Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Some
detective.’
'It's
a
living.'
'We
were
talking
about
Leo
Arnold.
Your
story
is
that
Blair
Heathers
told
you
to
go
and
ask
him
some
questions.'
'No.
He
didn't
tell
me.'
There
was
no
point
in
trying
to
make
that
lie
stick.
'But
his
instructions
covered
it.
If
there
was
anything
he
should
know –
money
worries
–
that
kind
of
thing.'
McKellar
looked
sceptical.
'Money
worries.
In
the
middle
of
a
murder
enquiry.
You
picked
a
funny
time.'
'I
didn't
learn
anything,'
and
as
McKellar
sneered
and
nodded his
lack
of
surprise
at
that,
Murray
added
foolishly,
'except
that
he
was
fond
of
his
brother.'
'How
about
your
own
brother?
How
do
you
feel
about
your brother?'
Murray
stared
back
blankly.
Caught
off
guard,
he
could
not
stir
his
wits
to
find
an
answer.
'Your
brother
knew
John
Merchant,'
McKellar
said,
'and Merchant's
girlfriend.'
In
search
of
a
diversion,
Murray
said,
'Merchant
was
afraid
of
a
man
called
Joe
Kujavia.
Have
you
heard
of
him?'
'Pimp.
Strong-arm
man.
Are
you
telling
me
he
had
a
connection
with
Merchant?
A
business
connection?'
'Not
business.'
For
Malcolm's
sake,
the
last
thing
Murray
wanted
was
any
probing
into
Merchant's
business
connections.
'Back
when
he
was
a
student
in
Poland
at
the
beginning
of
the
war,
Merchant
was
put
into
a
concentration
camp
.
I
can't
remember
its
name,
but
I
can
get
it
for
you.
I
took
a
note
after
Merchant
told
me.
Kujavia
was
a
guard
there
–
and
Merchant
recognised
him,
even
though
it
was
so
long
ago.
He
saw
him
kill
a
young
boy
and
he
never
forgot
him
.
He
could
have
identified
Kujavia
as
a
war
criminal.'
McKellar
was
smiling.
'A
war
criminal,'
he
repeated,
and
the
corners
of
his
lips
twitched
and
he
had
begun
to
laugh.
It
sounded
horribly
genuine,
even
if
rusty;
but
then
he
couldn't
have
found
much
to
laugh
at
in
the
last
three
weeks
.
There
was
even
as
he
continued
the
hint
of
a
tear
in
his
eye.
'You're
a
joke,
Wilson
.
I
didn't
expect
you
to
make
me
laugh –'
This
time,
however,
the
interruption
was
a
final
distraction.
The
heavy-bellied
sergeant
was
nodded
in
and
laid
a
brown
envelope
on
the
desk
in
front
of
McKellar.
He
was
wearing
the
familiar
plastic
gloves
used
to
handle
evidence
or,
more oftenly,
to
search
a
drunk
and
disorderly
or
verminous
down-and-
out
in
the
station
.
Behind
him,
other
men
came
in
and
congregated
in
a
half
ring
in
front
of
the
desk.
None
of
them
paid
any
attention
to
Murray
and
from
where
he
sat
he
could
see
McKellar
,
his
own
hands
gloved
now,
open
the
envelope
.
He
slit
it
at
the
wrong
end;
if
a
tongue
had
been
used
to
seal
the
flap,
forensic
might
establish
a
blood
group
from
the
mucus.
Gently
squeezed
and
tilted,
the
envelope
gave
up
a
length
of
folded
paper
.
As
McKellar
spread
it
open,
his
expression
did
not
change,
only
he
kept
it
in
front
of
him
too
long,
like
a
man
committing
something
to
memory
.
When
he
held
it
up,
they
recognised
the
spiky
variable
script
that
carried
the
signature
'Jill'.
It
had
been
addressed
to
him
and
he
would
take
personally
whatever
it
had
contained
of
mockery
or
of
warning.
He
laid
the
letter
in
one
compartment
of
the
white
plastic
evidence
tray
and
held
the
envelope
again
over
another.
He
had
to shake
it
more
than
once,
turning
and
easing
it
until
the
little
packet
inside
came
free.
The
first
impression
was
that
it
was
red
and
then
they
saw
that
this
colour
was
streaked
upon
a
ground
of
white.
As
McKellar
turned
it,
Murray
recognised
the
Royal
Bank
logo
and
'£5
silver'
written
underneath
in
blue.
In
smaller
letters
at
the
bottom,
it
would
carry
the
injunction:
Re-usable
bag.
Do
not
discard.
The
tray
had
a
dozen
compartments
of
various
sizes.
McKellar
held
the
bank
envelope
over
one
of
the
two
longer
rectangular
ones
in
the
middle.
The
envelope
had
a
tuck-and-gather
flap
and
it
took
him
a
moment
to
unpick
it.
Watching,
Murray
could
see
he
was
not
very
deft
with
his
hands.
A
wad
of
cottonwool
and
what
it
held
slid
out
into
the
compartment.