20.12 Winter took a cab to the Bargemaster’s House. Knowing Faraday’s affection for decent wine, he’d lingered long enough in Thresher’s to take advice on a choice of bottle. A 2003 Rioja, fingers crossed, should do the trick. The moment Faraday opened the front door, Winter knew he was in with a shout. Something on the stove was laced with garlic. Classical music played in the background. Either Faraday was expecting other company or the pair of them would be settling in for a cosy evening. Winter stepped into the house, shaking the rain from his jacket. The jacket, in soft Italian leather, had been a Christmas present to him from Marie, the first time Bazza had begun to take any interest in the possibilities of a relationship. Since this afternoon’s confrontation in the hotel gym, Winter had heard nothing more. The fact that he’d never touched Marie in his life should have been a comfort, but he knew Bazza had never been much interested in hard facts. If it looks like a dog, he’d often say, it is a fucking dog.
