A Spoonful of Luger (47 page)

“I
haven’t
had
time
to
mention
my
problems.”

She
laughed.
It
was
worse
than
her
tears,
amusement
cracked
by
pain.

“What
else
have
we
had?
What
else?
Oh
God,
get
away
from
me.”

There
was
nothing
more
to
say.
Nothing
had
been
achieved
and
nothing
added.
I
turned,
shut
the
door
quietly
behind
me.

It
was
bloody-well
raining
when
I
got
outside.

11

IT
was
just
as
well
for
Randall
that
he
was
out.
In
my
present
mood
I’d
have
laid
it
right
on
the
line,
given
it
him
between
the
eyes,
and
jumped
on
the
first
bus
out
of
there.

Running
away
again.

I
snarled
at
the
rain
as
it
lashed
the
windscreen,
cursed
the
steering-wheel
gear-change,
looked
for
anything
to
abuse,
and
skidded
to
a
halt
outside
Randall’s.
No
lights.
It
was
becoming
dark.
There
should
have
been
lights.
Only,
as
I
say,
he
was
out,
and
when
I
got
round
to
the
garage
they
told
me
he’d
gone
to
the
hospital.
Perversely,
really
hoping
somebody
would
argue
about
it,
I
filled
the
tank
and
said
charge
it.
The
young
lady
watched
me
go
with
numbed
horror.

Then
there
seemed
nothing
for
it
but
to
go
round
to
the
Bedford
for
a
meal, and
try
to
find
Randall
later.
If
I
really
had
to
I’d
chase
him
to
the
hospital.
What
I
had
to
say
would
resound
forcefully
from
the
sterile
walls.

It
gave
me
time
to
think,
something
to
take
my
mind
off
the
food.
I
was
perhaps
in
a
more
reasonable
mood
when
I
went
out
into
the
hotel
lobby.

“Mr
Coe.
I
didn’t
know
you
were
in ...
There’s
a
message.”

I
flinched.
At
this
point,
all
messages
could
mean
trouble.
He
held
out
a
piece
of
paper
on
which
he’d
written:

`Please
don’t
leave
without
phoning
me.’

I
looked
up,
raised
my
eyebrows.

“A
lady,
sir.
She
said
you’d
know.”

I
grunted,
tossed
it
into
a
waste basket,
and
walked
out.

Well
at
least
it
was
milder,
but
the
rain
had
really
set
in.
I
drove
round
to
Randall’s,
and
this
time
the
lights
were
on.

“I’ve
only
just
got
in,”
he
said
without
enthusiasm.
“Come
into
the
kitchen.”

That
was
because
he
was
scrambling
a
couple
of
eggs.

“You’ve
been
to
the
hospital,”
I
said.

The
fork
clattered
away.
“She’s
bad.
Real
bad.
They’ve
got
her
under
sedation.”

“I’m
sorry.”

“Then
try
to
sound
it,”
he
said
wearily.
“You
say
all
the
right
words,
but
you’re
still
just
an
ex-copper.
It’s
what’s
in
the
book.”

I
moved
my
hat
around
on
his
table.
“You
didn’t
take
me
on
to
wrap
up
the
fancy
words.”

“But
I’ve
had
some
of
them,
too,”
he
told
me.
“You’ve
got
no
right
to
come
with
your
accusations ... ”

“Mr
Randall,
I’m
not
accusing
you
of
anything,
just
telling
you
the
facts.
The
police
are
going
to
lay
on
a
whole
bunch
of
accusations.
All
I’m
doing
is
getting
you
prepared.”

He
glanced
up
at
me.
His
eyes
were
deep
in
grey,
hollow
sockets,
his
lips
nothing
more
than
a
bitter line.
There
was
defeat
in
the
slump
of
his
shoulders.
From
somewhere
he
tried
to
bring
up
a
trace
of
defiance.
It
fell
flat,
his
voice
being
nothing
more
than
a
sing-song,
as
he
couldn’t
control
the
intonation.

“It’s
ridiculous
for
you
to
talk
about
stolen
cars.
What
can
I
know
about
such
things?”

“You
sold
cars
for
Dennis
Cleave.”

“I
deny
that.”

I
sighed.
“Deny
it
if
you
like.
But
the
police
will
be
able
to
prove
it.
You’ll
have
had
to
keep
invoices,
copies
of
hire
purchase
agreements,
that
sort
of
stuff.
They
can
trace
the
owners
of
every
car
you’ve
sold
for
the
past
year.
And
amongst
them
there’ll
be
cars
with
log
books
that
aren’t
genuine.
And
those
log
books
will
show
the
previous
owners,
who’ll
be
interviewed,
and
they’ll
say
they
wrecked
their
cars
and
sold
them
to
Dennis
Cleave.
It
can
be
checked
back,
man.
They
will
check
back.”