Authors: Frederic Lindsay
By
the
wall
behind
the
door
as
he
retreated,
there
was
a
scatter
of
clothes
–
Old
Danny
wore
layers
of
coats
–
tangled
in
a
worm
cast
like
another
corpse.
All
of
it
was
terrible,
but
it
was
the
wet
little
smear
of
flesh
on the
dead
face
that
made
it
Constable
Weyman's
last
night
on
the
beat.
His
partner
had
been
wrong.
Going
in
to
look
made
a
difference.
20 Mourning
TUESDAY,OCTOBER
2
ND
1988
'Cold
enough
for
you
then?'
Barney
asked.
'It's
cold,'
Murray
agreed,
and
took
the
paper
the
old
man
gave
him.
'Bloody
cold.'
And
grinned
an
old
man's
empty
grin,
cried,
'Terrible
murders
–
la-atest!'
and
dropping
back
into
normal
pitch
went
on
hoarsely,
'Like
winter,
i'n'tit?
And
it
was
summer
yesterday.
Nothing
in
this
bloody
country
makes
sense.'
It
didn't
seem
as
bad
as
that
to
Murray,
but
it
was
true
the
wind had
changed
direction
and
overnight
covered
the
city
under
a
lid
of
low
grey
cloud.
It
might
be
that
the
long
Indian
summer
was
over
at
last.
'You're
getting
rid
of
the
papers
fast
enough.'
'Two
in
a
oner,
but
it
takes
two.
Just
a
murder
doesn't
sell
papers
any
more.
We
could
do
with
two
every
night.'
'You
wouldn't
have
anybody
left
to
buy
one.'
'There's
a
million
buggers
in
this
town.
Plenty
to
spare.
Kill
two
of
them
every
night
make
no
difference.
Kill
ten
for
me
–
kill
as
many
as
you
like,'
he
offered
malevolently.
He
coughed
and
spat;
with
a
change
of
mood,
added,
'But
the
old
guy
was
a
liberty.
I
mean
he
wasn't
looking
for
trouble
or
wanting
his
hole.
Just
an
old
dosser.'
'Could've
been
you,
Barney.'
'Away
to
hell!'
Driving,
Murray
made
a
bargain
with
himself
not
to
rub
at
the
ache
at
the
base
of
his
skull
until
he
had
passed
the
canal
bridge.
The
gesture
had
become
automatic.
He
lost.
After
that,
he
came
among
neat
little
bungalows
clinging
to
a
slope
so
that
the
best
of
the
front
gardens
had
been
turned
into
rockeries
set
with
heather.
Farther
up,
the
houses
took
more
space
to
themselves
and
at
the
top
where
the
fat
man
lived
there
were
walled
gardens
and
glimpses
of
fruit
trees.
The
fat
man
himself
opened
the
door.
'What
the
hell
do
you
want,
you
bastard?'
He
had
been
drinking,
still
held
the
glass
trembling
in
his
paw.
His
eyes
were
red
with
weeping
and
his
cheeks
had
the
high
flush
of
a
man
getting
ready
to
have
a
stroke.
'Just
a
few
questions.
Nothing
that'll
take
long.
I
know
you're upset.'
'This
is
a
house
of
grief,'
the
fat
man
said.
As
if
impressed
by
his
own
words,
he
released
a
plump
tear
from
the
corner
of
each
eye.
'And
you
can
fuck
off.'
Murray
put
a
hand
on
the
edge
of
the
door
and
held
it
seemingly
without
any
effort
against
the
fat
man's
pressure.
'I
can't
do
that,
Leo.
I'm
working
for
Blair
Heathers
and
he'd
like
you
to
answer
a
few
questions.'
Not
at
once,
but
slowly
as
he
thought
about
it,
the
fat
man stopped
trying
to
close
the
door.
Inside,
the
hall
was
square
with
a
passage
to
one
corner
running
through
to
the
back
of
the
house.
There
was
a
door
on
the
right
lying
open.
'Yes?'
Murray
asked
and
went
in
first.
It
was
a
big
room
but
even
so
there
was
too
much
furniture
in
it.
With
sunlight
through
the
bow
windows,
it
might
have
seemed
more
inviting;
on
an
afternoon
when
the
weather
had
changed,
it
was
bleak.
The
woman
by
the
window
was
dressed
in
mourning.
'Oh,
Leo,'
she
said,
'put
on
the
lights.
I
can't
sit
in
the
dark
any
longer.'
She
came
forward.
'We've
been
sitting
in
the
dark,'
she
explained.
'It's
not
a
friend,'
the
fat
man
Leo
said.
'Would
you
like
coffee?
A
drink
instead,
perhaps? She
was
the
perfect
hostess.
'For
Christ's
sake,'
Leo
snarled
.
'Don't
you
listen?
He's
not
anybody.
He
shouldn't
be
here.'
He
took
her
by
the
shoulder
and
propelled
her
out
of
the
room.
'Nice
lady,'
Murray
said.
'She
reminds
me
of
your
wife.'
'That
bitch,'
Leo
said,
but
not
as
if
his
heart
was
in
it.
He
sat
on the
sofa,
spilling
from
one
cushion
to
the
next,
and
held
up
his
face
wet
with
shameless
tears.
'Why
do
you
have
to
be
like
that?
Ask
your
questions
and
leave
me
in
peace.'