“Sounds good to me,” said Bella. “Maybe you could chuck in a few pickled onions?”
“Anything you want,” said Rothwell, taking out his wallet again. He handed over three fivers to Bella and turned his attention back to McKirrop. “Shall we...?”
McKirrop and Rothwell walked slowly along the towpath together, neither saying anything until they were well away from the group. Eventually Rothwell said, “I’ll come straight to the point, Mr McKirrop. My readers want to know everything about what you saw in the cemetery last night.”
McKirrop paused before replying. He seemed to like Rothwell less and less by the minute. The man had an air about him: head held high, hands resting easily in the pockets of his expensive overcoat. It wasn’t arrogance, just confidence, he supposed as if the man had never had a moment’s self doubt in his life. The shine on his shoes was periodically emphasised by the odd reflection from the lights up on the road.
For some reason McKirrop kept thinking that Rothwell didn’t look like how the press should look at all but then, as he had to admit, he had never ever met a newspaper reporter before. His expectation had been influenced by how journalists were portrayed on television. He had, however, come into personal contact with many policemen in his time and lawyers and solicitors. They were what Rothwell made him think of, a secure man who had the backing of the establishment, a professional man, the kind of man who normally had no trouble in having men like him moved on. “Oh yes?” he replied. “Why?”
“My readers are understandably alarmed at the prospect of grave robbers at work in the city. They want to know what’s behind it. All sorts of rumours about devil worship and the like are doing the rounds. They’ll be very interested in hearing exactly what you saw.”
“How interested?” asked McKirrop meaningfully.
“Shall we say two hundred pounds interested?”
“Let’s say three,” replied McKirrop.
“Very well, three. Now tell me what you saw.”
“First the money.”
“First the story,” replied Rothwell pleasantly and evenly, without breaking the slow, even gait he was proceeding with.
They had come about half a mile along the towpath and were now walking along a particularly dark stretch where the canal curved under a bridge.
“There were four of them,” began McKirrop. “They were wearing sheets over their heads so I didn’t get a good look at them. And their leader, he was wearing a ram’s head mask and...” McKirrop told Rothwell what he’d told the police. When he finished he was disappointed at Rothwell’s lack of reaction. Rothwell just kept walking, slowly, evenly, easily. Eventually, he said, “I got that much from my contacts in the police. I was hoping you could come up with something more.”
“I was scared out of my wits, I can tell you,” McKirrop added, hoping to elicit a more positive response.
“Must have been terrifying,” said Rothwell. “Utterly terrifying.” He turned to look at McKirrop as he repeated the comment.
“It certainly was,” replied McKirrop with a grin adopted to counteract Rothwell’s stare.
“Tell me about the child’s body.”
“It was awful, awful,” said McKirrop, shaking his head. “Poor little bastard. Makes you wonder what the world’s coming to when they can do something like—”
“Quite,” interrupted Rothwell. “Tell me what you saw.”
“The leader...”
“The man in the ram’s head mask?”
“That’s right. He brought out this long knife and he cut open the kid’s body.”
“How did he cut it?”
McKirrop shrugged and said, “He sort of held the knife in front of him with his arms outstretched... like this.” McKirrop demonstrated. “Then he raised it up slowly and plunged it straight down into the kid’s body.”
“Then what?”
“He sort of moved it around. I couldn’t see exactly from where I was hiding but I think...”
“You think what?”
“I think he cut the kid’s heart out.” McKirrop looked to Rothwell for a reaction but Rothwell remained as impassive as ever. In fact he showed so little emotion that it was beginning to annoy McKirrop.
“What makes you think that?”
“He held something up above his head as if he was offering it up to someone.”
“And then?”
“What do you mean and then?” snapped McKirrop. “Isn’t that enough for Christ’s sake?”
“They took the body away?” asked Rothwell, quietly ignoring McKirrop’s comment.
“That’s right. They had this big bag and they put the kid in it.”
Rothwell stared silently at McKirrop until McKirrop felt uncomfortable. McKirrop said, “You’re not writing anything down. I thought reporters made notes?”
“I have a very retentive memory, Mr McKirrop,” said Rothwell. “How did our friends leave the cemetery?”
“They had a van.”
“A van,” repeated Rothwell.
“A black van, a black Transit van it was.”
Another silent stare.
“Do I get my money now?” asked McKirrop.
Rothwell brought out his wallet and counted out three hundred pounds in twenty pound notes.
“I don’t suppose you have anything smaller?” McKirrop asked.
“No.”
“Oh well then,” grinned McKirrop. “This will have to do.”
“And if anyone else asks what you saw at the cemetery...” began Rothwell.
“I know,” said McKirrop. “Mum’s the word.”
“On the contrary, you tell them exactly what you’ve told me. Understood?”
“You’re the boss,” said McKirrop shrugging his shoulders.
“I’m glad you understand that,” said Rothwell. “I’d hate for you to forget.”
McKirrop felt the skin on the back of his neck tighten at the implied threat. He did not like Rothwell at all. “I’d best be getting back,” he said.
“We’ll go back together,” said Rothwell pleasantly.
The group had almost finished their fish and chips by the time McKirrop and Rothwell got back. Bella said to McKirrop, “I’ve saved some for you. How about you Mr...”
Rothwell held up his hand politely and declined. He turned to McKirrop and said, “It’s been nice doing business with you Mr McKirrop.” The two shook hands and Rothwell turned to start up the steps to the road.
As he did so, McKirrop expertly flicked his toe at Rothwell’s heels and Rothwell stumbled and fell. Bella and the others expressed their concern loudly and McKirrop went to help him to his feet. “It’s about time the bloody council did something about these bloody steps,” he said as he dusted down Rothwell. “Are you all right, Mr Rothwell? Nothing broken I hope.”
“I’m fine thank you,” said Rothwell, more worried about his loss of dignity than any physical damage. “Good night.”
“Good night Mr Rothwell.”
As soon as Rothwell was out of earshot, the group gathered round McKirrop. Bella’s eyes shone like a child on Christmas morning. “Well?” she asked excitedly. “How much did you get?”
“A hundred quid,” lied McKirrop.
“A hundred? A poxy hundred?” exclaimed Bella. “You story was worth thousands.”
“People like him can treat people like us like shit,” said McKirrop. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”
There were nods of agreement all round and a moment’s silent contemplation.
“At least I got a hundred,” said McKirrop brightening up. “What do you say we have a bit of a party? Get a few bottles of the good stuff, maybe some kebabs later?”
McKirrop was the hero of the hour. The others could not sing his praises enough, with the exception of Flynn who kept quiet.