Blood Will Out Read Online Free Page A

to Don.
    â€œGreat idea.”
    The winds calmed as they approached the small bay, and the choppy water settled into ripples, picture-postcard blue and beautiful. Moretti cut the engine, and they moved gently in to the mooring. A few minutes later, they had pulled the dinghy up on to the dock, and were climbing the steep path to the top of the cliffs, with the natural rock face on one side, and a man-made granite bulwark on the other. Somewhere, an invisible stream made its way to the coast, concealed by vegetation, its waters murmuring unseen.
    It was tough going up the cliff path, steep and uneven, a track that had been there for centuries. Don leaped ahead, light and easy on his feet, and turned back to laugh at Moretti.
    â€œWant a hand?”
    â€œYou’re a bloody mountain goat, Taylor.”
    â€œThat’s what used to use these paths — goats, I mean. Goats and fishermen and smugglers. Watch the wall, my darling, when the gentlemen go by, as the poet says.” Don gestured towards the wall’s granite face.
    â€œNot what I’m supposed to do when they’re bringing in brandy for the parson, or marijuana for — whoever. Not in my job.”
    â€œTrue. Look at those, running down the side of the cliff. Even I wouldn’t use those.”
    Don had reached the top, and was pointing at barely visible tracks down the sheer cliff face to their left.
    â€œGoat tracks. Used to be all kinds. Goats, I mean. Falla, my partner, has an aunt who still keeps goats somewhere around here.”
    They turned left and headed towards Icart Point, with the sea and the cliff face close to the footpath. On the other side was St. Martin’s Common, where sheep had roamed free for generations, but they were long gone, like most of the goats that had used the old tracks. Gone also were the côtils , the terraces where smallholders grew potatoes, or planted bulbs for the once-flourishing flower-growing industry.
    There was little colour on the cliffs at this time of year, with the heather and gorse past their prime, but the sky was full of gulls wheeling and shrieking overhead in perpetual motion, and the wind carried the sound of the waves, crashing against the rocks, the familiar soundtrack of the coastline. Even up here, the air was flavoured with salt.
    â€œYou know what they say about gorse?” The wind was strong enough for Don to have to shout at Moretti. “When the gorse is not in flower, then kissing is out of fashion.”
    â€œAnd gorse is always in flower. More or less.”
    â€œSo the kissing never has to stop. All one requires is the woman to kiss.”
    Moretti looked at Don’s face, but he was not laughing. Was this just idle banter, or something more?
    The little Greek restaurant was in a tree-filled valley above Le Gouffre, a small anchorage between towering cliffs. The waitress who served them sounded Australian, but the food was Greek. They ordered a range of appetizers and coffee and sat outside, watching a large marmalade cat luxuriate in the late summer sun in this protected valley.
    â€œSybarites, cats. They certainly know how to seize the day,” said Don, popping an olive into his mouth and chewing with gusto. He had the voracious appetite of the long-distance runner, without a trace of body fat. “Speaking of which, is this your last day of freedom?”
    The coffee was good. Hot, strong and black as — as the colour of his ex-lover’s hair. Although Moretti was not sure you could call someone an ex-lover who had, in effect, been a one-night stand. Not that he’d planned it that way.
    â€œIt is, then it’s back to the desk, I imagine. Break-ins and burglaries and little else. But maybe I’ll have more time for the boat.”
    â€œAnd playing at the club with the Fénions? Means layabouts, doesn’t it? Great name for a bunch of jazz musicians — or an outsider’s perception of jazz musicians. Have you got a