A Spoonful of Luger (41 page)

“Snooping?”

“Looking.
Poking
around.
Please
yourself.”

“Recently?”

“Up
to ...
recently.”

“When,
precisely,
is
recently?”

He
turned
away.
I
was
losing
patience
with
him.
All
anybody
ever
got
from
him
was
the
truth
when
he
couldn’t
help
it.
I
grabbed
his
arm
and
pulled
him
around.

“Since
Dulcie
went
missing,”
I
suggested.
“Let’s
try
that
for
a
definition
of
recently.”

“Lay
off
me.”

“Why
don’t
you
want
to
answer?”

“Who’re
you
working
for,
anyway?”

“Answer
the
question.
Since
Dulcie went
missing?”

He
shook
his
arm
furiously.
“Yes,
if
you
want
to
know.”

“Looking
for
spares?”

“I
suppose.”

“You
suppose!
Don’t
you
know?
Did
he
buy
any?”

“How
the
hell
could
he?
He’d
have
to
go
to
Dennis
for
that.
To
pay
for
’em.
Only
Dennis ... ”
He
bit
his
lip.
“You’re
hurting
my
arm.”

“Only
Dennis
what?”

“Wasn’t
here.
Mr
Randall’s
been
coming
when
Dennis
wasn’t
here.”

“Sort
of
picked
his
time?”

“If
you
want
to
put
it
like
that.”

I
released
his
arm,
or
rather
I
threw
him
away
from
me
in
disgust.
You
had
to
pry
every
detail
out
of
him.
He
was
bright
enough
to
know
what
you
were
getting
at,
but
all
the
same
he
stalled.
Every
time.
What
was
his
idea?
He
wasn’t
losing
by
any
of
his admissions.
Was
it
purely
a
matter
of
principle?

“You
don’t
like
the
police,
do
you
Tony?”

“You
ain’t
police.
But
I
don’t
like
you
either.”

“What’ve
you
got
against
them?”

“Stupid
lot.
Blunderers.
They
couldn’t
catch
a
kid
pinching
conkers.”
He
was
quite
fierce
about
it.

“You
can’t
blame
them
for
inefficiency.
They
get
a
lot
of
people
like
you
to
deal
with.
Don’t
you
sneer
at
me
again,
boy,
or
I’ll
knock
it
off
your
face.
Is
that
why
nobody
gets
anywhere
with
you?
Does
it
have
to
be
beaten
out
of
you?”

“Don’t
you
threaten
me,”
he
shouted,
and
he
grabbed
up
an
adjustable
spanner.

I
laughed.
“Your
dad
should’ve
belted
you,
instead
of
simply
talking
about
it.
Your
mother
dead,
is
she?”

“When
I
was
six.
What
the
hell’s
that
got
to
do
with
it?”

“To
do
with
your
awkwardness?
I
wouldn’t
know.
What
was
Mr
Randall looking
for,
if
it
wasn’t
spares?”

He
threw
the
spanner
across
the
floor.
“Christ!”

“Well?”

“How’d
I
know?
Go
and
ask
him.
He’s
paying
you.”

“Yes,”
I
said.
“People
forget
that.”

It
doesn’t
follow,
though.
You
owe
loyalty
to
your
client,
but
you
don’t
owe
him
blind
trust.
They’re
not
necessarily
in
the
right,
just
because
they
employ
George
Coe,
who’s
never
in
the
wrong — is
he?

Tony
was
looking
at
me
wearily.
“Now
what’re
you
thinking?”

“It’s
not
for
tender
ears.”

I
left
him
to
his
tools
and
drove
away.
It
was
nearly
lunchtime,
and
there
had
been
no
sign
of
Anne.
But
of
course,
in
the
Saab
I’d
go
unrecognized.
Perhaps
she
would
be
watching
the
abandoned
Victor
on
the
forecourt.
I
felt
a
little
guilty
about
that,
as
though
I’d
adopted
a
disguise
especially
to
deceive
her.
But
it
only
emphasized
my
fear
of
meeting
her.
She’d
want
to
probe,
unearth
the past.
Women
love
that
sort
of
thing.
Me,
I
can
leave
the
past
alone.

Bycroft
was
standing
by
the
crashed
patrol
car
and
watched
me
drive
into
the
Station
yard.
He
grimaced
sourly
as
I
climbed
out.

“Changed
your
car,”
he
observed.

I
ignored
it.
“Nasty
crash
somebody’s
had.”

“Why
did
you
change
the
car?”

“Were
you
going
to
lunch?
I’ll
join
you.”

“I
was
going
home.
Why
did
you
change
the
car?”

“They’re
only
on
loan
from
Randall.”

He
hadn’t
realized.
“Randall?”
He walked
round
it.
“You
like
this
one?”

“The
other
had
engine
trouble.”
For
some
reason
he
wasn’t
convinced. You
can
get
into
the
habit
of disbelieving
everything.

“What’s
the
matter
with
you,
Frank?
It’s
not
important.”

“Are
you
sure
it
was
engine
trouble?”

“You
must
have
heard
it.”

“There’s
been
other
things
on
my mind,”
he
reminded
me.