Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Peerse
doesn't
think
so,'
Stewart
said.
'He
believes
in
your
Jill
the
Ripper,
Billy
–
or
at
least
half
believes
in
her.
And
he
more
than
half
believes
he
knows
who
she
is.'
'He
what
?
'
'Merchant's
girlfriend
–
Frances
Fernie.'
Billy
subsided
in
disappointment
.
'Not
possible.
Murray's
brother
was
with
her
in
her
flat
from
ten
o'clock
on
the
Friday
evening
until
seven
the
next
morning.
They
know
the
body
was
dumped
between
midnight
and
five
in
the
morning,
which
means
either
your
brother's
in
it
too
or
she's
in
the
clear.'
'McKellar
believed
your
brother's
story,
Murray,'
Stewart
said.
'But
don't
be
surprised
if Peerse
turns
up
on
his
doorstep
one
day soon.'
'How
can
they
be
sure
when
the
body
was
dumped?'
Murray asked,
ignoring
him.
'The
Crusader
pub –
you
know,
the
one
in
Barnes
Street?
The
bar
staff
locked
up
and
came
out
of
the
side
door
about
midnight.
The
charge hand
and
another
guy
walked
down
the
lane
to
Carnation
Street.
There
was
no
body
there
then – they'll
swear
to
that.
It
was
found
just
after
five
by
a
beat
copper
making
a
routine
check.'
'Only
he's
not
getting
any
medals,'
Stewart
said,
'because
he
skived
off
earlier
in
the
night
instead
of
doing
his
rounds,
which
means
they
can't
narrow
the
time
down
more.'
He
glanced
at
his
watch.
'And
it's
nearly
time
I
was
away.
The
rest
of
them
are
over
there
working
a
twenty-hour
day
and
eating
sandwiches
.
'
'Talking
about
skiving,'
Billy
said.
'Eddy
the
fox.'
'I'm
tidying
up
a
loose
end,'
Stewart
said
with
a
satisfied
grin.
'I've
been
a
long
time
at
this
game.'
Murray
stopped
himself
just
in
time
from
putting
his
hand
up
to
press
against
the
pain
in
his
head.
He
swallowed
on
a
surge
of
nausea.
'I'm
trying
to
put
a
name
to
a
face,'
he
said.
'A
guy
who
has
some
connection
to
the
casino
in
Stark
Street.
That's
where
I
met
him.'
'On
Saturday
night?'
'You
know
I
don't
remember
anything
about
Saturday
night.
I
got
a
bang
on
the
head,'
Murray
said.
'He's
about
five
eight.
Maybe
a
hundred
and
seventy
pounds.
He's
got
black
hair,
but
it's
weird
–
it
stands
up
in
clusters
and
it
looks
black
enough
to
be
dyed.
Sounds
funny,
but
he
isn't
funny
at
all.
He's,
just
seeing
him,
you
know
he's
…
a
real
nutter.'
Evil
was
a
word
that
would
have
embarrassed
them
all.
'Very
white
in
the
face.
He's
got
a
foreign
accent
–
could
be
Polish,
but
he's
been
here
a
long
time.
Might
be
middle
fifties,
but
I
think
he's
older,
could
be
seventy.'
They
looked
at
him
in
silence.
'One
other
thing,'
Murray
said,
'he
could
take
his
orders
from
Blair
Heathers.'
Stewart
swore
abruptly.
'Jesus,
Murray,
you
want
to
have
more
sense.
Heathers
spends
more
on
haircuts
than
you
earn
in
a
year.
You
do
wee
jobs –
you've
only
got
one
coat,
and
that's
the
one
you
were
wearing
when
you
got
off
the
train
the
day
you
came
back.
If
you
hadn't
got
in
tow
with
that
lawyer
Bittern,
you
wouldn't
be
making
enough
to
keep
you
in
pie
suppers.
Don't
mess
with
Heathers.
That
would
be
like
Laighburn juniors
putting
a
team
in
for
the
World
Cup.'
'It's
a
while
since
I've
seen
you
getting
so
excited,
Eddy,'
Murray
said.
'You
don't
want
to
get
so
emotional.'
'Nobody's
excited,'
Stewart
wiped
a
last
piece
of
bread
round
the
plate
and
pushed
it
away.
The
red
flush
subsided
on
his
cheeks.
'If
you
had
lost
that
eye,
you'd
have
been
too
busy
looking
for
a
pitch
to
sell
matches
to
worry
about
Heathers.'
'Bloody
hell!'
Billy
exclaimed.
'You'd
be
a
great
man
to
say
a few
words
at
a
funeral.
You
know
how
to
bury
a
friend.'
'No
use
saying
one
thing
and
thinking
another,'
Stewart
said,
registering
a
vague
discomfort.
'You're
a
moody
bastard,
Murray – I
reckon
we're
about
the
only
mates
you've
got.'