The last murder had not gone well. Not well at all, given that the target had cheerfully walked away from the restaurant without so much as a backwards glance. He wondered if he was getting too old for this.
His lukewarm coffee sat on the plastic table cloth in front of him, bubbling softly as he read through his résumé.
The Boss had graciously offered him a glowing reference (“you are, although ineffective, very good at time-keeping.”) The Wife had not been so understanding, forcing him to deploy the skills he had picked up in the Avoidance of Kitchen Utensil Projectiles (AKUP) training day.
At the counter a dark haired woman was talking to a tired barmaid about how she wished she was dead. The barmaid sighed and poured her another glass of whisky. Perhaps he should give the woman his card, go self-employed – be the next Alan Sugar of his field. Maybe he could even pitch it as television series; The Ex Factor? Come Die with Me? On second thoughts, maybe not.
He sighed, took a long swig on his bitter drink and wished he’d never quit smoking.
His CV, “Carl Tindley – Professional Cleaner”, had been causing some confusion. Interviews always ended somewhat unfortunately. Simple cleaning demonstrations gone awry, interviewing panels covered in blood. They never called back.
He thought of the mortgage, the Wife and the baby on the way. The woman at the bar had started crying.
He waved at her, smiled reassuringly as he straightened his jacket and crumpled his CV into his pocket.“I might just be able to help you.”
© Tamara Rogers