Authors: Frederic Lindsay
When
he
had
gone,
Irene
came
back
from
the
hall
and
instead
of
sitting
on
the
couch
again
took
the
seat
he
had
left.
After
a
pause,
she
said,
'I'm
disappointed.'
'His
money's
as
good
as
anybody
else's.'
She
thought
about
that
and
then
said,
'That's
not
what
I
meant.
I
was
disappointed
because
I
thought
he
was
going
to
ask
you
to
find
the
murderer.'
'You
heard
him
–
I
don't
have
a
computer.'
'But
you're
going
to
take
his
money.'
It's
my trade. Only this time he was to be paid for not practising it.
'When
he
saw
you
coming
in,
he
was
frightened,'
she
said.
'It
was
because
of
him
you
were
beaten
up.
That
was
it,
wasn't
it?
He
thought
you
would
hit
him.'
'He's
an
old
man.'
'He
didn't
know
you
were
a
gentleman.
That
must
have
been
why
he
offered
you
the
money.'
'Why
were
you
disappointed?'
'Because –
'
she
began
emphatically,
but
she
had
already answered
that
question.
'If
you
caught
the
murderer,
we
would
be
the
first
to
know.'
He
was
tired
of
sitting
on
the
couch
facing
the
window.
His
head
ached
with
staring
into
that
brightness.
'When
does
Malcolm
get
home?'
he
asked.
'Didn't
you
know?'
Out
of
the
brightness,
her
surprise
mocked
him.
'He's
been
sent
away –
to
do
a
course
on
computers.
At
the
moment,
he'll
be
sitting
in
the
North
British
in
Edinburgh
drinking
coffee
and
conferring.
They
were
being
kind
–
sending
him
away,
after
all
the
fuss.
Only
for
a
few
days.
You'll
see
him
at
Mum
Wilson's
on
Sunday.'
'All
the
fuss
.
.
.
'
He
supposed
that
was
one
way
of
describing
it
when
a
whore's
alibi
for
murder
was
that
your
husband
had
slept
with
her.
'Did
you
know
about
her?
Her
name's
Frances
Fernie.
Did
you
know
that?'
'She
was
a
friend
of
mine,'
light,
clear,
hasty,
just
the
tone
in
which
she
cried
'Mum
Wilson'.
'In
London
.
After
we
were
married,
she
turned
up
here.
She
came
to
see
me
–
and
met
Malcolm.
It
must
have
gone
on
from
there.
Not
that
I
knew
anything
about
it,
of
course.'
On
an
impulse,
he
held
up
his
hand,
stretching
the
thumb
away
from
the
palm
so
that
the
flesh
at
its
root
grew
taut.
With
the
forefinger
of
his
other
hand,
he
touched
the
drawn
skin.
'I
saw
the
body
of
the
first
man
who
was
killed,
not
Merchant,
the
first
one.
That
was
in
the
lane.
I
shouldn't
have
been
there.
His
hand
was
lying
out
to
the
side
and
it
was
.
..torn.
There,
just
there.
A
lot
of
other
things
had
been
done
to
him,
but
that
was
the
one
I
noticed.
I
haven't
been
able
to
get
it
out
of
my
head.
It
had
been
bitten –
or
it
looked
like
that.
As
if
it
had
been
torn
with
teeth.'
He
got
up
and
the
light
came
out
of
his
eyes
and
he
moved
so that
he
could
see
her
face.
'It
doesn't
make
sense.
It
sounds
stupid
when
I
say
it.
The
thing
is,
I
haven't
been
able
to
get
it
out
of
my
head.'
Unexpectedly,
she
was
smiling. 'Is
this
how
you
begin?'
she
asked.
'It's
all
new
to
me.'
15 Fear of Dying
SATURDAY,
SEPTEMBER
15
TH
1988
'That's
some
keeker,'
old
Barney
said,
admiring
the
yellow
bruising
round
Murray's
eye
as
he
folded
the
newspaper
before
handing
it
over.
'How'd
you
get
it?
It's
not
as
though
you're
married.'
'I
got
hit
by
a
champagne
cork.'
'Eh?'
'Would
you
believe
the
bucket?'
'Were
you
at
a
wedding?
You
want
to
keep
away
from
them.
I've
seen
some
terrible
fights
at
weddings.'
It
was
earlier
than
the
day
before,
but
then,
in
contrast
to
what
had
happened
when
he
first
came
out
of
hospital,
Murray
had
hardly
slept
at
all
the
previous
night.
He
felt
hungry
but
as
if
food
would
make
him
sick.
He
had
breakfasted
on
cups
of
tea.
It
was
a
fine
morning
though,
bright
sun
again
and
windless;
he
lingered
beside
the
old
paperseller.
Two
bachelors
taking
their
leisure
together,
they
squinted
against
the
sun.
'You
ever
hear
of
a
guy
called
Kujavia,
Barney?'
He
was
conscious
of
the
old
man's
sudden
stillness.
'What
was
that
name
again?'
'You
heard
me.'
Barney
spat
a
yellow
loop
into
the
gutter.
'It's
not
that
I
don't
want
to
help
you,
Murray.
But
I'm
out
here
in
the
morning
and
at
night
on
my
own.
Trouble's
what
I
don't
need.'
'You've
told
me
things
before.
There's
never
been
any
comeback.
I'm
a
wall,
Barney.'
'Aye,
right,'
Barney
said,
in
what
might
have
been
agreement
or
scepticism.
'But
you've
never
raised
that
particular
name
before.'
'There
could
be
a
couple
of
notes
in
it
for
you.
Not
right
away –
next
week.
I've
got
a
cheque
coming
from
a
client.
I'll
call
you expenses.'
'He's
a
bad
bastard,
I'll
tell
you
that
for
nothing.'
But
having
begun
he
didn't
stop;
dribbling
out
what
he
knew
in
a
hoarse
grunting
murmur,
never
looking
directly
at
Murray
and
breaking
off
abruptly
not
just
to
sell
a
paper
but
whenever
anyone
came
witl1in
earshot.
It
was
unpleasant
that
amount
of
caution;
it
smelled
of
fear.
Most
of
what
he
told,
Murray
had
already
heard
from
Billy
Shanks.
'What
about
an
address?'
'Away
to
hell,
that's
over
the
line.
If I
knew,
I
wouldn't
tell
you.'
'But
you
don't?'
'He
moves
around.
Know
what
I
mean?
A
man
with
enemies.'
He
sighed
as
Murray
kept
silent.
His
passion
was
information,
and
that
appetite
made
it
hard
for
him
to
keep
what
he
had
sterile
and
unshared.
He
scraped
a
hand
across
the
grey
bristles
on
his
chin,
and
said
almost
angrily,
'There's
Mary
O'Bannion.
She's
a
pro-built
like
a
bloody
mountain.
He's
with
her
most
of
the
time.
And
before
you
ask
me
–
I
don't
know
where
she
lives.'
Murray
didn't
believe
that,
but
he
had
been
given
more
than
he
could
have
expected.
As
he
began
to
walk
up
Moirhill
Road,
he
thought
about
the
important
thing
Barney
had
told
him
about
Kujavia,
the
thing
Billy
Shanks
hadn't
mentioned.
The
bar
was
functional
,
a
counter,
glasses,
drink,
a
lavatory
that
was
a
urinal
without
towels
or
hot
water.
The
Crusader
was
a
trough
in
which
poverty
stuck
its
snout
and
found
nothing
in
the
way
of
comfort
but
alcohol.
And
company,
of
course.
Two
men
standing
together
at
the
bar
checked
on
Murray
as
he
came
in,
one
with
no
more
than
a
sliding
of
the
eyes,
the
other with
an
odd
tilting
motion
of
the
face
like
the
muzzle
of
a
suspicious
dog;
an
old
man
sucked
toothlessly
on
a
tumbler
of
red
wine;
a
woman
at
a
table
brooded
over
an
empty
glass.
On
the
strength
of
Heathers'
expected
cheque,
Murray
bought
a
whisky.
He
asked
what
the
lady
drank
and
the
barman
poured
a
double.
Having
accounted
for
him,
the
two
men
lost
interest.
It
was
true
the
city
had
some
of
the
ugliest
prostitutes
in
the
world;
strictly
functional
–
like
the
Crusader.
Misunderstanding,
the
woman
responded
to
the
dark
man's smile.
Her
teeth
showed
yellow.