Free Ripped by Frederic Lindsay Page A

At once the car moved away accompanied by the urgent double note of the siren.
    'What's the hurry?' Stewart asked, but Murray caught only a few words of the driver's reply.
    Stewart turned in his seat. 'Should we drop him?' He nodded at Murray.  Instead of answering, Peerse flicked the middle finger of his right hand as if gesturing away a servant. Stewart faced to the front and Murray watched with interest the vivid stain that rose and ebbed on the side of his neck. Eddy was not having a good day. Had the driver said something about a body?
    Faҫ ades of mean dullness flowed past, pubs, betting shops, gap sites and boarded windows. Out of the driver's words Murray had picked a name – Deacon Street. That meant Moirhill; a tougher district now than when Blair Heathers had left it; more derelict, without the sense of community there had been then among the poverty. If there had been a killing, Peerse would want to get there fast, before the Northern shop boys.
    'Explain,' Peerse broke his silence suddenly. He had small eyes, very blue like splinters of ice. Murray yawned. 'Waiting,' Peerse said.
    'I used to know you when you could talk in sentences, Ian.'
    'Last warning. Cut out the first name – that's cheeky. You don't want to cross the line.'
    It was Murray's turn to look out of the window and let a flare of temper come under control. 'I don't believe John Merchant complained. Maybe someone else did.'
    'Who would that be?'
    Murray cursed his own stupidity. Peerse was the last policeman in the world he would want to take an interest in the connection between Malcolm and Heathers. If Peerse was targeting Blair Heathers, he would be as honest as a salt scoured bone; there was no way of corrupting that arrogance .
    'Nobody. Maybe Merchant did – but I only saw him once. He didn't seem bothered.'
    'You tried to see him again yesterday – and you were back again today.'
    'He's a busy man. It's not easy to catch him, Why? Did you want to see him?'
    'There were a couple of details I wanted to clear up.'
    'That's not an answer.'
    'It's the only one you're going to get,' Murray said. 'I was working for a client. That makes it confidential’.
    Peerse leaned forward and tapped Stewart, waiting till he faced right about before saying, 'He thinks he's still in America. No – it's better than that. He thinks he's on television in America;' and whickered air through that long narrow nose, the sound that passed with him for amusement.
    Avoiding Murray's eye, Stewart made a show of joining in the joke.
    Satisfied, Peerse sat back as the driver brought the car to a halt. They had drawn into a side street and ahead of them a crowd was gathered round the entrance to a lane. Beyond that police cars were already parked .
    'I don't think we can take the car right in, sir,' the driver volunteered. His voice was surprisingly light and hasty for such a big man.
    'Obviously,' Peerse said sourly. He opened the door and unfolded his length from the car. Bending, he warned Murray, 'I haven't finished with you.' Left with the fat driver, Murray watched as Peerse cut through the crowd with Stewart in his wake. Erect, immaculate, towering so far above the slatternly women and gaunt unshaven men, he appeared like a representative of some different species.
    'Here!' the fat driver shrilled. 'Where the hell do you think you're going?'
    'Don't give yourself a hard time,' Murray said quietly. 'Don't you know when your gaffer's kidding an old friend?'
    As he got out, he saw across the crowd the young constable who was stationed at the mouth of the lane watching him. He heard the fat driver fumbling with the handle of his door. On impulse, he crossed towards the lane. The crowd opened a path. 'Is it a lassie?', 'Is it right she was raped?', 'You lot are no bloody use –'
    'Keep back,' the Constable cried. His eyes were bright and his face flushed and sweating. 'They're right at the end, sir. Round the corner.'
    Out of the sun, it was unexpectedly cold in