Raisins and almonds - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

184 Kerry Greenwood
He had not been able to search every nook and cranny of
the market, either, not without attracting attention which might
warn the murderer off. He was fairly sure that no one was hidden
there, but he was not certain, and he liked to be certain. Also,
he was hot. There didn’t seem to be a lot of air in the air.
Bert and Cec had done this sort of thing before. They were
not fazed by darkness or heat or suspense. Cec wondered, sometimes,
if they would ever be really astonished or really afraid
ever again. They seemed to have worn such emotions out, at
Gallipoli and in the mud of Poziéres. Still, it made no odds. He
only wished this murderous bloke would make his move. He
could do with a smoke.
He sank into dreams of his wedding, with only one whisker
alert for action.
He’d already bought the ring.
999
Above, the Eastern Market closed. Phryne saw the last of the
trucks leave. The returned soldiers parked their fruit barrows,
covering their cargo against dust, and filed out into the street,
talking and coughing. The last of the cleaners slid his or her big
broom into its place. Rubbish bins were filled with the detritus
of the day’s trading. This enriched the already heavy air with an
overlay of sweepings. Phryne suppressed a sneeze.
She also had things to think about. Where, for a start, was the
irritating but beautiful Simon? His mother had not found him and
he had not been seen since he had left Kadimah before lunch. It
would be just like Simon, thought Phryne, to go to a deserted warehouse
after dark and tell no one where he had gone, just because an
anonymous note told him to. He would probably also burn the note.
But surely no son of that remarkably durable couple, the Abrahams,
would have entirely missed out on a certain inborn cunning? Surely
he must have learned something from his parent’s stories?
On the other hand, he could still be sulking. In which case,
after his mother had scolded him Phryne would take him out
to dinner.