its way around them all most days, though in truth that was more attributable to the boredom that was the default atmosphere of the police station than any conscientious work ethic.
As expected , these routine checks never turned up anything. Sometimes the residents waved at the car, occasionally signalling Michael or Carl to wind the window down and stop for a chat, maybe even a cup of tea. The most likely occurrence was, of course, getting stuck behind a tractor.
This morning, however, as the car eased through the roads towards Ralf's café and the promise of bacon and eggs, the roads were all but empty, and the miles passed quickly, though not quickly enough judging by the rumbles of complaint emanating from Carl's stomach.
"You hear that?" T he big man sighed. "Cholesterol," he said with a derisive snort. "Hunger'll get me long before that does."
Michael looked at his partner dubiously. Carl had the physique of a man who could survive being stranded on an uninhabited island longer than most.
They were on the beach road, moving swiftly, and Ralf's café - a lonely sort of building set against a hill and with a view of a tiny sliver of ocean beyond - drew closer.
"Try to hold on , mate," Michael said. "Don't go dying on me now. We're so close."
Carl snorted. "You're buying. And just for that, I'll be sure to have an extra-"
He trailed off as Michael eased the car to a stop in the small patch of gravel that served as Ralf’s car park.
Michael was staring at the door to the café , open-mouthed. Following his gaze, Carl suddenly moved breakfast down his list of priorities.
The door was shut, and across the whitewashed panel beneath the glass and the faintly ridiculous Bar and Grill sign, was a long, red smear.
"Is that...blood?" said Carl, unable to keep a note of wonder out of his voice.
Michael's jaw clenched.
"I'd say so."
Michael stared for a few seconds, and felt an odd lurch in his stomach; a feeling like returning home to continue an argument that had been temporarily postponed.
"Uh …what should we do?" Carl breathed.
It was a good question. There was something about the long, ragged smear that made the hairs on the back of Michael's neck stand up. Some relic of his outdated police training nagged at him, its voice indistinct.
In another time and place Michael would have suggested that they call it in, perhaps even call for backup. Here though, the truth was that there was no one to call. The single -storey St. Davids police station, barely big enough to house a couple of desks and a noticeboard, was home to a receptionist, a middle aged woman by the name of Glenda who specialised in making tea and conducting long, gossipy phone calls. What it did not contain was anything that could remotely be described as backup .
Michael scratched at his chin, lost in thought.
"Okay," he said after a pause. "Stay here and call it in to Glenda. Tell her if she doesn't hear from us in five minutes, she needs to put in a call to Haverfordwest. Then follow me in.
"Here , take these." He passed Carl the car keys. "If this turns out bad, get out of here, get some backup."
"You want to check it out on your own? Is that safe?" Carl's eyes were wide.
Michael shrugged. "Just go ing to take a peek. If there's someone in there waiting with a weapon, I'd rather we didn't both have our faces pressed up against the glass, you know?"
Carl looked dubious. He was no expert, but this did not sound like standard procedure.
Michael caught the look on his partner's face and forced a smile.
"Hey, I'm sure it's nothing. Probably just Ralf cut himself trying something a little more ambitious than frying bacon is all. Don't worry, we'll get you fed yet."
He slapped Carl's gut and got out of the car before the big man could protest, shutting the door behind him quietly.
The bloody door was about fifteen feet away. Michael crept toward it, muscles tensed, ears straining for any sound coming from inside the building. There was
As expected , these routine checks never turned up anything. Sometimes the residents waved at the car, occasionally signalling Michael or Carl to wind the window down and stop for a chat, maybe even a cup of tea. The most likely occurrence was, of course, getting stuck behind a tractor.
This morning, however, as the car eased through the roads towards Ralf's café and the promise of bacon and eggs, the roads were all but empty, and the miles passed quickly, though not quickly enough judging by the rumbles of complaint emanating from Carl's stomach.
"You hear that?" T he big man sighed. "Cholesterol," he said with a derisive snort. "Hunger'll get me long before that does."
Michael looked at his partner dubiously. Carl had the physique of a man who could survive being stranded on an uninhabited island longer than most.
They were on the beach road, moving swiftly, and Ralf's café - a lonely sort of building set against a hill and with a view of a tiny sliver of ocean beyond - drew closer.
"Try to hold on , mate," Michael said. "Don't go dying on me now. We're so close."
Carl snorted. "You're buying. And just for that, I'll be sure to have an extra-"
He trailed off as Michael eased the car to a stop in the small patch of gravel that served as Ralf’s car park.
Michael was staring at the door to the café , open-mouthed. Following his gaze, Carl suddenly moved breakfast down his list of priorities.
The door was shut, and across the whitewashed panel beneath the glass and the faintly ridiculous Bar and Grill sign, was a long, red smear.
"Is that...blood?" said Carl, unable to keep a note of wonder out of his voice.
Michael's jaw clenched.
"I'd say so."
Michael stared for a few seconds, and felt an odd lurch in his stomach; a feeling like returning home to continue an argument that had been temporarily postponed.
"Uh …what should we do?" Carl breathed.
It was a good question. There was something about the long, ragged smear that made the hairs on the back of Michael's neck stand up. Some relic of his outdated police training nagged at him, its voice indistinct.
In another time and place Michael would have suggested that they call it in, perhaps even call for backup. Here though, the truth was that there was no one to call. The single -storey St. Davids police station, barely big enough to house a couple of desks and a noticeboard, was home to a receptionist, a middle aged woman by the name of Glenda who specialised in making tea and conducting long, gossipy phone calls. What it did not contain was anything that could remotely be described as backup .
Michael scratched at his chin, lost in thought.
"Okay," he said after a pause. "Stay here and call it in to Glenda. Tell her if she doesn't hear from us in five minutes, she needs to put in a call to Haverfordwest. Then follow me in.
"Here , take these." He passed Carl the car keys. "If this turns out bad, get out of here, get some backup."
"You want to check it out on your own? Is that safe?" Carl's eyes were wide.
Michael shrugged. "Just go ing to take a peek. If there's someone in there waiting with a weapon, I'd rather we didn't both have our faces pressed up against the glass, you know?"
Carl looked dubious. He was no expert, but this did not sound like standard procedure.
Michael caught the look on his partner's face and forced a smile.
"Hey, I'm sure it's nothing. Probably just Ralf cut himself trying something a little more ambitious than frying bacon is all. Don't worry, we'll get you fed yet."
He slapped Carl's gut and got out of the car before the big man could protest, shutting the door behind him quietly.
The bloody door was about fifteen feet away. Michael crept toward it, muscles tensed, ears straining for any sound coming from inside the building. There was
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