Indeed, he was inclined to chastise himself for not having continued with his program the evening before; after all, he couldn’t have been feeling that bad. He stalwartly ignored the twinge of pain in his abdomen that tried to belie this point of view. The house was quiet, but he easily found the coffee and the makings of breakfast and busied himself in the kitchen, rather hoping Bethancourt would emerge before he was done. But his host had evidently had a late night, because he had still not appeared by the time Gibbons had eaten and dressed. Loath to wake his friend, but eager to be off about the morning’s business, Gibbons was just deciding to leave Bethancourt a note when he heard the ringing of his mobile phone, left on the kitchen table. He had just sat down on the stairs to put on his boots, and, with one shoe on and one off, he hobbled hastily into the kitchen, snatching up the phone just before it sent the call to voice mail. “Independent bugger, aren’t you?” asked Superintendent MacDonald cheerfully.
