Page 79 of The Other Side

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

“It’s always nice to hear you’ve done a good job.”

“A very good job. What time is it?”

“Nine.”

“Shit!” Drum sat bolt upright. “I’m supposed to be working.”

“I’ll make you breakfast while you shower.”

Osian slipped out of bed and Drum’s gaze followed his arse to the door.

“Put something on or I’ll be even later,” Drum called.

“No.”

Drum laughed. He took his clothes and equipment downstairs so he could dress after his shower and not be tempted. God, one look at Osian, clothed or not, and I’m tempted. Last night had been… He didn’t have the words. He hadn’t even gone through his lock-checking routine. He should have. If Ashford was trying to find him, he needed to stay vigilant.

As if locks will keep anyone out, particularly someone trying to kill me.

He turned on his radio handset, logged in with his ID and updated his status to on duty—not quite true—then showered.

As he came out of the bathroom, Osian pushed a bacon sandwich into his hand.

“Thanks.” Drum kissed him, then had to tear himself away with a groan.

Osian pouted. “I’m not irresistible then?”

“But you gave me a bacon sandwich!”

Osian laughed and Drum stroked his cheek. “I need you to be careful. Ashford is dangerous in or out of prison. Only a few people know where I am but someone resourceful could probably find out.”

“I was going to go to the stables.”

“Good idea. I should have finished by three. Time off in lieu for last night.”

“You be careful too,” Osian told him.

Drum drove to Taplow. He was early for his appointment at the assisted-living facility, so he parked near the church and set off on foot down the main road. Walking everywhere was fine when the weather was like this. Not so fine in the winter, but he somehow doubted he’d be around then.

The facility was in a converted mill. Drum had looked it up. It provided private, self-contained housing with personalised, 24/7 care for those individuals who needed it, and it was staggeringly expensive. Well, Drum thought it was anyway. Those residents who needed it had support with daily tasks like washing, dressing and medication management, and there were on-site and off-site social activities. Drum thought he’d hate to live in a place like this, no matter how swanky it was, but he was coming from the viewpoint of a guy who was almost thirty. He didn’t know how he’d feel when he was in his eighties. Assuming he lived that long.

When he went inside, there was no one on reception but he could see a camera pointing his way. Drum waited a moment, listening. Somewhere deeper in the building, crockery clinked. A radio played softly, a song from the eighties, the singer’s voice muffled by walls.

A moment later, a woman came through a door. She was in her mid-fifties and had reading glasses balanced on her head.

“Good morning,” Drum said.

“PCSO Drummond.” She gave him a broad smile. “Good morning and welcome. I’m Tricia Lee, the manager. It was me you spoke to on the phone.” She nodded towards the visitors’ book. “Could you sign in, please?”

Drum wrote his name, number and the time.

“Come this way. They’re all looking forward to meeting you. Well, not all, but most.” She looked flustered. “I don’t mean they’re not looking forward to meeting you, I meant not all of them are in the dining room. Sorry.” Tricia winced.

Drum chuckled. “It’s fine.”

He followed her to a large room with lots of windows. Elderly men and women sat in armchairs.