Nails In A Coffin (Demi Reynolds Book 1) by Luis Samways Page A

beer. He squinted his eyes a little, trying to adjust to the new lighting. He walked in and noticed that the place was empty. He grimaced a little. He walked up to the bar and saw that the jukebox behind the counter was on. He went toward the flappy door and raised it up. He walked behind the bar and turned the music off.
    The bar became deafening in its silence. It was eerie. But Hamish wasn’t scared. Not until he felt something grab his shoulder. Hamish nearly jumped out of his skin. He quickly turned to see a man smiling at him. He didn’t recognize the man, but the man seemed to know him.
    “You’re the thick fellah that mans the doors, aren’t you?” the man said, still smiling at Hamish, still gripping his shoulder.
    “Thick fellow?” Hamish replied.
    “Yes, the retard. That’s you, right?” the man said in a thick Irish accent.
    “I’m not thick, sir,” Hamish said, the tension in his fists becoming far too great. All he wanted to do was knock the man out.
    “The fact that you just called me ‘sir’ when I called you ‘thick’ means you are just that.”
    Hamish shook his head and quickly raised his fist. Pulled it back and then released. His arm straightened out, and his knuckles hit the man square in the nose. If somebody had caught the punch in slow motion, they would have seen the man’s nose bend an inch to the left while his right canine shot out of his mouth. The man fell to the floor, landing on his back. He stared at the ceiling for a long while and then started smiling. A trickle of blood was making its way out of his mouth. Hamish stood over him, his fists still clenched, ready to punch the guy again.
    The man looked at Hamish and said, “Name’s Johnson. I work for Donny.”
    Hamish’s face went a little white. His heart was thumping in his chest. He quickly hoisted the man called Johnson up to his feet and started brushing him down.
    “You know, lad, Donny was right,” Johnson remarked as Hamish continued to brush him down. “You might be a little slow and all, but fuck, can you punch!”
    Hamish blushed a little and stepped back a few paces from Johnson, as if he was analyzing the man.
    “We got off on the wrong foot,” Hamish said, extending his hand for a shake. Johnson obliged, and both men shook hands.
    “I’m sure we’ll get on like a house on fire,” Johnson said, walking up to Hamish and playfully punching him on the arm.
    “But I’m afraid we’ve got something serious to talk about,” Johnson said.

Twenty-Three
     
    DCI Amy Francis and DI Lionel Craig stood outside Demi Reynolds’ apartment. They had a search warrant. DCI Francis gave her partner, DI Craig, a look. He was accustomed to reading her every move ever since they were partnered up ten years ago. He smiled at her and said, “You knock.”
    “That’ll be kind of hard without a door to knock on, now, won’t it?” she said, both of them staring at an empty door frame, the door lying cracked and splintered in the hallway.
    There was a musty smell to the place. The sort of smell that accumulates from an empty home. Like the air inside the home had gone stale.
    “Smells unlived in,” DCI Francis offered as they both made their way inside the apartment. They were greeted by a cold chill. It ran up their backs and made the hairs on their arms stand on end. The place was spooky. They were astonished that nobody had called the broken door in.
    “Shocking, isn’t it?” DI Craig said as he looked at her.
    “Why didn’t we know about this? A whole week goes by, and we don’t get told that our number-one suspect’s house had been broken into?”
    “There’s not one single person who lives in this block of flats who would dare look this way, let alone phone the police upon discovering that her door had been busted in,”  DI Craig said.
    “So you think that they looted her house? Took all her stuff and made a clean run for it?” DCI Francis asked.
    “Nope. I think people know who she is