Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'I
signed
myself
out,'
Murray
said.
He
could
get
tired
of
explaining
that.
As
he
spoke,
he
circled
a
step
or
two
moving
to
the
side
so
that
he
could
see
Heathers'
face.
What
he
surprised
was
ambiguous,
for
although
the
mouth
was
taut
with
controlled
fright,
the
old
eyes
stared
with
greedy
satisfaction
at
the
great bruise
that
disfigured
Murray's
cheek
below
the
dark
glasses.
'You
don't
want
to
do
anything
stupid,'
Heathers
said,
glancing away.
'Come
and
sit
beside
me
on
the
couch,'
Irene
said.
He
felt
her
hand
on
his
arm
and
let
himself
be
seated.
'What
would
you
like
to
drink?
We
were
having
tea.
But
there's
something
stronger,
if
you'd
prefer.'
'Tea
would
be
fine.'
There
was
a
table
with
two
glass
panes
as
a
top
set
at
the
level
of
their
knees
between
the
chair
and
the
couch.
There
was
a
teapot
and
a
little
delft
milk
jug
and
cups
with
a
rose
on
the
inside;
there
was
even
a
plate
of
sweet
biscuits
nicely
arranged.
On
the
backs
of
one
kind
of
biscuit,
sugar
fractions
sparkled
in
the
sun.
He
balanced
the
cup
Irene
had
fetched,
sipped
tea,
and
listened
to
the
harsh
accent
which
sounded
confident
and
even
young
when
the
face
was
shadowed
against
the
light.
'People
get
the
wrong
idea
when
they
meet
me
socially.
I
couldn't
be
the
man
I
am
at
home
and
do
all
I've
done.
In
business
I'm
a
man
in
a
man's
world.
If
you
want
to
know
me,
that's
where
you
come.
I'm
a
businessman,'
the
voice
said.
'What
business
have
you
here?'
Murray
asked
.
Irene
had
put
milk
in
the
cup
without
asking
him,
and
the
milked
tea
lingered
on
his
tongue
bland
and
slightly
sickly.
'Business?'
Irene
wondered.
'He
came
to
sympathise
about
what had
happened
to
Malcolm-
but
I
told
him
there
was
no
need.'
'The
police
let
Malcolm
go,'
Murray
said.
'I
was
told
that.'
'It
wasn't
really
that
,
'
she
said.
'Mr
Heathers
thought
I
might
be
upset
because
Malcolm
had
been
sleeping
with
another
woman.
That's
what
he
came
to
sympathise
about.'
'The
world
didn't
stop
because
John
Merchant
got
himself killed,'
Heathers
intervened.
'Nobody's
indispensable.
A
little
bit
of
trading,
a
bit
of
in-fighting
–
they'll
get
themselves
a
new
Convenor.
While
that's
going
on,
while
the
new
man's
finding
his
feet,
your
brother
could
be
a
little
bit
more
important
not
less.
That's
what
I
was
thinking
about.
Right?'
He
paused
as
if
expecting
to
be
contradicted.
'And
Bradley –
him
that
was
your
brother's
boss
–
he's
dead.'
The
word
fell
like
something
heavy and
inert
on
the
carpet
with
its
white
pool
of
sun,
and
Murray
stared
down,
rubbing
the
fur
of
milk
on
his
tongue
against
his
palate.
'Your
brother
might
have
a
future.
But
he
needs
to
make
friends.
You
could
help
your
brother.'
'I
don't
do
favours,'
Murray
said
.
'My
brother's
the
one
who
does
the
favours.'
As
soon
as
the
words
were
out
of
his
mouth,
he
heard
them
as
being
stupid;
if
he
had
asked
how,
he
would
have
learned
what
Heathers
wanted.
To
ask
the
right
question
was
part
of
his
trade,
when
to
open
your
mouth
and
when
to
keep
it
shut;
feeling
ill
wasn't
an
excuse
for
being
bad
at
your
trade.
'I'm
not
talking
about
favours.
I'm
talking
about
hiring
you.'
And
when to keep your mouth shut...
'From
what
I
hear
you're
not
a
bad
snooper.
You
did
all
right
for
Billy
Milligan.'
It
had
been
his
best
effort;
it
hadn't
been
easy
and
it
had persuaded
him
he
might
be
able
to
make
a
living
as
an
investigator.
It
had
been
Milligan
who,
out
of
gratitude,
had
talked
the
lawyer
Bittern
into
giving
him
a
chance.
A
chance
at
small
debt
and
the
maybes
of
adultery;
so
it
was
hardly
his
fault
if
nothing
afterwards
had
let
him
show
what
he
could
do.
'Since
then
my
rates
have
gone
up.'
'I
know
what
you
charge,'
Heathers
said.
'I
play
golf
with
Andrew
Bittern.'