Ripped (91 page)

'You
should
have
a
fire
on
in
here,'
she
said.
'It's
cold
outside and
it's
getting
dark.'

He
put
on
the
lamp
on
the
desk,
but
because
its
light
was
focused
downward
and
fell
between
them
it
made
it
harder
to
see
her.

'It's
an
office,'
he
said.
'We
can
go
into
the
other
room.'

'It's
not
any
better.
Unwashed
dishes.
A
child's
game
on
the table.
You
don't
make
yourself
comfortable.'

'Chess.'

'What?'

'It
doesn't
matter
.
'

She
came
forward
and
took
the
seat
on
the
other
side
of
the
desk.
It
was
the
place
where
clients
sat,
people
who
came
to
him
because
they
were
in
trouble,
and
it
seemed
strange
to
see
her
there.

'Here
I
am,'
she
said.
'But
I
don't
know
why.
Couldn't whatever
it
is
have
waited
until
tomorrow
at
Mum
Wilson's?'

'I
expected
you
yesterday.'

'I
told
you
when
you
phoned
I'd
come
if I
could
manage.
There
wasn't
time
yesterday.
And
we'll
be
at
Mum
Wilson's
tomorrow.'

'I
waited
here
for
you
all
day,'
he
said.

She
crossed
her
legs
in
the
circle
of
light
that
fell
from
the
lamp.
'Shouldn't
you
have
been
working?
I
thought
you'd
be
out
working
on
the
murders.
I
thought
you
might
be
going
to
tell
me
what
you'd
found
out.'

'I
don't
work
for
Heathers
any
more
.
He
sent
someone
to
tell
me
I
was
fired.'

'Nothing
to
tell
then.
No
solutions.
I'm
sorry.'

'I've
been
fired
before.
Heathers
today.
Somebody
else
yesterday.'

Bittern,
in
the
morning,
phoning
to
tell
him
he
was
off
the
Foley
case –
“lack
of
any
visible
progress”.
Even
when
he
had
tried to
tell
the
lawyer
about
the
letter
from
Mrs
Beddowes
the
stubborn
old
man
had
paid
no
attention.

'Being
fired
twice
in
one
week,'
Irene
said,
'you
must
feel
terrible.'

'I've
no
complaints.
I
was
hired
to
find
a
guy
who'd
run
off
with
his
partner's
wife
–
and
the
profits.
I
got
too
involved
with
other
things
even
to
try.'

Reaching
up,
he
re-angled
the
lamp,
turning
it
towards
her
face.
With
an
intimate
unselfconscious
movement
,
she
tidied
her
hair,
raising
her
elbows
and
using
both
hands
to
smooth
it
into
place.
He
had
never
noticed
how
black
her
hair
was;
coarse
black
hair,
thick
and
glossy
like
a
peasant's;
if
you
ran
your
hand
over
it,
you
would
feel
it
crackle
with
life
under
your
palm.
Almost
you
would
be
frightened
to
stroke
hair
like
that.
Undiscomposed,
she
looked
with
wide
and
candid
eyes
into
the
light.

'Other
things?'

'I
got
interested
in
a
woman
called
Annette
Verhaeren.'

Had
he
startled
her?
With
that
light
on
her
face
she
could
hide
nothing.
He
was
sure
he
had,
and
then
she
looked
at
him
so
candidly
he
was
not
sure
at
all.

'Annette
…
?'

'Verhaeren.
Just
a
whore.
She
got
herself
beaten
to
death
by
her
pimp.
He
used
an
iron
bar
on
her
and
then
dumped
the
body
in
a
back-court
midden
among
the
rubbish.'

'The
rest
of
the
rubbish.'

He
did
not
understand.

'That's
what
you
make
it
sound
like
–
as
if
you
were
saying, "among
the
rest
of
the
rubbish".'

He
nodded
slowly.
'Does
that
bother
you?'

'Oh,
Murray,'
she
might
have
been
irritated,
but
then
she
was
laughing,
a
glittering
sound.
'You
never
say
"fuck".
Malcolm
says
it
all
the
time
–
well,
except
at
Mum
Wilson's,
of
course.
I
sometimes
can't
believe
you
two
are
brothers.'

'That
happens,'
Murray
said.
'You
could
have
two
sisters
who
were
very
different
from
one
another.'
He
could
not
stop
watching
her
mouth,
which
was
full
with
just
the
smallest
hint
of
the
pressure
of
her
teeth
behind
the
upper
lip.
He
looked
at
her
lips which
had
shaped
the
word
'fuck'
and
spoken
it
to
him.
'That
was
something
else
I
found
out
about
Annette
Verhaeren.
She
had
two
children.'

'Sisters.'

'Half
-
sisters.
I
think
they
each
had
a
different
father.'

'Well,
then,'
Irene
said,
'you
wouldn't
expect
them
to
be
very
like
one
another.'