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"Where was I", Feverfew thinks; "You know where I was, you moneygrabbing old bastard who promised me gainful employment, then renéged on the deal when I got here - I was scrubbing the kitchen the night Steve was murdered as a favour until 3-a-bastard-m, and didn't get to sleep until four-thirty. I slept until around three in the afternoon, and I was in the bar watching the rest of these psychopaths all night. Then, the evening the Piano Man died I was still in the bar until around 2, 2:30am, when I stepped outside for a cigarette for half an hour and then went to bed to try to sleep. But I can't."
"And as for Krung, that strange little soul, I have several witnesses who can vouch I was no-where near the Pantry when he was killed."
Feverfew has not, in fact, slept properly for two days now. Sure, he lies in bed in the empty room he'd found open and claimed for his own, since there were no guests, but sleep - sleep had been elusive. Dozing happened occasionally, and he flitted in and out of consciousness now and again, but proper sleep was just not happening. After all, who can kip with killers afoot?
It was a shame about Vince. He'd always seemed nice enough, if a little... focussed.
Feverfew gets out the packet of Lucky Strikes, one of several "liberated" from the hotel's supply since he arrived, pulls on his denim jacked and fingerless gloves, and steps outside to think, smoke, and watch the snow... |
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