Ripped (57 page)

'He's
one
of
the
people
I
work
for.'

'I
know
how
many
people
you
work
for.
And
I
know
how
much
you
charge.'

'I
lost
some
time
this
week,'
Murray
said
.
'I
can't
afford
to
get
beaten
up.
If
I
don't
do
anything
about
it,
it
could
put
ideas
into
people's
heads.'

'Please,
oh,
please!'
In
her
excitement,
Irene
jumped
up
and
laid
her
hand
on
Heathers'
arm
so
that
the
old
man
startled
at
her
touch.
'It's
a
wonderful
idea.
I'm
sure
that
Murray
could
help.
Mr
Merchant
was
a
nice
man
and
he
was
very
kind
to
Malcolm.'

Her
eyes
shone
with
emotion.
She
looks
as
if
she
might
cry
real
tears,
Murray
thought,
and
to
his
surprise
Heathers
gave
the
appearance
of
catching
the
infection.
With
almost
a
snuffle,
and
a
shake
of
the
head,
he
sighed,
'Ah,
John
was
a
gentleman.
An
old
friend.'

'Are
you
asking
me
to
find
who
killed
John
Merchant?'
Murray
wondered.

'Christ,
no!'
Heathers
exclaimed
in
astonishment.
'There's
plenty
of
policemen
to
do
that.'

'Why
did
you
say
you
wanted
Murray
then?'
With
the
excitement
gone,
Irene's
voice
sounded
flat
and
oddly
disappointed.

'A
retainer,
I
was
offering
him
a
retainer.
Putting
him
on
the
books
for
a
bob
or
two.
And
when
something
turns
up
for
him
to
do,
I'll
get
him
to
do
it.'

Back
to
the
small
debt,
Murray
reflected
wryly;
but
then
Heathers
would
already
have
a
firm
for
that.

'If
you're
going
to
pay
him
anyway,
why
shouldn't
he
try
to
find
who
did
the
murders?'
Irene
persisted.
'You
said
he
was
a
good
detective.'

'Computers,'
Heathers
said
as
if
talking
to
a
child.
'And
dozens
of
detectives.
And
bloody
thousands
of
man
hours
–
not
to
mention
the
overtime.'
He
wriggled
himself
forward
out
of
the
depths
of
the
chair,
leaning
forward
towards
Murray.
'Chances
are
they'll
manage
without
you.
I'll
find
something
for
you
to
do
–
but
not
now,
that's
what
a
retainer's
about.
And
the
thing
is,
I
know
what
you
get
paid,
mister.
That's
what
I'm
offering
–
and
whatever
expenses
you
need.
Within
reason.
And
no
bloody
garbage
about
lost
weeks.
I'm
running
a
business
not
a
charity.'
The
insignificant
physical
task
of
getting
to
the
edge
of
the
low
chair
had
cost
him
a
visible
effort,
and
perhaps
it
was
the
consciousness
of
that
which
made
him
venomous.
He
sank
back
and
took
his
breath.
'If
you
did
hear
anything,
of
course,
I'd
expect
to
be
told.
If
John
Merchant
was
tortured,
I'd
like
to
know
why.
But
that's
only
if
you
happened
to
hear
something.
I
don't
want
you
going
around
stirring
things
up.
You
try
that
and
the
money
stops
–
I
don't
want
things
stirred
up.'

'Tortured?'
Murray
wondered
.

'That's
what
your
friend
Peerse
thinks.
And
he's
got
brains
instead
of
cow
shit
between
his
ears.'
As
Heathers
mouthed
the
harmless
vulgarity,
Murray
saw
his
head
turn
as
if
he
couldn't
resist
a
glance
at
Irene.
Did
he
think,
the
old
man,
he
might
shock
her?

'Business
information?
Your
business?'
Murray
asked.

'If
it
was,
I'd
want
to
be
the
one
that
was
told
about
it,'
Heathers
said,
his
voice
suddenly
flat
and
ugly.
He
made
a
gesture
of
impatience.
'You
won't
hear
anything.
I'm
not
expecting
you
to
hear
anything.'

'You
already
told
me
that.'

'I'm
telling
you
again.'
Heathers
clenched
his
plump
white
fists
on
the
arm
of
the
chair
and
lifted
himself
to
his
feet.
'You're
getting
paid
for
waiting,
that
makes
you
lucky.'
With
his
hands
behind
his
back,
he
paced
to
and
fro;
he
strutted
as
small
men
sometimes
do;
if
he
had
been
apprehensive
when
he
first
saw
Murray,
the
last
trace
of
it
seemed
to
have
gone.
'Usually
men
who
work
for
me
work
hard.
Not
as
hard
as
me
right
enough –
not
the
way
I
worked,
building
up
everything
from
nothing,
nobody
who
hasn't
done
that
knows
what
hard
work
is
.
But
that's
me,
not
you.
You
take
it
easy,
you'll
get
a
cheque
every
week.
Take
time,
get
over
your
accident.
Think
of
me
as
a
friend
of
the
family.'