Authors: Frederic Lindsay
That
was
possible;
it
wasn't
a
description
Murray
felt
like arguing
over.
'What
did
you
want
to
see
Irene
for?'
he
asked.
Heathers
drank
and
wiped
his
bottom
lip
with
his
finger.
'To tell
her
I
was
sorry
about
her
husband.'
'That
was
all?'
'I
might
have
mentioned
Alex
Shepherd
to
her.'
The
name
meant
nothing
to
Murray.
'Why
would
you
do
that?'
'You've
no
idea
who
he
is,
have
you?
He
let
slip
to
me
the
other
day
that
your
brother
had
done
a
favour
or
two
for
him
in
the
way
of
business
last
year.
Apparently
your
brother
and
his
wife
got
away
for
a
wee
continental
holiday
last
summer.
Alex
Shepherd
was
the
one
that
paid
for
it.'
Perhaps
as
a
result
of
the
warm
fire
and
the
whisky,
Heathers
had
become
flushed.
'I
told
him
to
watch
his
mouth,
I
mean
keep
it
shut.
It
looks
as
if
your
brother's
going
to
need
his
pension
,
and
we
wouldn't
want
him
to
lose it.'
'She
won't
be
interested.
She's
not
the
grateful
type,'
Murray
said.
'She's
coming
to
see
you
because
she
wants
to
find
Kujavia.
Get
a
message
to
him
maybe.'
'Why
would
she
want
to
do
that?'
Ignoring
the
question,
Murray
said,
'When
she
asks
you,
I
don't
think
you
should
tell
her.
Not
how
to
find
Kujavia.
It's
not
something
you
would
want
to
have
on
your
conscience
.
'
'People
are
always
asking
me
for
something.'
He
turned
away
to
refill
his
glass.
Murray
heard
the
bottle
knock
on
the
rim
of
the
tumbler.
'You
do
something
for
me,
I
do
something
for
you.
I
can
talk
to
anybody,
rich
or
poor,
crack
a
joke.
Me,
I
like
everybody
to
be
happy.
Christ,
that's
the
way
I
am.
I
can't
help
my
nature.'
As
Heathers
gulped
at
his
drink,
Murray
saw
with
an
unpleasant
premonition
that
the
hand
which
held
the
tumbler
was
trembling.
'Just
don't
help
her
to
find
him
.
He's
a
madman.
You
know
how
he
treats
those
women
of
his.'
Murray
ignored
the
head shake
of
denial.
'He
killed
one
of
them,
right?'
'I
never
heard
he
killed
anybody,'
Heathers
protested.
'He's
like
everybody
else,
he
just
wants
to
make
money.
Why
would
he
do
something
stupid
like
that?'
For
a
moment,
Murray
was
sure
he
could
not
be
serious;
but
Heathers
stared
back
at
him
with
the
innocence
of
an
enormous
greed.
'You
don't
control
him,'
he
said
at
last.
'He's
an
animal.'
In desperation,
he
cast
around
for
some
way
of
persuading
Heathers.
'One
of
his
tricks
is
to
dress
up
as
a
woman.
John
Merchant's
mistress,
Frances
Fernie,
she
was
afraid
of
Kujavia
– never
mind
why.
She
wouldn't
have
opened
the
door
of
her
flat
at
night
to
let
a
man
in
–
'
He
hesitated.
'But
she
might
have
opened
the
door
to
a
man
dressed
as
a
woman.'
'How
many
murders
is
he
supposed
to
have
done
according
to
you?'
Heathers'
attempt
at
laughter
sounded
bad
and
quickly
he
gave
it
up.
'Did
he
murder
Merchant
as
well?
Is
he
Jack
the
bloody
Ripper
or
Jill
or
what?'
The
man
in
the
chair
had
opened
his
eyes.
Glancing
at
him,
Murray
found
their
gaze
fixed
on
him,
and
his
heart
jumped
as
if
he
had
been
caught
doing
something
wrong
.
The
man
was
slumped
deep
in
the
chair;
even
the
flesh
of
his
face
sagged,
under
the
cheeks,
in
folds
down
to
pouches
drooping
on
either
side
of
the
mouth.
In
the
middle
of
that
general
surrender,
the
eyes
were
clear
and
hard;
blue-grey,
the
marksman's
colour.
'Jill
rips
Jack,
Jack
rips
Jill,'
the
voice
said
unslurred.
'In
Yorkshire,
Sutcliffe
was
a
cowardly
boy –
and
even
when
he
got
a
man's
muscles,
he
couldn't
deal
with
a
woman
without
a
hammer –
he
had
to
be
sure
.
You
can
pay
too
high
a
price
for
love
poetry
.
There's
a
little
worm
that
lives
in
the
sea
and
at
dawn
a
week
before
the
full
moon
in
November
it
breaks
in
two.
The
front
bit
where
the
brains
are
stays
where
it
is,
but
the
bit
at
the
back
floats
up.
All
of
them
do
that
–
millions
of
them.
The
sea's
like
soup,
and
then
whoosh!
Outcome
the
sperm
and
the
eggs
– like
milk
all
over
the
surface.
Sex
soup.
But
the
brains
aren't
in
the
soup –
they
stay
down
among
the
coral
where
it's
quiet
and
a
worm
can
think.
Not
like
us.
We
want
to
be
kind
to
one
another – but
how
can
we be?
Don't
blame
Jack – or
Jill.
Compared
to
the
worms,
we're
not
well
arranged.'