Ripped (81 page)

'Your
brother
and
you
depended
on
Blair
Heathers,
and
that –'

'No.
No
way.'
The
fat
man's
cheeks
quivered
with
the
force
of
his
denial.
'My
brother
didn't
depend
on
anybody.
He
didn't
need
anybody.
My
brother
was
hard.'

Murray
stared
down
at
him
reflectively.
'Seventy
per
cent –
call
it
just
seventy
per
cent
–
of
the
work
your
firm
does
is
for
Heathers.
Take
that
away
and
you
don't
have
a
business.'

The
fat
man
threw
off
glittering
drops
of
tears
and
sweat
as
he shook
his
head.

'You
forget,'
Murray
reminded
him,
'I
went
over
the
books
for
your
wife.'

'Stole
them!
So
that
shyster
lawyer
could
get
his
hands
on
them.
You
cost
me
a
fortune,
you
bastard.'
But
his
heart
wasn't
in
it.

'You
shouldn't
have
put
things
in
her
name.'

'My
brother
was
hard.
I'm
soft.
What
am
I
going
to
do
now?
He
knew
what
to
do.
He
knew
what
to
do
about
everything
.
'

Murray
regarded
him
with
distaste.
'I'm
sorry
about
your brother
.
It
was
a
bad
way
to
go.
You
want
whoever
killed
him
to
be
caught –'

'Her
!
Do
you
not
read
the
papers?
Jill
the
Ripper.
Ripper
.
Christ!'
He
covered
his
eyes
with
his
hand.

Murray
waited,
but
he
seemed
ready
to
shelter
behind
that
hand
indefinitely.
'Had
anything
happened
in
the
business?
Something
he
was
worrying
about?'

'You
say
Blair
sent
you
here?'
The
folds
of
his
cheeks
creased
in
bewilderment.

'That's
right.'

'Blair's
never
had
any
complaints.'

'Maybe
things
have
changed
now
your
brother
isn't
going
to
be
around.'
Murray
watched
the
fat
man
quiver.
'How
about
John
Merchant?
Your
brother
was
tied
up
with
him,
wasn't
he?'

'That
was
Blair's
end,'
the
fat
man
said.
He
wiped
his
cheeks
dry
with
the
palms
of
his
hands
as
he
tried
to
think.
'I
don't
get
any
of
this.
What
does
Blair
want?'

'He's
a
good
citizen.
He's
trying
to
find
out
who
killed
John
Merchant
–
and
your
brother.'

'All
right.
But
where
do
you
get
off
asking
questions
about
the
business?'

'It's
a
funny
coincidence,'
Murray
said.
'There's
a
million
people
in
this
city
–
and
Jill
chooses
John
Merchant
and
your
brother.
And
they
both
did
business
with
Heathers.'

'I
don't
want
to
talk
to
you
anymore.'

'Crazy
people
–
the
ones
who
hear
voices
–
kill
strangers,'
Murray
explained.
'There
isn't
a
reason
why
any
of
their
victims
should
know
one
another.'

'They
might,'
the
fat
man
said
argumentatively
.
'What
about

those
guys
who
kill
prostitutes?
Don't
some
of
those
women
who
get
killed
know
one
another?'

'Being
on
the
game
together,
that's
possible.
But
it's
not
the
pros
who
are
getting
killed
this
time
–
it's
the
clients,'
Murray
pointed
out.
'Why
should
the
clients
know
one
another?
Do
you
think
there's
a
lodge
for
poor
creeps
who
have
to
pay
for
it
in
Moirhill?'

'My
brother – '
Goaded,
the
fat
man
struggled
to
find
the
right
words
while
Murray
waited
interestedly.
'My
brother
wasn't
like
that.'

'He
didn't
go
with
whores?’

'He
didn't
have
to
pay
for
it.'

'What
about
amateurs?
Did
he
pick
women
up?'
Disdaining
to
reply,
the
fat
man
sneered
instead.

'Maybe
he
had
special
tastes?'
Murray
wondered.
'He
wasn't
married,
was
he?'

'There
was
nothing
wrong
– not
with
my
brother.'

The
pain
sounded
real
enough.
As
Murray
studied
him,
the
fat
man
tried
to
hold
his
glance
until
he
began
to
weep,
heavy
shuddering
gasps
that
got
worse
as
he
fought
to
control
them.

'My
brother
was
hard,'
he
sobbed,
'he
crawled
to
nobody.
What
does
it
matter
if
he
knew
John
Merchant?
That
old
tramp
didn't
know
John
Merchant.
Neither
did
the
first
guy
who
was
killed.'
He
wiped
at
his
cheeks
with
an
oddly
child-like
gesture.
'I
don't
believe
Blair
sent
you
here.'

Murray
frowned
.
'The
first
guy?
The
one
that
was
found
in
the
lane
off
Deacon
Street?
What
do
you
mean
he
didn't
know
Merchant?
He's
never
been
identified
– they
don't
know
who
he
is.'