The One That Got Away


"When was it?"

De Bryn looked up from the last of his ginger ale, the hint of a smile visible in the crinkling of his eyes. "Scotland. Summer."

Morse's eyebrow rose involuntarily. "I wouldn't have picked you for the highlands."

"Gentle sunshine and fresh winds, Morse, are good for the complexion. And not merely mine."

"Beautiful, is she?"

"Some would call her so. Healthy would be a more fitting word. She was agile and quick; a strong swimmer. The supreme confidence of youth – a twist of my wrist, and I thought she would be reeled in."

Morse nodded and drained his glass. "Spirited. Looks it, I imagine?"

De Bryn's smile blossomed. "Indeed. Skin like gossamer – just the once I was close enough. Cut through the waters like a silver arrow. Fleet, you could say, for one of seventy pounds."

Confusion shone in Morse's eyes. "That's a preposterous weight for a woman!"

De Bryn peered sternly over his tankard. "She was a salmon, Morse."