Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'That's
right.'
Murray
looked
at
his
watch
.
'I
have
things
to
do.
Can
we
get
on
our
way?'
'Not
right
now.
I'd
like
to
ask
some
more
questions
.
Get
the
feel
of
it.
Maybe
put
a
name
to
that
van
driver.'
'Why
you?
You
left
the
crime
beat
a
long
time
ago.'
'Oh
,
the
'Cit'
will
send
one
of
the
usual
men,'
Shanks
said
vaguely.
'Connolly
probably
or
young
Robertson.'
'So?'
'I
–
caught
the
call
on
the
radio
in
the
car.
I
was
talking
about
murders
yesterday
in
the
Shot
with
Tommy
Gregory.
You
know
him!'
Murray
shook
his
head.
'Interesting
guy,
anyway,
when
I
heard
the
call,
I
took
a
notion.
And
you're
here.
And
then
Peerse.
God
intends
me
to
take
an
interest
in
this
one.'
He
waited
for
a
response
to
that;
gave
up
on
Murray's
silence.
'A
dead
man – half
dressed
– with
no
shoes.
He
didn't
have
shoes
on,
did
he?
It
looks
as
if
he
was
killed
somewhere
else
and
brought
there,
eh?
You're
the
Detective
-
don't
you
feel
it's
a
strange
one?'
Murray
shrugged.
'I'm
only
a
Detective
when
someone
pays
me.'
'Why
is
it
then
I
feel
you
have
an
interest
in
this
one
too?
You
didn't
recognise
him
as
a
client?'
For
answer,
Murray
rubbed
his
hand
down
his
face
and
scowled.
'Oh,
that's
right,
the
van
smashed
his
face
in.
If
it
was
the
van – what
do
you
think?'
'I
need
a
run
back
into
town.
The
paper
will
send
a
real
reporter
out
on
this
–
why
not
give
me
a
lift?'
'You
lack
a
sense
of
vocation.'
Shanks,
rising
to
the
bait, wagged
an
arm
in
distress.
'I've
forgotten
more
than
young
Robertson
will
ever
have
the
wits
to
learn.
Anyway,
for
the
column
I
need
an
angle.
I
need
a
handle
-something
that
lets
me
pick
this
thing
up.
There's
something
about
it
.
'
Murray
pretended
to
think.
'I
did
hear
the
word
rape
mentioned.'
Shanks
blinked,
struck
by
the
idea.
'Did
they
say
that?
The
guy had
been
raped?
Could
Pritchard
be
sure
of
that –
without
tests?
I
wouldn't
have –’
'Billy!
Billy,
you
have
vocation
enough
for
both
of
us.'
And
then
he
had
to
walk
back.
Moirhill
Road
was
long;
if
he
turned
north,
it
would
have
taken
him
all
the
way
to
the
suburbs
and
green
fields;
but
his
way
lay
in
the
opposite
direction
towards
William's
Cross,
taking
one
at
a
time
the
shoddy
fronts
that
had
passed
so
easily
glimpsed
from
a
car.
His
flat
was
on
the
first
floor of
the
last
close
in
the
Road
before
the
Cross:
the
other
marker
he
used
for
first-time
visitors
was
that
it
was
next
to
the
Chinese
take-away.
He
stopped
to
read
the
menu
in
the
window
.
He
did
this
regularly
but
had
never
been
inside
since
he
had
a
prejudice
against
such
places
based
on
the
fate
of
an
alsatian
when
he
had
been
a
young
policeman.
When
he
had
finished
reading
the
list,
he
went
into
the
fish
and
chip
shop
round
the
corner
and
bought
a
supper.
As
an
afterthought,
he
got
them
to
add
a
meat
pie
on
top.
The
phone
was
ringing
when
he
opened
the
door
of
the
flat.
He
listened
to
a
Mr
Foley
complain
in
his
ear
while
he
unpicked
the
newspaper
parcel
one-handed
and
extracted
the
pie.
Mr
Foley
was
voluble
concerning
the
importance
of
finding
his
ex-partner
Beddowes,
his
embezzled
money,
even
his
wife
–
though
this
last
sounded
most
like
an
attempt
to
enlist
sympathy.
He
had
a
lot
to
say
and
Murray
bit
into
the
pie
and
gazed
bleakly
at
the
desk
with
the
phone
and
the
old
Adler
portable,
the
pair
of
chairs
for
clients,
the
filing
cabinet
with
the
reference
books
on
top.
'We're
making
progress.
I've
no
doubt
we'll
find
Beddowes – and
your
wife.'
Not
to
mention
the
money.
He
cleaned
a
piece
of
pie
out
of
a
back
tooth
as
the
voice
got
excited,
'I'll
be
submitting
a
written
report
…
tomorrow.
No,
I
can't
be
more
definite
…
That's
your
privilege
.
.
.
'