30 June, 12:30 PM, “The Czernograd Gazette” newsroom
His phone went off.
The newsroom, an open plan office nightmare like a battery farm of scribes, was buzzing, despite – or maybe because - the approaching lunch hour. Igor possessed that most valuable skill as a journalist, an ability to write cohesive stories among the din of others attempting to do likewise, relegating life to a white noise and putting the white noise to a locked compartment at the back of one’s mind.
The ringing, however, the ringing could not be ignored.
“Hello,” he answered. He was never in a habit of introducing himself first, in case it was someone he hated or a woman he disappointed.
“It’s Bohun here, Svoboda.” Igor would have recognised the gruff, slightly out-of-breath voice anywhere anyway. “You sound very enthused this morning.”
Definitely not a woman, but perennially disappointed. With life in general, with Igor occasionally.
“Thanks for returning my phone calls over the past few days,” Igor said.
“Fuck off, Svoboda,” Bohun said, “I was busy.”
“So was I.”
“I know,” Bohun growled, and before Igor could interrupt him, he went on, “Meet me at the Fritz’s in half an hour.”
“What-“ Igor started, but the Senior Detective had already hang up.
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