Kiss Her Goodbye (7 page)

Monkman said, "Okay."

Two of the other policemen helped Joe to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried him to the waiting mini-van. He protested as quietly as he could, struggling against his desire to check the damage, see if his ribcage looked as bad as it felt. But, handcuffed, he couldn't check a thing. They shoved him into the back of the van. One of the other policemen got in alongside him and, after a while, Monkman joined them and sat opposite Joe.

Once the copper had made himself comfortable he said, "Think you'll need to see a doctor?"

Joe said nothing.

Monkman said, "Good answer." Moments later he said, "We'll get you checked out. Get you strapped up."

Joe said, "Don't bother."

The van trundled along. Joe stared at Monkman's shoes. One day, he'd take them off and feed them to the bastard. Pigs ate anything, didn't they? He looked up. What did the fucker expect? Gratitude? The offer of medical attention was just a ploy to save his own skin. If Joe died in custody as the result of a punctured lung or something, Monkman wouldn't look too clever. Maybe he was regretting ordering the kicking. Joe wondered if he should threaten to press charges.

Monkman said, "You grinning at? You just killed your wife. You got nothing to laugh about."

Ice formed at the top of Joe's spine. He kept smiling. It seemed important to keep smiling.

Monkman's eyes opened wide and he shook his head. "Father like you, no wonder your daughter killed herself."

"Is that official? Gem killed herself?"

It was official, Joe was thinking now as he clutched his side, no longer smiling, just staring at the magnolia walls of his prison cell. But he knew that. He knew Gem had killed herself, even without an autopsy report. It still didn't make sense. None of it made the slightest bit of sense.

One day your daughter kills herself. Next day, somebody kills your wife. How can you make sense of that?

What made matters worse was that the police had told him almost nothing. Joe didn't even know how Ruth had died. He knew from Monkman only that she'd been murdered. But what did that mean? Had she been strangled, stabbed, shot? Was she the victim of a hit-and-run? And where had it happened? At home, in the street, while she was shopping at Safeway's? For all Joe knew, a disgruntled employee might have garrotted her in the tinned soup aisle.

Bubbles. Joe saw bubbles.

He closed his eyes. More bubbles. A single yellow, plastic duck bobbing on the surface of the bath water. His fingers drag through the tepid water. She's been in there too long. His hand leaps out. Bam. Her head snaps back. Her eyes widen, dazed. His hand clamps over her mouth, forces her head under. His fingers vibrate with her screams. Her legs kick, splashing a right bloody storm. Over the rim of the bath, soaking his trousers. Her hands claw at him. He lets her up, watching her choke, splutter, gasp for breath. One, two, three. Again. Her limbs thrash. Up she comes. This time pity takes over. One, two, three. He rams the back of her head against the wall. A dull sound. Thwack. Like a smack through wet clothing. Makes him shiver. Like the first whisky of the day. She grunts. Her eyes cloud over. She sinks back into the water, head rolling to the side. He grabs her by the neck and holds her face under water.

Bubbles. He sees bubbles.

He closes his eyes. Can't watch. He counts. One, two, three. He counts to twenty. Thirty. Forty. Opens his eyes. Fifty-two, fifty-three. A single bubble reaches the surface. Pops. Half a minute later — eighty-two, eighty-three — the water is almost smooth. Not a bubble in sight, the plastic duck floats on the lightly undulating surface.

If Joe had killed her that's how he'd have done it. But he hadn't, had he? At the time he was — well, he didn't know where he was. He didn't know when she'd been killed, did he? He sat up suddenly, groaned out loud and clutched his side. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Bloody ribs. Getting better, though. For at least five minutes he hadn't noticed the pain at all. He remained seated, and listened to the sound of low voices approaching his cell.

He distinctly heard the shuffle of feet. Soles scuffing concrete. The footsteps stopped and a key rattled in the lock. The door opened and Monkman stepped into the cell accompanied by a plainclothes detective Joe hadn't seen before.

"On your feet." Monkman brandished a pair of handcuffs. Joe stood up slowly, grimacing. "Turn round. Hands behind your back." Joe did as instructed and Monkman clicked the handcuffs into place. Roughly. Joe turned to face him. "Time we had a little chat," the policeman said.

TEN

The interrogation room was windowless and stank of sweat. Each bile-yellow wall was completely bare. A long table, with two plastic chairs on each side, was jammed against the left-hand wall. On top of the table was a fancy-looking tape recorder, a dual deck with a pair of dinky speakers and a microphone on a cheap plastic stand.

Joe said, "We having a disco, lads?"

"Sit down." As if to demonstrate, Monkman dragged a chair out from under the table and sat down. He placed a notepad on the table and wiggled a pencil between his fingers.

"Don't know that I can do that," Joe said.

Monkman leaned back in his chair. "Why not?"

"You ever tried sitting down with your hands cuffed behind your back?" Joe said. "Makes it bloody hard. You can have a go if you like. Borrow these. Warn you, though, you're liable to lose your balance and fall bollock over tit onto the floor."

Monkman leaned forward and pointed his pencil at Joe. "Sit your arse the fuck down."

"No need to get all red in the face," Joe said. "Can I speak to you in confidence? I've got these strange pains in my side that I really don't want to aggravate. Fall into that chair with a thump and I'll be howling like a stuck pig."

Monkman lowered his head. Twiddled his pencil.

"You want to watch your blood pressure," Joe advised him. "Your neck's gone red. Pays to take care of your health, you know. Maybe this job's too much for you. You could take up something less stressful. Something more suited to a redneck policeman." He pretended to think for a minute. "Pig farming, for instance. I hear—"

Monkman raised his head. Lips bloodless, cheek muscles taut, he inched his torso towards Joe. Without a word the other CID man, young, early twenties perhaps, with a small scar pitting the skin above his left eyebrow, grabbed Joe's elbow and steered him towards the far side of the table. He positioned Joe in front of one of the chairs and pressed down on his shoulders. Joe's arse hit the chair with a thump that jolted his spine and rattled his ribs. The intense pain almost made him pass out. He took a few seconds to compose himself, then smiled at Monkman and said, "You going to turn that tape recorder on, or do you need some help?"

Monkman tugged at the cuffs of his jacket sleeves. First the right one, then the left. Then he reached over and pressed the record button on the tape deck. He introduced everybody in the room. The silent detective, it transpired, was a mere constable called McGivern.

McGivern joined Monkman at the other side of the table.

Monkman said, "Why did you kill your wife, Mr. Hope?"

"Aren't you supposed to lead up to that question?"

"Just answer it."

Joe took a deep breath, tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling for a while. When he thought they'd waited long enough, he said, "She pissed me off."

"Aha," Monkman said. "How did she do that?"

"I had a social engagement." Joe licked his dry lips. Waited a little longer. "She refused to iron my shirt."

Monkman glanced at his colleague. McGivern shrugged. Monkman said, "You expect us to believe that your wife's failure to iron your shirt was sufficient provocation for you to murder her?"

"You're the detective. Impress me with your deductive powers."

Monkman picked up his notepad and slapped it against the table. "You know what worries me?"

"Your personality?"

"You don't seem at all upset that she's dead."

Joe said, "No comment."

"Here we go." Monkman let go of the notepad so he could pull the left sleeve of his jacket a millimeter closer to his wrist. "Will you answer this, then? It's a very simple question." He cleared his throat. "Did you kill your wife, Mr. Hope?"

"You really don't believe in beating about the bush, eh? I like that, so I'll give you an answer. I did not kill my wife, Detective Sergeant Monkman."

"Do you have any idea who might have killed your wife?"

"I do not have a baldy notion."

"A what?"

"No."

"But it wasn't you."

"Like I said."

"Mr. Hope. What do you do for a living?"

"Ah, I see. Change the line of attack. Disorient the suspect, huh? Very clever. I'm all confused. What was the question?"

"Your job, Mr. Hope?"

"Managing Director of IBM Belgium."

"Mr. Hope, you are unemployed. And have been, apparently, since you left university. That's quite a long time."

Joe shrugged. "No work around. What can you do?"

"Yet you own your own home."

"D minus for your homework. Ruth owns the house. Not me."

"But you do now, Mr. Hope. She's dead, if you recall. The house belongs to you."

"I'd forgotten. Thanks for reminding me." Joe didn't say anything further. The silence lengthened. Was this another cheap interrogation tactic? Most people don't like silence. Makes them feel uncomfortable. So they talk. Say whatever comes to mind. The policemen weren't going to break the silence. Monkman was going to sit there playing with his pencil while his colleague shuffled his feet and made an irritating sucking sound with his teeth. The silence dragged.

McGivern started to tap the table gently.

Joe couldn't be bothered with this. He wasn't going to find out what had happened to Ruth by sitting on his arse listening to McGivern's medley of irritating noises. "Unless you're going to arrest me," he said, "you can only hold me for six hours. You left me alone in the cell for an hour. That means you have fewer than five hours left and you're sitting there wasting it like a pair of useless twats." He paused, observing their reactions. Monkman looked agitated. McGivern looked bored. Joe said, "I've been here before. I know the rules. I know the tricks. Why don't we just get on with it?"

Monkman scratched his ear with blunt end of his pencil. "Was it about money? Was that your motivation?"

"You think I killed her for the house?"

"I don't know. Did you?"

"To be honest, the house was a bonus. It was mainly, as I said earlier, the fact that she didn't iron my shirts."

"Very droll," Monkman said.

"What about Adam Wright?"

Joe turned to look at the man who'd just spoken. "Constable McGivern," he said. "Pleased to meet you." The policeman didn't respond, other than to emit a sucking noise that sounded a bit like a chirping bird. Joe said, "What about Adam?"

"You jumped on a plane at a moment's notice and took a taxi straight to his abode," McGivern said. "Seems there was a kind of urgency involved in your actions, wouldn't you say?"

"Wanted to ask the man a few questions. No law against that, is there?"

"Why couldn't you ask them over the phone?"

"Rather than his, what did you call it, abode?" Joe waited a moment, then said, "Too impersonal. I wanted a face-to-face meeting."

"The taxi driver who picked you up at the airport said your behavior was threatening."

"Spoken to him already? That was quick."

"Did you threaten the driver, Mr. Hope?"

"I'm a well-built guy. I have a substantial physical presence. I can understand how some people might find me threatening."

"Did you threaten the taxi driver, Mr. Hope? Yes or no."

"Not one tiny hair of his head."

Monkman said, "The driver, as you well know, is perfectly bald. Now answer the constable's question. Please."

"I did not threaten the bald taxi driver. May I also say that I did not threaten Adam in any way. And I did not kill my wife. Anything else you want me to deny? Oh, I know. Just for the tape." He winked. "I did not receive a kicking from the local police force. Can I go now?"

"Mr. Hope," Monkman said. "What would it take for you to be serious about this?"

"Fifty quid."

"Mr. Hope."

"Take it or leave it. Final offer."

"Your wife is dead."

"Totally slipped my mind. Again. Thank you for reminding me, sergeant."

Monkman jabbed his pencil into the notepad so hard that the point snapped off. "Fuck," he said, staring at the half-centimeter long piece of graphite that had detached itself from the rest of the pencil. He swept it off the notepad and stared at his useless pencil. Then, as if suddenly remembering that he had just sworn on tape, he said, "Excuse me." He tossed the pencil onto the table. It rolled towards the edge of the table.

McGivern stood up.

"Leave it, constable." The pencil fell on the floor and McGivern returned to his seat. Monkman said, "Okay, Mr. Hope. Okay."