Free Dying to Know by Keith McCarthy Page A

is here. We will prevail.’
    He seemed to find great pleasure in this maxim, so much so that he repeated it as he began to walk away, throwing it over his shoulder at me, then laughing.

TEN
    â€˜ H ow’s your father?’ Jane asked the next morning.
    I didn’t know. I had tried ringing several times throughout the morning, but had met on every occasion the seemingly indomitable stubbornness of the constabulary. In a voice remarkably similar to Percy Bailey’s, the policeman who answered the phone refused repeatedly to answer any of my questions, telling me only that my father was still being questioned. I managed to contact Mr Holversum, who assured me with a high-pitched laugh that he was moving ‘even the stars in their firmament’ to gain access to my father; unfortunately, since my father had apparently still not requested legal representation, there was little that he could do.
    I struggled through the day, beset by exhaustion and worry, wondering what my father was going through, able to think only about the kind of interrogation techniques employed with such relish by Jack Regan and his colleagues in The Sweeney . It seemed to me unlikely that Constable Smith would partake in such exuberant methods of questioning, but Masson was another matter; he had always struck me as a man who was relentless in the pursuit of those he saw as criminals. I wondered what my father was playing at by neither answering Masson’s questions nor asking for a lawyer, and was concerned that perhaps he had . . .
    I met Max at seven thirty for a drink in the Railway Telegraph in Beulah Road; she had just had to put down a large golden retriever and was somewhat melancholy; the news about my father jerked her out of this, however. ‘My gosh! Murder?’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Who?’ She drank whisky and coke, but I still loved her; a large proportion of the contents of the glass disappeared inside her.
    â€˜Oliver Lightoller.’
    A look of epiphany lit her face; her large eyes became positively hypnotic in their size, her mouth hanging open, her delicious tongue just visible. ‘Oh . . . I see,’ she decided.
    There was something about the way she said this. ‘Do you?’
    A nod, then more whisky and coke, but she said nothing.
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    I knew the look of unalloyed innocence well. There was nothing nasty in Max, and that made her very dangerous to know; very dangerous indeed. She looked around, as if police spies might lurk anywhere and everywhere. ‘Well, I can understand why he might have done it. I mean, this Mr Lightoller sounded as if he were a very unpleasant man—’
    â€˜He didn’t do it, Max,’ I interrupted a tad forcefully. ‘He’s innocent.’
    This concept was novel to her and apparently disappointing. ‘Oh.’
    She swallowed the last of her drink and prevailed upon me to go to the bar and order some more. When I returned, her next question told me that she hadn’t quite accepted the possibility that my father might not commit homicide at the slightest provocation. ‘If he didn’t do it, who did?’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    The silence that followed between us was an awkward one before she suddenly said, ‘We should find the real murderer.’
    Which was all fine and dandy in principle, but I still had vivid memories of my last encounter with a murderer and their return came back to me with sufficient clarity to make me shudder. Before I could say anything, she continued, ‘If the police aren’t doing their jobs, then we’ll have to do them.’
    â€˜I’m sure the police will come to their senses and realize how absurd the idea is.’
    She frowned with more than a touch of incredulity. ‘You really think so?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Well, I remember when the old lady over the road from me was attacked in her own house and left for