Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Oh,
yes,
they
do.
You
can
ask
them
yourself.'
'Ask
who?'
'The
police,'
and
saw
something
in
Murray's
face
that
made
him
smirk
through
his
tears,
'they're
coming
here
this
morning.
I've
made
a
list
for
them
–
people
my
brother
knew,
friends,
business,
anybody
I
can
think
of.
That's
why
they're
sending
someone.'
It
was
time
to
go.
Outside
a
car
engine
roared
briefly
and
was
cut
off.
Doors
banged
on
either
side
of
the
silence.
It
did
not
have
to
be
the
police.
At
a
time
like
this,
people
called,
old
friends,
relatives,
wanting
to
commiserate.
As
the
fat
man
had
pointed
out,
this
was
a
house
of
grief.
21
The Risks they Run
TUESDAY,
OCTOBER
2
ND
1988
'That
was
cheeky.'
Detective
Chief
Superintendent
Jackie
McKellar
had
taken
over
the
Jill
case
from
Standers
after
the
death
of John
Merchant.
Standing
in
front
of
his
desk
since
he
had
not
been
invited
to
sit
down,
Murray
was
in
the
process
of
deciding
that
he
disliked
the
man
intensely.
He
stared
at
the
place
where
the
scalp
of
the
Chief
Superintendent
shone
pink
through
the
wispy
grey
hair.
In
the
situation
he
found
himself
in,
concentration
on
that
kind
of
detail
sometimes
helped.
'The
people
out
there
have
had
all
their
leave
cancelled,
right?
And
the
days
off.
We've
got
the
full
team
here
from
half
nine
in
the
morning
till
half
nine
at
night
-
and
after
that
there's
still
people
here.
We're
tired.
And
then
we've
got
you.'
The
smart
thing
to
do
would
have
been
to
grovel,
but
the
best
Murray
could
manage
was
to
keep
his
face
expressionless
.
'They
tell
me
you
were
a
real
copper
once.'
This
time
McKellar
waited
until
there
was
an
answer.
'A
long
time
ago
–
I
was
in
Eastern.'
'I
started
in
that
shop.
Nobody
ever
taught
me
to
behave
like
a cunt
there.
I
hear
you
went
to
America –
is
that
where
you
learned
to
be
a
cunt?'
'I
went
to
America,'
Murray
agreed
stolidly.
Twenty
years
ago because
he
couldn't
stand
yes-sirring
authority,
he
had
left
the
police
.
Now
he
was
standing
in
front
of
a
desk
again;
it
was
as
if
he
had
never
been
away.
'I
send
officers
to
interview
a
witness
and
they
find
him
crying.'
'When
I
got
there,
he
was
crying.
He
was
fond
of
his
brother.'
'I've
got
your
number.
You
see
yourself
as
a
hard
character,'
McKellar
said.
'You're
one
of
the
bully
boys.'
He
made
a
mouth
of
sour
disbelief
.
'Who
paid
you
to
go
and
see
Leo
Arnold?
And don't
give
me
any
crap
about
confidentiality.'
'Blair
Heathers.'
McKellar
blinked;
he
controlled
everything
but
that
twitch
of the
pale
sandy
lashes.
'He
hired
me
after
Merchant
was
killed
.
Not
for
anything
fancy – just
to
check
on
a
couple
of
things.'
'Things,'
McKellar
said
by
way
of
acknowledgement,
not
recording
any
kind
of
opinion.
Instead
of
leaning
forward,
he
settled
back,
studying
the
biro
as
it
turned
end
for
end
between
his
fingers.
Murray
had
heard
enough
about
him
to
know
that
he
was
straight;
but
Blair
Heathers'
name
made
him
cautious.
Murray
was
impressed.
'Arnold
says
he's
had
bother
with
you
before.'
'I'd
worked
for
his
wife.'
McKellar
pulled
a
sheet
from
the
pile
and
glanced
at
it.
'He's
divorced.'
'This
was
before,
at
the
end
of
last
year.
They'd
been
separated,
and
she'd
decided
to
protect
herself.
She
wanted
everything
in
the
business
checked
out
before
the
settlement.
It
was
interesting
,
that
firm
wouldn't
have
survived
without
the
contracts
Blair
Heathers
put
their
way.'
'I
thought
Heathers
was
your
client,'
McKellar
said.
'You
told
me
not
to
give
you
any
crap
about
confidentiality.'
'I
wonder
if
you're
so
stupid
you're
trying
to
get
clever
with
me,'
McKellar
said,
but
he
didn't
sound
in
a
hurry
any
more.
When
the
interruption
came,
he
waved
to
a
chair
by
the
wall.
'Sit
there –
till
I've
time
for
you.'
And
to
the
pot-bellied
sergeant,
who
decided
it
was
politic
to
allow
himself
a
grin,
'This
is
a
detective. He's
going
to
tell
us
if
he
sees
a
clue.'
Murray
sat
while
they
came
in
and
out.
McKellar
went
away
for a
time
in
the
middle.
At
intervals
to
different
people,
he
explained
that
Murray
was
a
detective.
Everybody
seemed
to
enjoy
the
joke.
With
time
to
think,
Murray
thought
of
other
and
better
ways
he
might
have
handled
the
interview.
He
thought
of
getting
up
and
walking
out.
There
might
be
something
a
man
of
his
age
not
trained
for
any
trade,
without
professional
qualifications,
could
find
to
do.
After
a
time,
instead
of
concentrating
on
what
was
going
on,
which
anyway
was
all
routine,
he
became
obsessed
by
the
smell
of
food.
Because
of
the
size
of
the
operation,
they
had
reopened
the
old
school
kitchen
as
a
canteen.
A
smell
that
was
warm
and
savoury
made
Murray's
nostrils
widen.
He
knew
it
was
an
illusion,
the
nose's
equivalent
of
a
mirage;
in
the
canteen,
if
he
could
have
gone
through,
there
would
be
pies
of
slippery
mush,
dry
occluded
pastry,
plastic
puddings,
sandwiches.
Still
his
nose
told
him
differently.
Over
the
long
wait
hung
the
tang
of
stew
and
fresh
baked
loaves
making
his
mind
wander.
Some
detective.