Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'That's
what
Standers
wanted
you
to
call
them,
wasn't
it?'
'I
didn't
do
it
for
Standers'
sake,'
Billy
said.
'I
told
you
after
I
saw
him
that
I
wouldn't
be
interested.
It
was
John
Merchant
getting
himself
killed
–
second
murder,
right
date.
That
did
it,
Murray.
I
had
a
story.'
The
ache
behind
Murray's
eye
came
and
went
in
waves.
He had
no
idea
what
Shanks
meant,
and
he
could
not
get
up
the
energy
to
care.
He
would
think
about
it
later,
after
he
had
slept.
'I'm
glad
for
you,
Billy.
But
it
is
nothing
to
do
with
me.
Okay?'
'It
was
just
a
thought,'
Billy
said. Murray
grunted.
'Even
with
friends
.
..
I
didn't
say
it
wasn't
a
lousy
job.'
He
smiled,
and
then
put
his
hand
across
his
mouth
like
a
child
apologising
for
a
lie.
'Sometimes.
Mostly
it's
good,
pretty
good
.
..
You
look
rough,
Murray.'
'I'm
just
going.'
But
he
sat
on.
In
a
little
while,
he
would
feel
well
enough
to
move.
'If
I've
a
friend,'
Billy
said,
'Eddy
must
be
the
oldest
one
I've got.
And there
are times
when
I
can't
stomach
him.
He
was
sitting
there
an
hour
ago
and
tells
me
they
brought
Maisie
Dudley's
daughter
into
the
Northern
shop
yesterday.
Five
guys
had
pulled
her
away
from
a
bus
stop
into
a
condemned
tenement.
Nobody
lives
around
that
bit
any
more
so
they
could
take
their
time.
He
said
they
raped
her
taking
their
time.
All
five
of
them –
all
the
ways
there
are.
He
said
she
had
the
same
red
hair
as
her
mother.
You
could
have
warmed
your
hands
at
Maisie
Dudley's
hair.'
His
hands
for
once
lay
still
on
the
table
and
he
looked
at
them
and
said,
'I
wanted
to
say
to
him,
It's
no
good,
Eddy,
you
can't
make
me
foam
at
the
mouth
and
fall
down
.
I'm
not
my
father.
It's
my
job
to
know
what
the
world
is.'
14 Conferences
FRIDAY,
SEPTEMBER
14
TH
1988
It
was
only
when
he
went
down
into
the
street
and
bought
a
paper
from
Barney
on
the
corner
that
Murray
realised
he
had
missed
Thursday.
As
he
walked
into
the
city
centre,
he
tried
to
work
out
how
many
hours
he
must
have
slept.
He
had
fallen
into
bed
on
Wednesday
afternoon
after
talking
to
Billy
Shanks,
and
had
been
wakened
an
hour
ago
by
the
persistent
ringing
of
the
phone.
The
thing
was
that
as
he
rolled
out
of
bed
and
trailed
yawning
through
the
lobby
to
answer
it,
he
had
not
felt
especially
refreshed;
nothing
hinted
to
him
that
he
had
slept
for
more
than
forty
hours.
His
only
thought
as
he
recognised
the
voice
was
that,
despite
the
lousy
taste
in
his
mouth,
it
had
been
worth
the
effort
since
it
was
Mr
Bittern
who
was
calling.
'I
tried
to
get
hold
of
you
earlier
in
the
week,
Mr
Wilson,'
the
lawyer
complained
discreetly.
Like
all
private
investigators,
Murray
depended
for
his
livelihood
on
having
a
firm
of
solicitors
who
would
refer
clients
to
him.
As
a
one-man
Johnny-come-lately,
he
had
been
lucky
to
have
Bittern,
Samuels
and
Alexander
(Incorporating
Gibb
and
Mac
Taggart)
offering
him
scraps
from
their
crowded
table.
Shortly
after
their
first
acquaintance,
Mr
Bittern,
the
senior
partner,
had
unbent
and
explained
to
Murray
that
crime
was
caused
by
boredom;
people
in
the
slums,
particularly
the
young,
needed
to
have
their
energy
'of
which
they
had
so
much'
directed into
socially
useful
channels
so
that
they
would
not
be
bored.
He
had
an
old
man's
bleat
on
the
vowels,
‘
pee-eeple’.
'I
sympathise
with
your
difficulties.
You
are
quite
well
now?
Good.
But
I
am
afraid
that
Mr
Foley
is
not
one
of
the
world's
most
patient
men.
I
have
to
say
that
he
feels
not
enough
is
being
done
to
find
Mr
Beddowes.'
'Mr
Beddowes
.
.
.
'
'And
Mrs
Foley,
of
course.'
'And
the
money.'
'That,
according
to
our
information,
seems
certainly
to
be
with Mr
Beddowes
.
..
and
Mrs
Foley,
presumably.'
Which,
Murray
knew,
was
why
he
had
been
offered
this
job;
for
the
same
reason
as
the
ones
before
it,
lawyer
Bittern
had
an
eye
for
a
bargain.
You
get
what
you
paid
for;
and
Foley's
money
had
eloped
with
Beddowes.
There
was
a
taste
in
his
mouth
as
if
his
gums
might
have
been
bleeding
while
he
slept.
'Foley
isn't
so
anxious
that
he'll
go
to
the
police
though.
Is
he
afraid
they
might
want
to
look
at
the
books?'
Wires
hummed
and
clicked
disapprovingly
into
the
silence.
'Sorry.'
Murray
cleared
his
throat
.
'Forget
I
said
that.'
'Ye-es,'
Mr
Bittern
decided;
but
could
not
refrain
from
adding,
'Leaving
aside
the
state
of
Foley
and
Beddowes'
books,
which
is
not
at
issue,
it
is
by
no
means
clear
that
there
is
or
will
be
occasion
for
the
services
of
the
police.
Whatever
monies
may
or
may
not
be
missing
belonged
to
the
firm
and
have
been
removed
by
a
partner...
may
have
been
removed.
If
removed,
it
is
plausible
that
the partner
involved
might
not
be
Mr
Beddowes
but
Mrs
Foley
to
whom
her
husband
consigned
a
share
when
she
improved
her
status
from
secretary
to
spouse.
In
that
case,
the
relation
between
husband
and
wife
would
obtain
and
whether
there
were
a
larceny
would
depend
on
the
intention
of
Mrs
Foley,
who
may
for
all
we
know
expect
ultimately
to
return
to
Mr
Foley.'
'Yes,'
said
Murray
in
his
turn.
His
head
ached
and
Bittern
had
lost
him.
'It
would
help
if
there
was
more
money
available.'
'I
think
we've
covered
that.'
'I
had
to
limit
the
circulars
and
photographs.
A
hundred
sent
out
to
the
likeliest
agents
–
not
a
letter
of
instruction,
but
I
had
to make the
usual
promise
that
a
fee
and
expenses
would
be
paid
to
anyone
who
turned
something
up.'
'That
is
acceptable.'
'It's
not
a
help
that
Foley
won't
let
me
talk
to
his
neighbours
.
He's
not
even
happy
about
me
talking
to
Beddowes'
neighbours.
I
found
the
taxi
driver
who
took
them
to
the
station.
And
Beddowes'
ex-wife
– you
know
he'd
been
divorced
?
–
and –'