It was a handbag; a partially eviscerated, soft crocodile-skin Gucci shoulder-bag. Partially, because inside it White Rod had found a presumably unprofitable address book along with a brace of fat house-keys, a driving licence, and some receipts from shops from which hed always be excluded unless he somehow found himself the recipient of a personalised Platinum Amercian Express Card. Unlikely, given that he had a £150 weekly withdrawal limit on his Post Office account. The first name in the address book was that of its owner: Mathilda Lambert née Morriston along with a phone number. And the driving licence belonged to Mathilda Morriston. White Rod picked up the rumour of a distant reward in the offing and so he phoned the number. It was answered on the seventh ring by a decisively undistraught woman who asked him what it was he wanted. White Rods disclosure that hed happened on her handbag didnt trigger any transcendental rapture but he was, unenthusiastically, invited over to her home in Kentish Town. #ShaxpersBones
Posted on: Tue, 06 May 2014 07:08:29 +0000
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