‘Then why hadn’t she told him that before he came to see you?’
‘She said she had no way of contacting him — not without his wife finding out.’ The lip curled again. ‘I prefer to deal with whores. At least they do not pretend to be what they are not.’
‘I’ve been drunk maybe four times in my entire life, and two of those times have been with you,’ Alex Meade said, slurring his words. ‘You want to tell me why that is, Sam?’
‘You know why it is,’ Blackstone said morosely.
‘Deed I do,’ Meade agreed, dipping his finger in his whiskey and drawing two sticky arcs on the table. ‘Just need to join them up into a circle, and we’ve got it solved. Ain’t that what you said?’
‘It’s what I said.’
‘So lez. . let’s. . take a look at the left one. You said Nancy was using Jenny to get information for her boyfriend, Eddie, but Nancy says she wasn’t. So who’s right?’
‘I don’t know,’ Blackstone admitted.
And he didn’t. He really didn’t.
‘Then there’s the right arc,’ Meade continued drunkenly. ‘Remind me what our theory was.’
‘Inspector O’Brien was conducting an investigation into corruption, and Mrs de Courcey gave him an address which would further that investigation,’ Blackstone said flatly.
‘And once we’d got that address ourselves, we could probably figure out who he was investigating, and then, as a result of our brilliant deductive powers, we’d know who wanted him dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Only it turns. . it turns out that wasn’t it at all. It turns out that he’d got some whore pregnant and wanted to arrange an abortion for her.’ Meade paused. ‘Why did he do that, Sam?’
‘Why did he arrange the abortion?’
‘Why did he betray that lovely wife of his? Why did he betray his beautiful children?’
‘It happens,’ Blackstone said, wishing he was as drunk as Meade, but knowing that getting drunk wasn’t the answer.
‘The man was a Catholic, Sam,’ Meade said bitterly. ‘And you know what that means, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do know, so there’s no need for you to. .’
‘It means that in the eyes of his church, he was getting himself involved in a murder.’
‘The abortion never actually took place,’ Blackstone reminded him. ‘The woman-’
The mistress! The slut! The whore!’
‘Told Dr Muller that she had miscarried naturally.’
‘But it could have happened,’ Meade protested. ‘Patrick — the Catholic saint — was perfectly happy for it to happen.’
‘We know that he was prepared to go through with it, but that’s not the same as being happy about it,’ Blackstone pointed out. ‘In fact, though I never met the man, I’m sure he wasn’t happy at all.’
‘I used to look up to him, Sam,’ Meade said drunkenly. ‘He was my hero. Now, I’m not even sure I want to catch his killer any more.’
That was the trouble with hero-worship, Blackstone thought. You built your hero into such a colossus that he could never live up to your expectations for long. And when he failed to, it didn’t just diminish his stature a little — it brought him crashing down to the ground.
‘Whether or not you still like the victim, a crime has been committed, and it’s your job to arrest the guilty man,’ he said.
‘Maybe. . maybe you’re right,’ Meade agreed. ‘But how do we go about arresting him when both your half circles are going nowhere?’
And there, Blackstone was forced to admit, Meade had a point.
TWENTY-FIVE
The sky above New York City that summer morning was perfect, Blackstone thought. Or at least, he corrected himself in the interest of accuracy, it was as perfect as any sky over a big city — which was constantly pushing poisonous fumes up into the air — ever could be.
And the sky was not the only thing which was working hard to show nature at its most benevolent. Flowers bloomed. Birds chirped happily in the trees. The softest of cooling breezes was blowing up the avenues. It was a day which celebrated life — a day which most people out on the street would feel promised fresh beginnings and new opportunities.
The promise wasn’t working for Sergeant Alex Meade. As they drank their coffee together — in the same saloon where Meade had gotten smashed the night before — the sergeant grappled with a sense of failure and disillusionment which was even more powerful than his hangover.
‘I was wrong — completely wrong — to have ever thought that Patrick O’Brien could be perfect,’ he said.
‘Yes, you were,’ Blackstone agreed.
‘But he worked hard for this city — he displayed a courage and determination that most men never come close to — and so I was also wrong to say that I didn’t care whether or not his killer was caught.’ Meade paused for a moment. ‘I did say that, didn’t I?’
‘Among a lot of other things, yes,’ Blackstone replied, with a smile. ‘Consistency wasn’t your strong point last night.’
‘And neither was moderation,’ Meade groaned.
A patrolman entered the saloon, carrying a buff envelope in his hand. He looked around briefly, before making for the table at which Blackstone and Meade were sitting.
‘Is there something I can do for you, Officer Caldwell? Alex Meade asked, though his tone suggested that what he wanted most in the world was the patrolman to go away.
Caldwell studied the sergeant for a moment, then a broad grin spread across his face.
‘You look rough, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I think it must be quite a while since I’ve seen anybody look rougher.’
Meade groaned. ‘Thank you, Caldwell,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate it that you’ve come all the way across the street just to tell me that.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t just for that,’ Caldwell replied cheerily. ‘They said at headquarters that you wanted to know when the girl’s body would be released for burial. Well, it’s ready now, and all the next-of-kin has to do is send the undertakers round to pick it up.’
‘Good,’ Meade said. ‘Thank you, Caldwell. And sorry about snapping at you just now.’
‘That’s OK, Sarge, I’ve been hungover myself.’ The patrolman turned to leave, then remembered the envelope he was holding. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’
‘What is it?’
‘Post-mortem report on the girl.’
‘I thought I’d asked them not to do a post-mortem,’ Meade said, visibly pained by the process of having to use his brain. ‘I thought I’d asked them as a special favour to me.’
‘You probably did — but you know what they’re like, they never listen,’ Caldwell said, with a continuing cheerfulness that was even starting to irritate Blackstone. ‘Anyway, they cut her up, and they did their report. The top copy’s already been filed back at headquarters. This one’s the spare. What do you want me to do with it?’
‘Why should I want you to do anything with it?’ Meade asked plaintively.
‘Well, it is kind of connected with your case, ain’t it? So what should I do with it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Meade said, holding his head. ‘Why don’t you file it somewhere else?’
‘Like where?’
‘In somebody’s desk drawer,’ Meade suggested hopefully.
‘Whose drawer?’
‘Or you could simply throw it away,’ Meade said. ‘Hell, you can stick it up your ass, for all I care.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry about that, Officer Caldwell. Really sorry! Making decisions just seems like very hard work at the moment.’
Blackstone held out his hand to the patrolman.
‘I’ll take it,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold it until Sergeant Meade’s eyes can read small print again, and then I’ll give it to him.’
‘The way he’s looking now, that should be about next Tuesday,’ Caldwell said. Then he handed the envelope to Blackstone, gave the two of them a parting grin, and left.