and shorts to the ones she’d been wearing the previous evening, showing off thigh muscles that were so developed she had to stand with her feet apart. ‘You keep asking me that . . . and I keep telling you I am . . . but I can’t seem to convince you. Don’t I look like a doctor?’ He contemplated the inflated biceps and disproportionately flat chest. ‘Not one that I’ve ever seen. You called yourself a three-hundred-pound weightlifter yesterday.’ ‘I exaggerated. I’m more like two-fifty, but it doesn’t have the same scare factor as three hundred. Have you never met a doctor who does weight training before?’ Not a female one that looked like you, he thought. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve never met a doctor who runs a pub either.’ She watched him struggle to hold her gaze. ‘It’s Daisy who runs it, I just have an interest in the property. I used to be a full-time GP, now I’m employed through the local primary care trust to cover out-of-hours services and the drunks and drug addicts in the police cells. It means I’m on call at weekends and two or three nights a week. It was my evening off yesterday, so I should have been sitting with my feet up instead of playing nursemaid to you.’
He couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or being ironic. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need to be. You went out like a light once you agreed to let me give you something.’ She saw his suspicion. ‘The injection was a metoclopramide anti-emetic to stop you dehydrating and the painkiller was codeine combined with paracetamol. Nothing more sinister than that. What did you think I was giving you? Heroin?’
Acland found her difficult to read. Her intense stare was unnerving and he decided it was easier to look at his hands. ‘I don’t take drugs.’
‘So you told me last night. You said you function better without them.’ She paused, as if expecting him to answer. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’
‘OK.’
‘Hungry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Daisy’s cooked enough bacon and eggs to feed the five thousand, and I’m damned if I’m going to eat it on my own. I’ve too much respect for my cholesterol levels. Your clothes are in the laundry room, so you can come down in the robe . . . and don’t forget your wallet. You owe me a hundred quid from last night – fifty for Rashid’s blood and fifty for vomiting down my back – plus an extra fiver to Daisy for the breakfast.’
He followed her on to the landing. ‘What about paying for the bed?’
‘You get one night free, but if you make a habit of falling sick on the premises it’ll cost you thirty quid every time you use it. No cheques.’ She set off down the stairs.
It was on the tip of Acland’s tongue to say he had no intention of ever returning to her pub. ‘It was a one-off,’ he told her instead. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘We’ll see. You haven’t tried Daisy’s breakfast yet.’
*
Daisy was the complete antithesis to Jackson – a warm, friendly, curvaceous blonde who looked ten years younger than her partner. She was also quite uninterested in money. When Acland tried to pay for his food, she laughed and told him not to be so silly. ‘If you hadn’t eaten it, Jackson would. She’s the resident dustbin.’ Jackson had no such qualms. ‘Where’s my hundred?’ she asked, washing down a mouthful of fried bread with a huge swallow of tea. ‘Daisy’s a pinko liberal. She thinks profit’s a dirty word and all criminals come from broken homes.’ She held out her palm. ‘I expect people to pay their dues.’ ‘You gave me a choice,’ Acland reminded her mildly. ‘Pay up or clean.’ ‘Too late. Daisy did the business last night. Blood and puke stains are the devil to get out once they’ve soaked in.’ Her partner frowned, as if she were about to contradict, but Jackson spoke again before she had the chance. ‘You’re lucky I’m not charging you for a new vest. It’ll need ten washes at least to get rid of the lager you spewed down my back.’ Acland counted off five twenties and handed them over with the fiver that Daisy had refused. Jackson took the lot and twisted in her chair to put it in the drawer of a unit behind her. He had a brief glimpse of a smaller stack, topped by a ten-pound note, before she closed the drawer again. ‘Mansoor’s contribution,’ she said, catching his eye as she turned back. ‘Not a bad night, all in all.’ He felt a sudden dislike for her, or perhaps he’d disliked her all along and it was distrust that now set his teeth on edge. She was an ugly woman – gross and greedy – and she clearly enjoyed bullying anyone who was at a disadvantage. He wondered briefly
about Daisy’s role in the relationship. Was she Jackson’s obedient slave? A piece of eye-candy to be discarded when someone prettier came along? Was she there out of love? Necessity? Was it an equal partnership? He watched her butter some toast for Jackson and realized he didn’t care. Revulsion against the whole set-up had him scraping his chair legs across the floor and standing up.
‘I need my clothes,’ he said brusquely. ‘If you point me in the right direction, I’ll get them myself.’
Surprised by his tone, Daisy gave a doubtful smile. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine . . . but I need to go now. I’m late.’
‘OK.’ She pointed to a door behind her. ‘Through there, first room on the right and you’ll find your stuff on the ironing board. When you’ve changed, continue down the corridor and you’ll find an exit on to Murray Street at the end. Can you find your way from there?’
Acland nodded.
‘Just make sure you leave my bathrobe behind,’ said Jackson, taking another piece of toast and sticking a buttery knife into the marmalade. ‘It cost me a fortune.’
He took a deep breath and addressed Daisy. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘Clearing up after me . . . breakfast . . . washing my clothes.’
Daisy smiled slightly. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything Jackson says, you know. She bends the truth to suit herself.’
The non sequitur confused him. ‘I don’t understand.’
Jackson jumped in again before the other woman could answer. ‘The robe cost two quid from an Oxfam shop,’ she told him, ‘but that doesn’t mean you can take it.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ Acland said stiffly, untying the belt and shrugging out of it. ‘Here.’ He draped it over the
