Read Fire in the Blood (Scott Cullen Mysteries) for Free Online Page B

themselves against the pissing rain before giving up and going for coffee and cake in a German bakery in the town. The small car park was pretty much the only bit of the East Lothian coastline for miles that wasn't occupied by a golf course. Gullane itself was home to at least one world class course - Muirfield, which would host the British Open the following year - plus about six other private courses that lay between Gullane and North Berwick, one of which Cullen had heard carried annual fees of over £25,000, and had a few ex-Premiership footballers as members.
    Murray parked his Golf, put the car in first and pulled the handbrake on extra hard.
    "I've got a Golf myself," said Cullen.
    "Yeah, I've seen it," said Murray. "Long after I've heard it usually."
    "Aye, very good," said Cullen.
    "It's not quite a classic, is it?" asked Murray.
    Murray's had 58 plates on, a whole different numbering system to Cullen's N reg.
    "It works," said Cullen. "Saving for a mortgage, anyway."
    "I've got a flat in Haddington," said Murray. "Dirt cheap out here. Lovely, too."
    "I thought North Berwick and Longniddry were expensive," said Cullen.
    "They are," said Murray. "Haddington isn't."  
    They got out of the car and started walking down the street. They walked south - Cullen looked across the Lothian plane, five or six miles or so, and saw the sunlight bounce off rooftops in Drem and Garleton, further up the hill.
    "Do you play?" asked Murray.
    "Play what?"
    "Golf," said Murray.
    "No," said Cullen.
    In truth, he should have been a keen golfer, what with being from Dalhousie - another Scottish course on the Open circuit - but, ever since some infuriating teenage dabbling on a driving range, he largely hated playing the sport, siding with Oscar Wilde's assertion of a good walk ruined . Or was it Mark Twain? He couldn't remember, but either way it had stuck with him.
    "It's quite good to watch on the TV," he said.
    "Totally looking forward to the Ryder Cup this year," said Murray. "Europe have a cracking chance at beating the yanks."
    Cullen dreaded the impending Ryder Cup, the transatlantic Europe versus USA tournament. Everything that was good about watching golf on the TV with a hangover - the calm commentating, the gentle ramble of the fans as they followed the golfers round the course - disappeared when it came to the Ryder Cup, as the gentlemanly sport descended into football-style support and embarrassing, ill-fitting chants wedging 'Europe' into terrace anthems. Cullen wasn't a nationalist and he could fathom even less the support for one continent against a supra-nation. Why should he care about an Italian and a German against two Americans?
    Cullen could have got into an argument with Murray about it, but couldn't be bothered. "Do you play?" he asked.
    "Aye," he said. "I'm playing off four just now. Aim is to get down to two by the end of the year."
    "That's impressive," said Cullen, wondering where Murray got the time.
    They walked up the drive to Crombie's front door, past his old style Jag. The front garden was clearly well-tended and mature - a row of old fruit trees overhung the street, the branches filled with tiny apples and pears. Cullen imagined the pavement would be covered in rotting fruit come November.
    A housekeeper showed them in and led them upstairs to a living room on the side of the house, which looked north across the sands and across the Forth to the East Neuk of Fife. It was one of those clear days where buildings in Anstruther and Pittenweem could be made out at the twenty-odd miles distance.
    Crombie had been sitting in a green leather armchair, holding a crystal glass filled with whisky. He got up and gestured for Cullen and Murray to sit on a leather settee opposite Crombie. A large decanter of whisky and a stack of old ledgers, looking like they told the entire history of the distillery, sat on a coffee table between.
    "Thanks," said Crombie, motioning for his housekeeper to leave them. She left and shut