The sizzle and the smell of frying bacon and sausages were making his stomach grumble in anticipation. The toast would’ve been a poor substitute even without the charcoal coating, but it would help keep the hunger pangs under control until breakfast arrived.
“Aye. Fine,” he said, skimming a sliver of butter from the block with the edge of a knife. “Didn’t get much chance to talk to her with her majesty lugging in, mind you.”
“Any PM results?”
Logan finished spreading his toast and took a bite. “She didn’t say. I’m going to call her back somewhere more private.”
Sinead nodded and took a slurp from her tea. Black dots swirled around in the milk, Kathryn eschewing the convenience of tea bags in favour of the even greater convenience of simply spooning tea leaves into a cup and then drowning them in boiling water.
“No word from your daughter, I take it?”
Logan shook his head. “No. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe, once I get a signal.”
“Aye. Probably,” Sinead said, though it came out sounding a little less hopeful than she’d been aiming for. “I’m sure there will be.”
A boxy, old-style portable TV stood in the corner of the room, murmuring out the morning news. It was still the national news at this point—the Scottish update would come after—and the presenter was talking about the girl who’d gone missing down south.
Logan watched as it cut to footage of the girl’s parents, a well-dressed black couple who’d been doorstepped by a gaggle of journalists. Even on the wee square screen, he could see they were tired. They’d been crying. Of course they had.
“Poor bastards,” he remarked, prompting Sinead to turn and follow his gaze.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Grimm.”
“It is, aye,” Sinead agreed.
“No. Grimm. The fella’s name.” He indicated the screen, where a caption revealed the identity of an officer addressing the camera at a press conference. “DCI Grimm. But aye. Also grim in the traditional sense.”
The segment ended, and the newsreader moved on to a sports round-up just as the kitchen door was nudged open. Kathryn entered backwards, carefully carrying a plate in each hand.
“Here we go. Now we’re talking,” Logan cheered, unfurling the rolled-up napkin from his side plate and tucking it into the collar of his shirt.
He leaned back in the chair, not wishing to in any way impede the delivery of his breakfast, then stared in confusion at the food that was deposited in front of him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“What does it look like?” Kathryn retorted. “It’s porridge.”
“But…” Logan’s eyes crept to the kitchen door. “There was sausage and bacon. I smelled them.”
“Those are for the dog.”
“The dog?” Logan frowned. “Wait, so… what are you saying? The dog’s getting bacon and sausage, and I’m getting this?”
“Well, that certainly seems to be the case from where I’m standing,” Kathryn said.
Logan shot daggers at the kitchen door, then picked up his spoon and plunged it into the bowl of gooey grey mush. He brought it to his lips, blew on it, then stuffed the oats in his mouth and grimaced.
“Christ, that’s salty,” he grumbled.
“As it should be,” Kathryn replied. “None of your sugary rubbish.” She tapped Sinead on the shoulder and pointed to her bowl. “Eat. There’s nothing of you.”
Sinead picked up her spoon and held it over the dish. “I’m not… I don’t want to eat too much,” she said. “That road makes me a bit… queasy.”
“All the more reason to fill up. Better to chuck up the contents of your guts than your guts themselves,” Kathryn said. “So, eat. The pair of you. You’re not leaving here until you do.”
With her ultimatum issued, she pulled out the chair from the head of the table and took a seat, watching them both.
“You’re not honestly going to sit there and stare while we eat, are you?” Logan asked.
“Too bleedin’ true, I am. You’re paying for bed and breakfast, you’re getting bed and breakfast. Whether you like it or not.”
She nodded at the plates, tapped her wrist where a watch would go, then crossed her arms and sat back, waiting for them to tuck in.
Logan had met enough women like Kathryn over the years to understand how futile it would be to argue. He shoved a spoonful of the salty oat mush into his mouth and filtered the worst of the lumps through his teeth.