Ripped (7 page)

'It's
a
lousy
job.
You
know
that,'
Stewart
said
unexpectedly.
'Did
I
ever
tell
you
when
I
was
a
kid
my
mother
went
to
see
our
local
Councillor?
She
wanted
to
send
me
to
a
fee-paying
school
and
went
to
ask
him
about
it.
He
said
to
her,
That
kind
of
place
isn't
for
people
like
you.
Some
fucking
Socialist,
eh?'

'John
Merchant.'

'I
have
told
you
before.
That
wasn't
yesterday
.
..
Now
the
bastard's
in
line
to
be
Lord
Provost.
They'll
make
him
a
Sir – Sir
John
Merchant.'
He
laughed.
'Some
fucking
Socialist,
eh?'

'And
is
Heathers
going
to
make
him
rich?'

'You
never
stop
trying,
do
you?
I'm
going
home.' Murray
walked
him
along
the
narrow
corridor
to
the
front
door.
Stewart
took
a
step
out
on
to
the
landing
then
turned
back.

'I
had
to
talk
that
plainclothes
guy
out
of
taking
your
brother
into
the
shop.
He
wanted
to
give
him
a
doing
where
he
wouldn't
be
interrupted.' When
there
was
no
response,
he
tapped
on
the
board
that
had
been
nailed
across
the
upper
panel
of
the
door.
'What
happened
to
your
glass?'

'Kids.'

'Nice
advert.' Lettered
on
the
board
were
the
words:
Wilson
Enquiry
Agency – Discretion
Guaranteed. 'Nowadays,'
Murray
said,
'who
can
control
kids?
If
one
of
them
grows
up
to
be
a
bad
debtor,
then
I'll
get
him.'

Stewart
grinned
.
'I
did
your
brother
a
favour.'

'You
told
me.'

'And
you –
Peerse
would
break
my
back,
if
he
knew
I'd
done
you
a
favour.'

'Peerse!'
Murray
made
the
name
sound
like
one
of
the
swear
words
he
avoided.

'Sure!
But
he's
still
my
gaffer.
Funny
to
think
it
was
Peerse
got
the
promotions.'

'Somebody
has
to
be
clever,
Eddy.'

'Cleverer
than
you,
Murray?'

'I
got
out.
That's
where
I
was
clever.'

Stewart
looked
at
the
mended
door
and
the
dark
passage
beyond
it.

'Yeah,'
he
said.

2 The Guard

TUESDAY,
AUGUST
28
TH
1988

The
old
Chambers
Building
filled
one
side
of
the
Square.
It
had
been
built
out
of
nineteenth-century
riches
and
confidence.
Murray
had
read
up
on
it
when
he
was
a
raw
policeman
on
duty
there,
young
and
enough
of
a
stranger
to
be
excited
by
the
city;
and
so,
as
he
crossed
the
entrance
hall,
he
knew
that
the
marble
under
his
feet
was
Numidian
and
black
Irish.
He
knew
that
of
the
two
giant
nudes
that
guarded
the
main
staircase
one
was
named
Purity
and
the
other
Honour.
As
he
climbed,
he
knew
the
staircase
was
of
marble
and
its
balustrade
of
alabaster
with
pillars
from
Italy
and
Derbyshire.
The
mosaics
on
the
wall
had
been
imported
from
Venice;
the
lamps
were
copies
of
the
one
in
St
Mark's.
From
the
old
days,
he
remembered
where
the
Committees
met
and
went
along
a
lobby
roofed
and
lined
with
majolica
from
Staffordshire.
There
were
rooms
of
satin-wood
from
Ceylon,
amber-wood
from
South
America
and
mahogany
from
Cuba
and
St
Domingo.
The
city
had
levied
tribute
from
the
world,
but
then
there
had
been
giants
on
the
earth
in
those
days.
'You're
in
the
wrong
place,'
Merchant
said.
'Where
are
you looking
for?'

It
might
have
been
the
foreign
inflection,
still
there
despite
the
years
of
exile,
which
made
the
question
sound
abrupt;
but
it
was,
in
any
case,
the
tone
Murray
would
have
expected
from
him.
Merchant
had
the
reputation
of
being
an
arrogant
man.
He
had been
a
power
in
the
City
Chambers
for
more
than
twenty
years,
and
even
after
the
Region
had
been
set
up
preferred
to
spend
as
much
of
his
time
as
possible
in
familiar
surroundings
rather
than
in
the
new
bureaucracy's
prematurely
tarnished
tower
of
concrete
and
glass. He
remained
to
that
extent
a
European
of
a
certain
kind,
a
man of
taste. The
narrow
silver
skull
inclined
again
over
the
file
of
papers
spread
on
the
table
before
him.
After
a
moment,
he
looked
up
as
if
in
surprise
and
made
a
gesture
of
impatience.
'I
really
don't
have
time
to
waste.'

The
windowless
room
was
small,
a
side
chamber
off
one
of
the
lesser
committee
rooms,
wood-panelled
and
smelling
of
wax
polish.
The
table
and
four
upright
seats
with
green
leather
backs
provided
its
only
furniture.
Murray
took
the
seat
that
faced
Merchant,
and
when
he
sat
leaned
forward
with
his
elbows
on
the
table.
'I'm
Malcolm
Wilson's
brother,'
he
said,
and
felt
the
unwelcome
anger
pressing
up
for
release.

'Malcolm
Wilson,'
Merchant
repeated
and,
shutting
his
eyes, seemed
to
recall
the
name.
'A
promising
young
man,
he's
the
type
who
will
go
far.'
He
looked
down
again
at
the
file
in
front
of
him
.
Unexpectedly,
he
sounded
tired
.

'If
he
takes
your
advice,'
Murray
said,
'he's
going
to
go
further
than
he
expects
to.
Maybe,
all
of
you
are.'

Merchant
leaned
back.
'I
think
that
is
something
you
had
better
try
to
explain.'

Murray
hesitated.
He
had
thought
through
what
he
had
to
do,
but
caution
suggested
that
he
get
what
he
wanted
with
as
little
pressure
as
possible
.
Whatever
happened,
by
coming
here
and
making
an
enemy
of
Merchant,
he
had
probably
finished
himself
in
this
city.

'I
work
as
a
private
detective,'
he
began.
'It's
part
of
my
business
to
hear
things.
I
have
contacts.'

'Wait
a
minute.'
Merchant
rubbed
a
finger
between
his
brows.
'Wilson's
brother.
Yes
.
..
you're
older
than
he
is.
You
were
a
policeman
here
in
the
city
.
..
You
went
off
without
the
formality
of
a
resignation.
Some
years
later,
you
turned
up
in
Manchester where
you
set
yourself
up
as
a
detective.
But
you
had
been
in
the
United
States
before
that.
You
worked
for
a
criminal
called
Seidman.
And
now
you're
back
favouring
us.'

'Seidman
wasn't
a
criminal,'
Murray
said.
It
was
foolish
to
have
that
as
his
first
reaction –
what
difference
could
it
make,
this
much
later
and
so
far
away,
to
the
memory
of
a
good,
brave
man?
'But
you've
asked
questions
about
me.
Never
mind
whether
the
answers
were
right
or
not,
that
means
you
had
to
check
up
on
me – because
you
had
to
check
up
on
Malcolm.
That
means
you've
got
him
involved
in
something.'