Ripped (120 page)

'When
I
came
in,
I
thought
you'd
changed
your
mind
and
gone,'
Irene
said.
'You've
been
sitting
in
the
dark.'

'No.
I
had
the
light
on
in
here.
Not
at
the
front –
in
case
he
was watching
from
the
street.'

'He'll
be
here
soon,'
she
said.

He
blinked
at
his
watch.
It
was
exactly
eleven
o'clock.
'In
half
an
hour,
if
he's
punctual.
Where
did
you
go?'

'I
just
drove
around
like
you
wanted
me
to,'
she
said.
'When
I thought
it
was
time,
I
came
back.
If
he's
down
there,
he's
seen
me coming
in
alone.
Wasn't
that
the
idea?'

'He'll
be
afraid
of
a
trap.
He'll
be
watching
somewhere
out
there.'

'If
he
was
out
there
when
you
came
in,
then
he
knows
you're
here,'
she
said.

Murray
shrugged.
'I
did
some
looking
myself
before
I
came
in.
I'm
betting
he
wasn't
there.'

Without
being sure...

He
had
not
told
her
about
the
murder of
Mary
O'Bannion.
Where
would
Kujavia
have
gone
after
the
fat
woman's
death?
He
did
not
think
he
would
come
here.

'If
he
comes
at
all,'
he
said
to
her.

'Oh,
yes.
There
isn't
any
doubt
about
that.'
She
began
to
laugh.
Pointing,
she
asked,
'What's
that
you've
got?'

He
was
still
holding
the
doll
by
an
arm,
dangling
from
his
left
hand.
He
looked
at
it
in
bewilderment.
Irene
appeared
enormously
alive
to
him.
The
light
hurt
his
eyes
and
head,
he
had
not
eaten
since
the
day
before;
with
an
aching
floating
clarity,
he
saw
that
excitement
had
heightened
her
into
something
that
glittered
like
beauty.
She
was
full
of
expectation.
Beside
her
he
was
diminished.

'You're
not
well,'
she
said.
'Why
don't
you
go
before
he
comes? That
would
be
better.
You
still
have
time.'

Instead
of
answering,
he
held
out
the
doll.
With
a
movement
he
would
have
been
ashamed
of
if
it
had
been
conscious,
he
stroked
a
finger
down
the
yellow
hair.
'I
found
this
in
one
of
the
drawers.
It
belonged
to
Frances.'

'I
don't
think
so.'

'I
saw
her
with
it
that
time
I
came
here.
It
belonged
to
her.'

She
sat
on
the
bed.
'It
doesn't
seem
worth
arguing
about.
I
mean
what
difference
does
it
make
who
it
belongs
to?'

'I
don't
know,
I
was
looking
for
something
that
would
help
me to
understand
her.
It's
as
though
she
never
lived
here.
I
was
trying
to
remember
her
face.'
The
woman
in
front
of
him,
however,
his
brother's
wife,
had
kept
intruding
into
his
thoughts;
now
it
was
as
if
the
two
sisters
were
one;
mysteriously
the
living
and
the
dead
had
merged.
'But
I
only
met
her
that
once.
It'll
be
different
for
you,
you'll
remember
how
she
looked.'

'Suppose
I
did?
Why
should
you
care?'

'She
killed
men.
I
was
trying
to
understand
what
might
make
a
woman
who
would
do
that.'
He
flicked
the
doll
and
it
sprawled
on
to
the
bed
beside
her
with
legs
apart
and
one
hand
flung
up
above
its
head.
She
tensed
at
the
suddenness
of
it
then
relaxed.
'She
was
your
sister.
Didn't
you
see
her
playing
with
that
when
you
were
kids?
It
must
have
meant
something
to
her,
something
special.
Did
you
get
it
from
your
mother,
from
Annette?'

'I
don't
remember,'
she
said,
so
emphatically
that
he
accepted
it
as
honest.
She
stood
up.
'It's
almost
time.'

As
if
she
could
not
keep
still,
she
yawned
and
stretched.
She
went
back
and
forward
two
or
three
steps
one
way
then
the
other.
A
stranger
brilliant
with
some
dazzling
expectancy
smiled
at
him
and
took
up
the
bag
that
lay
beside
her
coat
on
the
bed.

'Here,
Murray,'
she
said.
'You're
so
anxious
to
understand
everybody.
I'll
make
you
a
present
of
that.'

It
was
a
pocket
diary
with
Frances'
name
in
front;
but
there
were only
notes
of
hair
appointments,
a
visit
to
the
dentist,
an
entry:
'Walked
in
the
park'.
Even
these
jottings
became
less
frequent,
stopped
at
last
in
May,
so
that
most
of
the
little
book
was
blank.