A Spoonful of Luger (33 page)

He
looked
at
me,
taking
it
in.
Then
he
shook
his
head.
“I
can’t
help
it.
That’s
how
it
was.”

“Tony!”

He
looked
at
his
hands
and
mumbled
something.
I
slapped
my
palm
on
the
table
and
he
looked
up
angrily.

“I
was
confused,”
he
said.

I
glanced
round,
but
nobody
had
left
the
door
open.
It
wasn’t
a
draught
down
my
spine.

“I’ll
get
you
another
coffee,”
I
offered.
I
just
had
to
have
time.

I
knew
only
too
well
what
he
meant.
In
a
thousand
interrogations
I’d
encountered
the
same
thing.
You
got
them
so
confused
that
their
brains
couldn’t
come
up
with
any
more
lies.
All
they
had
left
was
the
desperate
truth,
however
stupid
and
illogical
it
might
sound.

Not
simply
a
coffee,
but
also
a chocolate
biscuit.
Tony
simply
loved
the
silver
paper.

“So
you
told
the
truth,”
I
agreed.
“There’ll
be
no
confirmation,
you
realize
that.”

“Can’t
help
it.”

“Which
means
Bycroft
will
be
back.”
And
would
just
about
tear
him
apart.

“All
right ...
all
right,”
he
said
aggressively.
“So
I’ll
think
up
a
lie
that’ll
convince
him.
That
what
you
want?”

I
said
nothing.

“Is
that
what
you
came
for?”
he
demanded.
“Perhaps
you’ve
got
a
nice
solid
lie
all
ready
for
me
to
tell
him.”

I
took
a
grip
on
my
nerves.
Side
issues
later.

“No,
Tony.
I
came
to
ask
you
one
small
point.
We
all
know
that
Dennis
Cleave
collected
log
books
from
crashed
cars,
and
Norman
or
his
brother
Mike
pinched
cars
to
link
with
the
log
books.
But
—
what
happened
to
the
old
wrecks?
Cleave
wouldn’t
let
’em
hang
around
the
yard.
That’d
be
too dangerous.
He’d
dump
them,
Tony.
Just
tell
me
where.”

It
wasn’t
a
butterfly
after
all.
It
was
a
praying
mantis.
Tony
brushed
it
off
the
table
angrily.

“Loaded
the
bits
up,”
he
said.
“All
the
bits
anybody
could
recognize.
In
his
pick-up.
Then
he’d
drive
‘em
out
to
the
town
dump.”
He
glanced
at
me.
“At
night.
They’d
get
covered
up
the
next
day.”

“Where’s
the
nearest
phone?”

“What’s
up?”

“You’ve
been
very
helpful.
We
may even
forgive
you
the
rest
some
day.”

I
left
him,
or
rather
tried
to
leave
him,
but
he
was
hovering
around
the
box
when
I
made
the
call
to
Bycroft,
great
fluffy
flakes
of
snow
settling
on
his
shoulders,
his
cold
fingers
stuck
in
those
awkward
little
pockets
they
put
in
the
fronts
of
jeans.
Bycroft
took
a
bit
of
persuading,
but
in
the
end
saw
he
had
no
alternative
but
to
try
it.

“What’ve
you
got?”
Tony
asked, hurrying
to
keep
up
with
me.

“Maybe
Dulcie.”
I
opened
up
the
car.
Tony
banged
on
the
other
window
until
I
let
him
in.
“It’s
not
for
you.”

He
slumped
down
in
the
seat.
“D’you
know
where
the
dump
is?”

“No.”

“Well
then.”

He
directed
me
there,
and
we
waited
in
the
car.
Sprague
must
have
done
some
smart
work
on
the
phone
before
they
left
the
office,
but
all
the
same
the
operation
took
some
time
to
lay
on.
Squad
cars
began
to
arrive,
stood
parked,
their
drivers
pacing,
slapping
their
palms,
whispering
in
groups.
Then
we
were
all
waiting
for
the
JCB
to
arrive
from
the
hire
firm,
with
Sprague
and
Bycroft
standing
lonely
together,
staring
down
into
the
task
ahead.

It
had
been
some
sort
of
a
quarry
before
they
began
filling
it
in
with
refuse.
No
doubt
they’d
build
a
shopping
complex
on
the
site
when
they’d
finished.
There
was
a
drive
in
from
the
road,
leading
onto
a
U-road all
round
the
circumference
of
the
top
edge.
Tippers
were
driving
in
all
the
while,
backing
up,
dumping
their
loads
over
the
edge.
It
had
to
be
organized,
otherwise
they’d
be
backing
onto
a
collapsing
surface,
and
the
tipping
locations
had
to
be
strictly
regulated.
Bycroft
had
had
the
present
tipping
stopped,
and
wagons
began
to
pile
up
in
a
long
queue.
Then,
after
consultation
with
the
foreman,
it
was
decided
where
tipping
had
been
permitted
on
the
Friday
before
last.
Of
course,
Cleave,
if
he’d
tipped
here
on
that
night,
would
have
been
alone
in
the
dark
with
only
his
lights
for
company,
so
could
have
dumped
anywhere.
But
latticed
metal
created
a
running
surface
to
the
edge,
so
probably
he’d
have
played
safe
and
complied
with
the
indicated
position.
We
hoped.