Ripped (28 page)

In
the
back
room,
he
turned
on
the
water
heater.
He
managed
half
the
fish
but
the
chips
had
waited
too
long.
Slippery
and
lukewarm,
they
were
wadded
into
the
paper
and
dropped
in
the
bucket
under
the
sink.
His
prejudice
where
tea
was
concerned,
favoured
Chinese
and
he
drank
the
first
of
too
many
cups,
its
perfume
tickling
his
nostrils,
and
wondered
how
he
could
keep
Mr
Foley
going,
and
thought
about
Merchant,
and
the
man
in
the
lane
and
the
bad
joke
played
on
him
in
death
by
the
van
driver's
wheel.
Merchant's
story
of
the
butcher
who
did
not
know
the
meaning
of
circumcision
came
into
his
head
and
ran
there
like
an
offensive
tune
which
would
not
be
dislodged.
Eddy
Stewart
had
a
sociable
memory
for
jokes;
he
wondered
if
he
had
heard
the
one
about
the
butcher
.
Every
day
was
an
anniversary
of
something.
For
Merchant
there
would
be
a
day
in
every
year
which
was
the
anniversary
of
the
guard
from
the
camp:
'I
saw
worse
things
later but
because
it
was
the
first
I
never
forgot
him.'
And
now
Merchant
was
claiming
to
have
seen
the
man
again,
in
a
different
time,
a
different
place,
a
different
world.
Crazy.
He
thought
about
how
too
many
anniversaries
might
make
you
crazy.
He
wondered
what
had
driven
his
neighbour
Miss
Timmey
crazy.
'It
wasn't
what
he
did
to
the
boy,'
Merchant
had
said.
'It
was
the
noise.
There's
a
noise
a
baby
makes
crying.'
He
thought
about
Miss
Timmey
and
why
her
madness
should
take
the
form
of
accusing
the
young
couple
across
the
landing,
who
were
so
crazy
for
one
another,
and
might
now
be
lying
entwined
on
the
bed –

And
it
was
time
then
to
stop
thinking.
Solitary
is
not
lonely.
Loneliness,
as
much
as
water
on
stone,
will
wear
away
the
hardest
substance.

He
set
up
the
chess
board
with
a
problem
he
had
worked
before.
It
was
a
conversation
with
a
familiar
acquaintance.
After
a
time,
he
moved
a
piece,
but
as
he
reflected
on
the
responses
that
made
possible,
the
unwanted
image
came
to
him
of
a
couple
entwined
on
a
bed.
How
could
a
woman,
a
woman
on
her
own,
kill
a
man?
Even
if
the
pain
had
been
unexpected
and
terrible,
would
he
not
have
defended
himself
by
instinct?
How
could
she
have
been
sure,
a
woman
on
her
own,
that
she
could
kill
him?
Crazy.
The
woman
–
crazy
idea
–
carried
the
man's
hand
to
her
mouth
and
bit
at
the
soft
webbing
beside
the
thumb.
Perhaps
he
was
expecting
to
be
fondled;
perhaps
he
was
smiling.
Like
an
animal,
she
tore
out
his
flesh.
Murray
stared
at
a
ruined
face
given
one
hard
edge
by
the
inspection
lamp
and
at
the
hand
thrown
out
under
its
glare
and
at
the
half
moon
of
blackened
flesh
torn
from
the
root
of
the
thumb,
and
remembering
drove
away
the
maggot
ideas
silence
bred
sometimes
until
the
room
darkened
and
the
pieces
on
the
board
withdrew
into
the
shadows.

7
Clients

SATURDAY,
SEPTEMBER
1
ST
1988

'I'm
a
busy
man,'
Superintendent
Standers
said
.

'I'm
sorry
your
time's
being
wasted
like
this,'
Murray
said
.
'It
was
stupid
of
me
going
into
the
lane.
I
did
it
on
impulse
and
I
can't
apologise
any
more
than
I
have
done
.
I
was
out
of
line.
But
it
isn't
anything
to
do
with
the
murder
–
I
don't
know
why
Peerse
bothered
you
with
it.'

'Inspector
Peerse.
And
let
me
decide
what's
a
waste
of
time.'

Meaty
hands
folded
in
front
of
him,
the
Superintendent
had
a
countryman's
complexion,
though
scored
with
lines
in
the
cheeks
and
the
deep
pouches
under
the
eyes
that
seemed
to
come
with
the
job
.
He
was
new
into
the
city
and,
recognising
the
type,
Murray
guessed
at
an
uneventful
progress
with
the
neighbouring
county
force
from
constable
to
Training
School
to
Chief
Inspector
until
regionalisation
had
put
several
forces
into
one
command
structure
and
brought
him
into
town
as
Superintendent
of
the
Moirhill
sub-division
of
Northern.
Through
the
half-open
door
came
the
sound
of
people
talking
and
moving
about,
the
ringing
of
telephones,
all
of
it
echoing
under
the
high
roof
of
the
school
hall.

A
man
in
shirt
sleeves
holding
a
clipboard
appeared
in
the
opening.
'It
seems
it's
okay
for
the
bottom
jaw,'
he
said.
'So
that's
good
news,
sir.'

'What
the
hell
are
you
talking
about?'
Standers
asked.

The
man
with
the
clipboard
looked
flustered.
He
had
been standing
with
one
hand
resting
on
the
handle
of
the
door
as
if
able
to
pause
only
for
a
moment
in
mid-flight.
Now
he
came
another
step
or
two
into
the
room.

'The
victim,
sir.
It
seemed
as
if
there
might
not
be
any
help
at all
from
the
teeth
–
but
it
turns
out
they've
got
the
front
of
the
lower
jaw
and
most
of
the
right
side
still
attached.
And
he
had
quite
a
bit
of
work
done.
It
should
help
to
confirm
identification.'

'Once
we
find
out
who
he
is,'
Standers
said.
Unexpectedly
then,
he
smiled
and
said
on
a
different
note,
'That's
a
good
bit
of
news
,
eh,
Tom.
Things
are
beginning
to
move
.
Carry
on.'

Puzzled
by
the
altered
tone,
Murray
looked
towards
the
door
and
saw
beyond
the
shirt-sleeved
detective
the
hovering
ramshackle
figure
of
Billy
Shanks.
Glancing
back,
he
found
Standers'
eye
upon
him.

'You
can
go,'
the
Superintendent
said.
'And
shut
the
door
on
your
way
out.'

'Not
for
a
ticking
off.
What
gave
you
that
idea?'
Standers
said.
He
tapped
the
newspaper
lying
folded
open
on
the
corner
of
the
desk.
'I
think
this
could
be
useful
to
us.'

From
where
he
sat,
folded
into
a
chair
to
which
he
anchored himself
by
one
long
tendril
leg,
Billy
Shanks
could
see
under
the
Superintendent's
finger
that
morning's
copy
of
the
'World
of
the
Streets'
column.

'I'm
glad
about
that.
When
I
got
your
call,
I
was
worried,'
he said.
'You
shouldn't
have
to
waste
your
time.
I
wouldn't
want
to
have
written
anything
that
caused
a
problem
–
not
on
a
murder
case.'

'Most
cases
of
homicide,'
Standers
said,
taking
the
tone
of
a man
accustomed
to
them,
'are
over
before
they
start.
It's
the
boyfriend
or
the
father
or
son –
the
wife
who's
taken
one
kicking
too
many.
Most
murders
are
family
affairs,
you
could
say.
Or
pub
jobs
–
when
a
broken
glass
catches
the
other
guy
in
the
wrong
place.'
He
touched
his
neck.
'Cut
there
and
jump
back
before
the
blood
hits
you
in
the
eye.
This
one
could
be
more
complicated.’

‘T
hat's
quite
an
incident
room
you're
setting
up
out
there.'
Shanks
wrinkled
his
nose
at
the
memory
of
the
smell
that
had
stung
his
nostrils
in
the
entrance
corridor.
Generations
of
children
had
left
it
to
haunt
the
place,
poverty's
equivalent
of
clanking
chains.
It
oozed
from
walls
painted
institutional
green
and
hovered
uneasily
outside
the
headmaster's
door,
whose
reversed
title
he
could
make
out
worked
in
spidery
silvery
tracery
on
the
opaque
glass
which
separated
them
for
the
moment
from
the
bustle
of
activity.
'It
surprised
me
to
see
the
school
opened
up.'