Ripped (25 page)

'Explain,'
Peerse
broke
his
silence
suddenly.
He
had
small
eyes,
very
blue
like
splinters
of
ice. Murray
yawned.
'Waiting,'
Peerse
said.

'I
used
to
know
you
when
you
could
talk
in
sentences,
Ian.'

'Last
warning.
Cut
out
the
first
name –
that's
cheeky.
You
don't
want
to
cross
the
line.'

It
was
Murray's
turn
to
look
out
of
the
window
and
let
a
flare
of temper
come
under
control.
'I
don't
believe
John
Merchant
complained.
Maybe
someone
else
did.'

'Who
would
that
be?'

Murray
cursed
his
own
stupidity.
Peerse
was
the
last
policeman
in
the
world
he
would
want
to
take
an
interest
in
the
connection
between
Malcolm
and
Heathers.
If
Peerse
was
targeting
Blair
Heathers,
he
would
be
as
honest
as
a
salt
scoured
bone;
there
was
no
way
of
corrupting
that
arrogance
.

'Nobody.
Maybe
Merchant
did
–
but
I
only
saw
him
once.
He
didn't
seem
bothered.'

'You
tried
to
see
him
again
yesterday –
and
you
were
back
again today.'

'He's
a
busy
man.
It's
not
easy
to
catch
him, Why? Did
you
want
to
see
him?'

'There
were
a
couple
of
details
I
wanted
to
clear
up.'

'That's
not
an
answer.'

'It's
the
only
one
you're
going
to
get,'
Murray
said.
'I
was working
for
a
client.
That
makes
it
confidential’.

Peerse
leaned
forward
and
tapped
Stewart,
waiting
till
he
faced
right
about
before
saying,
'He
thinks
he's
still
in
America.
No
–
it's
better
than
that.
He
thinks
he's
on
television
in
America;'
and
whickered
air
through
that
long
narrow
nose,
the
sound
that
passed
with
him
for
amusement.

Avoiding
Murray's
eye,
Stewart
made
a
show
of
joining
in
the
joke.

Satisfied,
Peerse
sat
back
as
the
driver
brought
the
car
to
a
halt.
They
had
drawn
into
a
side
street
and
ahead
of
them
a
crowd
was
gathered
round
the
entrance
to
a
lane.
Beyond
that
police
cars
were
already
parked
.

'I
don't
think
we
can
take
the
car
right
in,
sir,'
the
driver
volunteered.
His
voice
was
surprisingly
light
and
hasty
for
such
a
big
man.

'Obviously,'
Peerse
said
sourly.
He
opened
the
door
and
unfolded
his
length
from
the
car.
Bending,
he
warned
Murray,
'I
haven't
finished
with
you.' Left
with
the
fat
driver,
Murray
watched
as
Peerse
cut
through
the
crowd
with
Stewart
in
his
wake.
Erect,
immaculate,
towering
so
far
above
the
slatternly
women
and
gaunt
unshaven
men,
he
appeared
like
a
representative
of
some
different
species.

'Here!'
the
fat
driver
shrilled.
'Where
the
hell
do
you
think
you're
going?'

'Don't
give
yourself
a
hard
time,'
Murray
said
quietly.
'Don't you
know
when
your
gaffer's
kidding
an
old
friend?'

As
he
got
out,
he
saw
across
the
crowd
the
young
constable
who
was
stationed
at
the
mouth
of
the
lane
watching
him.
He
heard
the
fat
driver
fumbling
with
the
handle
of
his
door.
On
impulse,
he
crossed
towards
the
lane.
The
crowd
opened
a
path.
'Is
it
a
lassie?',
'Is
it
right
she
was
raped?',
'You
lot
are
no
bloody
use –'

'Keep
back,'
the
Constable
cried.
His
eyes
were
bright
and
his face
flushed
and
sweating.
'They're
right
at
the
end,
sir.
Round
the
corner.'

Out
of
the
sun,
it
was
unexpectedly
cold
in
the
alley.
Brick
walls on
either
side,
the
dusty
cobbles,
even
the
blank
line
of
barred
windows,
soaked
up
the
light.
Whoever
had
died
in
here
seemed
already
buried.
He
put
back
his
head
and
there
high
above
was
a stripe
of
afternoon
sky,
summer
blue
and
chilled.
A
deep
grave
open
to
the
sky. When
he
looked
down,
it
seemed
darker
and
the
man
had popped
out
from
beyond
the
corner
abruptly
as
a
conjuring
trick.
'This
one's
going
to
be
a
bugger.'

'Aren't
they
all?'

'Wait
till
you
see
this
joker.'

'Was
she
raped?'

'Eh?'

The
man's
grunt
was
more
puzzled
than
suspicious,
but
Murray
knew
he
was
on
the
edge
of
pushing
his
luck
too
far.
Having
no
choice,
he
went
round
the
corner.
In
front
of
him
the
alley
ended
in
a
turning
circle
and
a
service
platform
below
which
a
group
of
men
were
gathered.
Inspection
lamps
had
been
set
up
and
under
their
white
unsparing
glare
a
man
knelt
over
a
shape
on
the
ground.
By
some
accident,
the
watching
men
were
perfectly
silent.
The
police
examiner
moved
to
one
side
and
he
saw
that
where
the
head
of
the
shape
should
be
there
was
a
ruin
of
pulp
drawn
away
from
the
body
in
a
brief
stripe
of
red.
It
was
so
quiet
that
from
behind
a
barred
window
to
the
right
someone
could
be
heard
whistling
'The
Blue
Danube'.
There
was
a
hollow
echo
to
it
as
if
it
came
from
an
empty
room
.
The
way
the
body
had
been
turned
,
one
arm
lay
out
to
the
side
under
the
bright
light
of
the
lamp.