Authors: Frederic Lindsay
He
had
seen
a
woman
built
like
this
drink
hard
men
under
the
table
and
show
no
effect.
That
much
flesh
could
soak
up
a
lot
of
alcohol.
He
wondered
about
using
Tommy
Beltane's
full
name
to
her;
but,
coldly,
set
that
aside
as
being
of
no
advantage.
Instead,
he
said,
'What
about
Joe
then?
When
is
he
coming?
I'd
like
to
talk
to
Joe.'
The
thin
slices
of
eye
under
the
heavy
white
lids
widened
and contracted
in
an
instant.
It
was
a
reflex
movement,
the
effect
like
the
glare
and
narrowing
of
a
cat's
pupils.
'You're
not
frightened,'
she
said.
It was
a
local
idiom,
it
implied –
but
you
should
be.
'I've
got
protection
.
I
don't
get
fucked
about.'
'Joe
wouldn't
like
it?'
Instead
of
answering,
she
lifted
the
glass
and
tipped
it
into
her
mouth
like
a
tiny
bucket
over
a
well.
'Supposing,'
he
said,
'I
told
you
I
had
a
message
for
Joe?'
Her
breath
wheezed
in
and
out,
a
melancholy
little
tune
as
she
thought
about
that.
'What
message?'
'You
don't
want
to
worry
about
that.
Just
tell
me
when
he's
going
to
be
here.
I'll
give
him
it
myself.'
She
hitched
herself
to
the
edge
of
the
chair
and
struggled
to
rise.
She
used
her
arms
to
lift
her
weight
and
when
she
was
half
up
he
knocked
the
inside
of
one
elbow.
Lopsided
she
settled
like
a
Zeppelin
that
had
sprung
a
leak.
She
whistled
curses.
'There's
no
need
to
swear,'
he
said
reasonably.
For
some
reason,
this
seemed
to
astonish
her.
Eyes
and
mouth
popped
open.
Given
something
puzzling,
she
went
on
overload,
shorting
all
the
circuits
of
her
cunning.
'I
don't
think
you're
all
there,'
she
said.
'That's
just
because
you
have
a
bad
conscience.'
Streams
and
ponds
of
sweat
shone
in
the
bread-coloured
plains
of
her
cheeks.
'You're
from
the
police.'
'I'm
a
detective,'
he
said
carefully
.
'No
–
none
of
them
would
come
here
on
their
own.
It
would
be
two
of
them
or
more
likely
three.'
She
made
it
sound
like
a
boast,
and
then
another
thought
seemed
to
strike
her,
so
forcefully
that
she
blurted
it
out.
'That
woman
sent
you
.
She
was
too
frightened
to
come
back
so
she's
sent
you.'
His
first
reaction
was
to
ignore
this
as
a
diversion,
for
he
had
been
preparing
the
way
to
question
her
if
she
had
ever
heard
Kujavia
mention
the
name
of
John
Merchant.
He
stared
at
her
without
expression,
giving
her
no
clue
to
his
response.
'You
were
stupid
to
come
here,
whatever
she
paid
you,'
she
said.
'Joe
nearly
went
mad
when
I
told
him
about
her
coming
here.'
If
it
mattered
that
much
to
Kujavia,
it
was
worth
pursuing.
Mary
O'Bannion
believed
the
mystery
woman
had
sent
him.
That
might
be
useful,
but
it
created
problems
in
questioning
her.
'She
wasn't
afraid,'
he
said
contemptuously
.
'You
told
her
what
she
wanted
to
know.
After
that
she
didn't
like
the
stink
in
here.
It
made
her
sick.'
'She's
a
liar,'
the
fat
woman
wheezed.
'That
blonde
bitch
ran like
a
wee
scared
rabbit.
She
thought
I
was
going
to
keep
her
here.
But
she
was
too
quick
for
me.'
She
brooded
on
her
failure
.
'If
her
hair
had
been
longer,
I'd
have
had
a
grip
of
her.'
Small.
Hair
cut
short.
Young,
it
seemed,
and
blonde.
Perhaps
it was
because
he
had
been
thinking
of
John
Merchant
,
sometimes
for
Murray
a
spark
would
jump
from
fact
to
fact,
person
to
person
.
I
have
the
second
sight,
he
had
told
a
client
once,
and
been
amused
when
she
took
him
seriously.
Now
he
had
an
image
of
a
young
blonde
woman
sitting
on
the
edge
of
a
bed
watching
him
tumble
her
clothes
out
on
to
the
floor.
Sometimes
though
it
happened
that
the
spark
jumped
the wrong
way.
When
it
did,
he
wasn't
better
than
average
at
his
trade,
but
a
lot
worse.
'By
that
time,
you'd
told
her
what
she
wanted
to
know
about
Joe,'
he
said.