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Moira Tregorian wasn’t born blind and she wasn’t born stupid. Post-it notes might be made of paper, but they didn’t grow on trees.
“We are currently examining the waterpipes in this area. At times, it will look like no work is being done.” Nothing like getting your alibi in first.
Shirley said, “France is pretty big.” “Excellent. We have a geographer. Any further insights?”
“No need to look like that,” she said after a while. “I’m on your side.” “Good to know. But was it really necessary to make sure my balls were in your pocket before declaring your support?”
“We don’t torture suspects in the UK,” he said automatically. “Grow up, Claude.”
That was a lot to read into a brief acquaintance, but she had a legible face.
And there was a clock somewhere, which Whelan couldn’t see; instead of ticking it made a steady tap-tap noise, a dull repetition which seemed to underline how appalling the passage of time could be.
