A Spoonful of Luger (13 page)

He
stood
in
the
yard,
his
breath
steaming,
and
looked
around.

“Have
I?”
he
said.

3

SUNDAY
morning,
and
the
place
had
died.
Odd
cars
trickled
through
the
square,
and
a
few
old
men
leaned
over
the
guard
rails,
spat
in
the
gutter,
waiting
for
the
pubs
to
open.
Frost
lay
thick
on
the
bowling
green
next
to
the
church.
One
coffee
bar
was
open,
and
a
pro
was
taking
an
off-duty
stroll
around
the
square,
airing
her
dalmatian.
She
stopped
to
chat
with
the
old
men,
and
they
laughed,
but
it
was
Sunday
morning
and
it
was
all
in
the
past.

I
went
for
a
coffee.
“Sharp
this
morning,”
she
said
as
she
handed
it
over.
I
nodded,
and
went
to
sit
in
a
corner.
I
was
reluctant
to
get
going.
I
looked
at
my
list.
Eight
perverts,
seven
of
them
running
around
loose.
I
had
a
yearning
to
belt
somebody.
The
trouble
was,
the
one
to
be
belted
was probably
dead,
and
I
couldn’t
work
up
any
enthusiasm
about
the
others.

I
decided
to
pick
up
my
car.

She
told
me
I
could
take
a
short
cut
through
the
park,
if
it
was
open.
But
the
gates
were
locked
and
I
skirted
it,
and
found
another
of
those
devastation
areas,
ready
for
something
imposing
in
concrete,
probably
a
branch
of
the
motorway.
Randall’s
place
was
only
half
a
mile
away,
on
the
ring
road,
nicely
situated
for
one
of
those
‘last
before
the
motorway’
signs.

“Any
news?”
he
said.

“You’re
well
placed
here,”
I
told
him.

He
was
wearing
white
overalls
and
was
running
the
pumps
alone.
It
was
an
agency
for
one
of
the
leading
brands,
with
self-service
pumps.
All
he
did
was
sit
and
count
in
the
cash,
but
he
came
out
onto
the
forecourt
to
show
me
his
row
of
cars
for
sale.

“You
got
a
pull
with
the
council?”
I
asked.

“Nobody
tells
me
what’s
going
on,” he
complained,
refusing
to
be
diverted.

“I’ll
be
able
to
do
that.”
I
stared
along
the
row.
“They’re
looking.
It’s
a
big
job.
It
takes
patience.”

“Patience!”
he
said.
“Christ!”

“You
ought
to
be
home,”
I
told
him.
“Have
you
had
the
doctor
to
see
your
wife?”

“He’s
been
round
every
day.
But
what’s
happening?”

I
walked
ahead
of
him.
There
was
a
nearly-new
Saab
I
rather
liked.
I
tried
another
diversion.

“There’s
been
a
murder.”

I
turned.
He’d
been
pattering
after
me,
but
now
he
had
stopped.
His
mind
was
groping
for
it,
trying
to
insert
the
significance
of
a
murder
into
his
consuming
concern
for
Dulcie.

“Hadn’t
you
heard?
A
shooting.”

He
shook
his
head.

“A
man
called
Cleave,”
I
said.
“A
car
breaker.”

“Not
Dennis
Cleave!”

I
stood
with
my
hand
on
the
bonnet
of
the
Saab.
A
car
slid
in
beside
the pumps.
He
was
staring
at
me,
not
believing.
I
told
him
he’d
better
get
back
or
they’d
pinch
his
petrol,
and
he
turned
away.
He
went
slowly,
then
broke
into
a
run.
My
hand
had
stuck
to
the
metal.

When
he
came
back
I
was
trying
the
fit
of
a
Victor.
It
felt
fine.
I
need
a
wide
seat.

“You
mean
Dennis
has
been
shot?”

“In
his
office.
Probably
Friday
night.
Did
you
know
him?”

He
flicked
his
hand
in
irritation.
“I’ve
got
a
repair
shop
here.
Of
course
I
know
him.
I
got
spares
from
him.”

“Second-hand
spares
for
work
on
your
customers’
cars?”

There
was
a
sign
of
that
belligerence
again.
“And
why
not?
So
long
as
they
know.
Sometimes
they’re
first
rate,
from
crashes.
Why
not?”

“No
reason
at
all,”
I
assured
him.
I
got
out.
I’d
decided
on
the
Victor.
I
slammed
the
door,
not
looking
at
him.
“Did
you
know
he
was
a
pervert?”

When
I
turned
he
was
staring
at
me in
disbelief.
Then
he
tried
to
dismiss
it
with
a
feeble
laugh.
“Oh
come
on!
That
wasn’t
Dennis.
Everybody
knows
that.
It
was
in
the
papers.
You
can’t
hold
it
against
a
chap
‘cause
he
was
questioned.”