Authors: Frederic Lindsay
Murder
cases
were
littered
with
irrational
behaviour
–
but
so
was
daily
life;
and
no
one
thought
twice
about
it
until
something
happened
and
policemen
and
lawyers
arrived
asking
for
things
to
be
logical.
Murray
was
too
tired
to
try
to
explain
any
of
that,
and
it
wouldn't
do
any
good
to
try.
He
said,
'He
went
to
visit
the
wrong
woman
on
the
wrong
night.
He's
not
the
first
man
to
make
that
mistake.'
Peerse
gazed
down
on
him
speculatively.
'You
were
some
kind
of
a
policeman
once.
I
wonder
if
you're
as
ignorant
as
you're
pretending.
He
didn't
go
off
to
visit
her
on
impulse
–
not
off
his
own
bat.
If
we
can
believe
him,
once
Merchant
got
interested
in
her,
he
stopped
seeing
her.
He's
a
careful
fellow
your
brother.
Hadn't
seen
her
for
months.
According
to
his
story,
she
phoned
him
that
night.
Said
she
was
lonely
and
wanted
him.
He
doesn't
seem
to
be
very
good
at
resisting
temptation
.
He
went,
they
had
intercourse
…
more
than
once
–
he
felt
he
could
be
quite
frank
about
that.'
Murray
stared
at
the
closed
door.
He
wondered
if
it
had
been Frances
Fernie
who
had
told
Malcolm
to
take
a
taxi.
Everyday
life
was
a
muddle;
he
believed
in
chance
and
accident.
It
was
his
job
to
listen,
and
most
times
when
he
heard
people
blame
or
congratulate
themselves
it
seemed
to
him
they
were
talking
about
their
luck,
the
kind
it
was.
For
Frances
Fernie,
however,
the
coincidence
had
been
extraordinarily
convenient.
18
Mary 0'Bannion
MONDAY,
SEPTEMBER
17
TH
1988
It
took
a
lot
of
people
a
lot
of
years
going
down
to
wear
down
stone.
These
stone
steps
were
worn
down
in
the
middle
where
Murray
climbed.
He
had
slept
rough
in
the
back
entries
of
tenements
like
this.
He
had
wakened
in
them
cold
and
lonely
when
he
made
his
fifteen
year
old
boy's
flight
from
the
lighthouse
to
the
city.
Once,
wakened
with
sunrise
he
had
come
out
of
a
close
where
he
had
dozed
on
a
couple
of
flattened
cardboard
boxes
and
found
the
tenements
curving
away
like
a
wall
of
cliffs,
golden
in
the
honey-coloured
morning
light.
People
had
brought
up
families
in
them,
now
the
families
were
in
high-rise
flats
or
in
harled
semis
on
the
vast
desolate
estates
of
the
outskirts;
it
had
been
a
city
of
tenements;
what
made
it
unique
belonged
to
them.
And
the
tenements
were
dying.
This
tenement
in
this
street
in
the
wasteland
of
Moirhill
smelt of
death.
He
gave
no
outward
sign
of
hesitation
as
he
climbed
from
one
landing
to
the
next.
There
was
no
nameplate
on
the
door,
but
he
had
been
told
to
expect
that.
He
rapped
with
the
side
of
his
fist
and
it
opened
at
once.
'Hello,
Mary,'
he
said.
She
was
gross
and
from
the
darkness
behind
her
drifted
the
sweet
stench
of
unclean
flesh.
A
fat
smelly
whore,
Tommy
Beltane
had
said.
She
yawned
and
turned
back
into
the
flat.
The
hall
was
narrow
and
her
bulk
rubbed
the
walls
on
either
side.
She
eased
herself
out
of
sight
and
he
glimpsed
a
lavatory
bowl
and
then
she
pushed
the
door
across,
not
bothering
to
close
it.
There
seemed
to
be
only
one
other
door
at
the
end
of
the
lobby
and
he
pushed
gently
so
that
it
swung
open,
and
after
a
moment
stepped
inside.
Dirt
crusted
on
the
single
window
dimmed
the
light
of
the
outer
world.
An
electric
bulb
suspended
at
an
angle
from
an
overhead
flex
glimmered
pallid
yellow
on
the
sink
and
cooker,
on
a
chair
draped
with
underwear,
a
table
heaped
with
the
remnants
of
meals.
On
its
side
an
emptied
bottle
of
vodka
lay
precariously
near
the
edge.
At
first
glance,
it
appeared
a
figure
was
lying
on
the
bed,
but
it
was
only
an
accident
of
tangled
blankets
and
his
heartbeat
slowed.
As
he
listened
for
the
lavatory
to
flush,
she
waddled
through
unannounced
and
settled
into
the
chair,
mumbling,
'You
were
lucky.
I
was
going
a
place
or
I
wouldn't
have
let
you
in.'
She
reached
up
a
bottle
from
the
floor
and
poured
into
a
tumbler.
As
she
sucked
drink,
her
hand
was
unexpectedly
small
against
the
sliding
mounds
of
her
lower
face
and
neck.
'For
a
pee,'
she
explained.
'I
was
going
for
a
pee
or
you'd
still
be
out
there.'
She
was
not
pathetic
but
monstrous.
He
remembered
the
woman
in
the
Crusader
, a weapon – Big Mary – she hits you and you hit her – are you a man with a weapon?
'Who
sent
you?'
she
asked
and
lifted
the
glass
to
her
mouth again,
cupping
it
in
her
little
girl
hands,
rims
of
black
showing
under
the
fingernails.
'Should
I
know
you?'
When
he
did
not
answer,
she
laid
down
the
glass
and
looked
up
at
him.
Her
eyes
were
squeezed
under
heavy
pale
lids
of
oddly
creamy
flesh.
She
blinked
and
stretched
her
face
down
in
a
grimace
that
pulled
her
mouth
into
a
gaping
rectangle.
As
if
the
ugly
movement
had
cleared
her
sight,
she
frowned
at
him.
He
had
the
impression
it
was
the
first
time
she
had
looked
at
him
properly.
'Did
you
say
who
it
was
sent
you?
I
would
remember
you.'
'Tommy
sent
me.'
Her
head
lolled
back
to
rest.
'Tommy?
I
don't
know
–
don't
even
bloody
know –
anybody
called
Tommy
.
'
Her
eyes
were
almost
closed.
He
glanced
from
the
bottle among
the
debris
on
the
table
to
the
other
one
almost
empty
at
her
feet.
It
was
impossible
to
tell
–
her
head
thrown
back
on
the
side
rest
of
the
chair
–
whether
she
had
genuinely
drifted
off
into
a
sleep.
He
winced
at
the
thought
of
touching
any
part
of
that
loose
sprawl
of
evil-smelling
obscenity.