Chapter 18: BossLate May, 1972
Phil was eating toast in his dressing-gown and staring blankly out of the kitchen window at the garden when someone knocked on the door on Saturday. Postlady, he thought, rambling down the passage to open it. Odd. She was late—it was nearly midday—and she usually just left things on the doorstep.
He opened it with a smile already on his face for Patsy that froze to a rictus when he saw Portnoy in front of him. His beige mac was hanging open and his hands were stuffed in his pockets. He was staring at his feet, but he raised his gaze to Phil’s without much hesitation and said, “Morning, McManus. Can I come in?”
Phil looked at him.
“Why?” he said, finally.
Portnoy pulled a face. “Easier to explain inside,” he said. “It’s good news, though, of a sort.”
Phi
