Cinch Hand (5/6) By Nick Quantrill

(1/6), (2/6), (3/6), (4/6), (5/6), (6/6).

I throw my cards in and go in search of the toilet. I walk slowly back the way I came, down the corridor and towards the stairs. I'm hoping that I don't need to go back into the main room of the bar and jostle for space with the riff-raff. I spot the toilet. It must be the management's toilet as its approaching being clean. I finish up and wash my hands. I take the opportunity to count my cash. I could do with a decent hand, especially if I want to meet the rent this month. I retrace my steps, back towards the card school. The door to the office is now closed. I figure Mrs. Brogan must still be hard at work.

I'm not pissed, I've only had a couple of drinks, but I have that warm feeling that means I want to say hello to her again. I've still not seen my money either, so I figure she might be worth a try.

She just might take pity on me and settle her husband's account while she's working on the accounts. I knock on the office door and wait to be invited in. No invitation is forthcoming, so I push the door open enough to peer in. My first thought is that's she's fallen asleep. I can understand that, accountancy had the same effect on me. What was strange was that she appeared to have fallen asleep counting cash, which isn't a problem I've ever encountered. I move carefully into the room to look at the CCTV pictures of the bar. I don't know why, maybe it's just force of habit or professional curiosity, but the grainy images are somewhat compelling.

It's only then that I notice the gaping wound on the side of her head. Shit...this is a scene I didn't want to walk into, not tonight. I look around...nothing...only silence. My self-preservation instinct kicks in...what have I touched...who has seen me come in here?

I move back towards the door, and removing a handkerchief from my coat pocket, I wipe the door handle clean. I briefly think that I may be wiping away vital evidence, but the thought of explaining to the police why my prints were on the door handle in the first place frightens me even more. I move back towards Mrs. Brogan and check for a pulse, but there's nothing. She's definitely dead. It's only then that I catch a faint smell of something familiar. I look at her desk, and sitting there, between the piles of invoices and receipts, is a glass. I bend down and move my nose towards it; Southern Comfort...definitely Southern Comfort.

Part of me wants this to be a coincidence, but I'm a professional cynic; I'm paid to see the worst in people and situations. I cast my mind back to my brief conversation with her downstairs. She was drinking wine, not Southern Comfort. The pieces start to fall into place.

Continued... Next Page (6/6)

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