exuberantly wide.

Tristan threw her a flat look and didn't bother to answer that ridiculous question. Becks slurped her tea obnoxiously loudly.

"I need tomorrow off."

Griffin folded the newspaper and threw it back onto the table. "Why?"

"Funeral."

Becks wrinkled her forehead in sympathy and said, "My condolences." while Griffin went with a more realistic, "Who the hell did you kill?"