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“They tell me you know everything, Wilson. That much is obvious from the comment about the burglar. So, I want to know who turned my house over, killed my wife, and pinched my heirloom of a guitar?”
Wilson leaned over the table slightly. “What’s in it for me?”
“You get to live,” said Robbie, glancing at the sky, sipping more of his wine.
Wilson’s expression darkened. “Are you threatening me?”
Robbie returned the man’s glare. “I don’t make idle threats, Wilson.”
Wilson reached out for another chip, which was a big mistake. Before his hand made it to the plate, Robbie brought the razor-sharp steak knife down through the middle of it – dead centre between two arteries and bones – pinning it to the table.
A small trail of blood oozed up through the skin, around the knife, before meandering its way onto the table.
Wilson tried to scream but for some reason his vocal cords had stopped working. All that came out of his mouth was a strangulated noise that sounded like a cross between a wheeze and a fart.
Robbie stared him in the eyes. “Like I said, I don’t make idle threats.”
Wilson’s chair legs grated across the ground as he tried to move it away from the table to stand up.
Robbie brought both his shoes down hard on Wilson’s toes, quickly pushing his fork upwards into Wilson’s neck. The skin delved inwards but it didn’t pierce, allowing Robbie to use the fork as a hook, pulling Wilson toward him, ensuring he was going absolutely nowhere until Robbie said so. “Are you sitting comfortably, Wilson?”
“Yes,” Wilson wheezed, eventually.
The barmaid popped her head around the corner of the courtyard. “Everything okay, gents?”
Wilson had his back to her so she couldn’t see anything.
Robbie smiled and nodded. “We’re fine, thanks.”
“Does your friend want a drink?”
“No, he’s okay. He’s not stopping.”
She disappeared back inside the pub.
“Now,” said Robbie turning his attention to Wilson, who had paled significantly. “I want to know who robbed my house, killed my wife, and stole my guitar. Do you understand?”
Wilson nodded, but judging by the expression on his face he wished he hadn’t. Another strangulated cry escaped his lips.
“Do you know who it was?”
“Y… y… yes,” struggled Wilson.
“When you give me the name, I’ll let you go.”
Wilson’s breathing was pretty erratic and Robbie hoped he wouldn’t pass out. “So, what is it… his name?”
“M… M… M…”
Robbie sighed. “Come on, Wilson, I don’t have all day.”
Wilson obviously made a supreme effort. “Manny Walters.”
“Manny Walters?”
“Yes,” whispered Wilson.
Robbie removed the fork from under his chin, and his feet from Wilson’s – but not the knife from his hand.
