“Sure he did. But I can’t remember them all.”
“But you remember he didn’t mention Maureen.”
“That’s right.”
“How did Maureen get a job with your company?”
“Replied to an ad. The same way every other bit of skirt gets a job here.”
“I thought some of them had a horizontal interview,” Nance chipped in.
Topley chuckled, his eyes flashing. “Want to apply?”
“Maureen’s a compulsive saver,” Gilchrist pressed on. “She’s kept every bit of paper she’s ever read, every letter she’s ever received, written, or just thought of. And that includes job advertisements.” He was lying now, just winging it, but sometimes you have to push. “We never found an ad for your firm in her papers. So, I’ll ask you for the last time. How did she get the job?”
“Word of mouth.”
“Whose mouth?”
“Now you really are pushing the boat out.”
“Do you know something?” Nance said. “I’m hoping you don’t answer the question, because I can’t wait to face you in court.”
Topley glared at Gilchrist. “Ronnie Watt,” he said.
The name stung like a slap to the face. Gilchrist struggled to keep his voice even. “What did Ronnie say exactly?”
Topley smirked. “Said he was going out with a tidy bit of stuff, right classy looking, tight tits with nipples out to here, the kind punters love to rub their cocks over. Nice legs, too. And a muff so fine you could floss your teeth with it.”
Gilchrist ignored the taunt. “And?”
“And she’d do anything to get a job.”
“So you hired her.”
“After the interview.” Topley flashed gold at Nance. “If you get my meaning.”
“When was this?”
“About a year ago.”
“By which time you’d been out of prison, what, a year, give or take a month or two?”
“Yeah.”
“Keep in contact with Bully, do you?”
“What for?”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“No.”
“Spoken to him since?”
“No.”
“Written to him?”
“No.”
“Contacted him in any way?”
“No.”
“Not even one visit, one letter, one call, to let Bully know you’d hired Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist’s daughter?” His voice had risen in ridicule, and he struggled to smother his emotions. But he was almost asking too much of his nervous system.
As if sensing this, Topley turned to the window, placed his hands behind his back, revealing a swallow tattooed on the inside of his left wrist. “You’re fucking fishing.”
“I take it that’s a Yes.”
Topley faced Gilchrist again. “N – O.” He etched the air with a pointed finger. “In huge big baby letters.”
Gilchrist forced himself to stay calm. “What about Bully’s brother?” he asked.
“What about him?”
“Talk to him?”
“Jimmy’s a nutter. Bad for business.” He hooked both thumbs under the lapel of his suit and hitched it up.
“So who’s your go-between?”
“Do what?”
“Your go-between,” Nance chipped in. “You know? The idiot who runs between you and Bully.”
“Like I said, you’re fishing.”
“How about Glenorra?” Nance asked.
Topley’s eyes narrowed. An arm searched for the back of his chair and rested against it in an air of casual indifference. But he would never pass an audition.
“We know you own it.” Gilchrist again. “So be careful how you answer the question.”
“What question?”
“Was it ever Kevin’s?” Gilchrist asked.
“We used to have a half-share each.”
“After your mother died?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what?”
“Kevin died.”
“And left Glenorra to you?”
“Yeah.”
“So it’s all yours?”
“You deaf or what?”
“And the hut at the back?” Nance said.
“What about it?”
“You own that, too, do you?”
“Yeah.” A bit unsure.
“When were you last at Glenorra?”
“What the fuck’s going on? I’ve explained all of this to that tiny fucker-”
“Just answer the lady’s question, will you? There’s a good boy.”
A sniff. A tightening of his grip on the back of the chair. “About a year ago.”
“Never been back since?”
“No.”
“You still got a key to the hut?”
Topley shrugged. “Could do. It’s been a while.”
“Ever get another one cut?”
“What for?”
“Ever lend it to anyone?”
“Like I said, what for?”
“Why don’t you let us ask the questions?”
Topley shifted his shoulders. “I never got a key cut and I never lent one out. That fucking good enough for you?”
Gilchrist smiled. “Book him,” he said to Nance.
“Here. Hold on a fucking minute. Book me for what?”
“Accessory to murder.”
“Do what?”
“You heard.”
“You can’t just come in here and fucking-”
“Oh yes I can sonny Jim, oh yes I can.” Gilchrist leaned across the desk, glared hard into Topley’s tight eyes with a hatred that worried him. How much more of this could he take before he flipped? How many more lies could he listen to before he took the law into his own hands?
He pulled back. “Book him,” he said again.
Nance stepped forward.
“She warned me about you, she did,” Topley complained. “Said you were a right evil fucker.”
Gilchrist pushed Nance back on her heels, moved so close to Topley that he could see beads of sweat on the flattened nose. It would be so easy to wrap his fingers around his neck and press his thumbs into the windpipe. “Evil?” he growled. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re nothing but a crook pretending to be straight.”
Topley’s eyes blazed. A chair bumped against the table.
“Andy.”
Gilchrist blinked, once, twice, as Topley’s face twisted into an ugly grimace.
But Topley’s hatred could never light a flame next to his own.
Chapter 33
WEAK NOW. TOO weak to sit.
She rolled over and her head thudded against the concrete floor.
But she felt no pain. She felt nothing. The pain had disappeared. The cold, too.
She fought off the urge to close her eyes, felt her body wallow in the slow motion of the moment, as if she was lying in a warm bed, or a hammock on the beach, the Caribbean, St. Maarten, where she and Larry spent a whole week, a lifetime ago. She was there again, and she turned her face to the sun, felt its rays on her face, her lips, tried to move her tongue over them. But it felt too thick, too heavy. Too dry.
Thirsty. So thirsty.
But it’s late now. Time to go to bed.
To sleep. Close my eyes and just…
… sleep.
So tired…
Just want to lay my head on the pillow, pull the sheets over my warm skin, and fall asleep. Overhead, the ceiling fan swirls. Even with my eyes closed, I can see it.
Turning and turning. But it makes no sound.
It seems not to stir the air.
So tired…
“I REALLY MUST object, Inspector. My client has rights-”
“And my daughter has rights, too. She has the right to marry, the right to be a mother, the right to live her life and grow old.” Gilchrist slammed the table, splashing water from a polystyrene cup. He glared across the grey desk at Topley’s narrowing eyes. “And so help me to God I’ll have it out of you before the end of the day.”
Jerry Foster looked as if his black pinstriped suit was about to burst. He wiped thick fingers over his lips. “That’s all very well, Inspector, but my client has repeatedly said that he knows nothing of your daughter’s disappearance.”