The Bat(80)

Geoff sniggered.

‘Cut it out, Geoff. I really do. Just ask anyone who knows me. He can’t stand it, they’ll tell you. Ivan can’t sleep, gets depressed. The world is a tough enough place for any poor sod without us making things worse by breaking arms and legs, isn’t it. So. So just go home, and we won’t make any more trouble here. OK?’

Harry nodded and fumbled in his pockets for something.

‘Even though you’re the gangster this evening,’ Ivan said. ‘You!’

He poked a forefinger in Harry’s chest.

‘You!’ Ivan repeated and shoved a bit harder. The blond police officer teetered perilously.

‘You!’

Harry stood rocking on his heels and waving his arms. He hadn’t turned to see what was behind him, he seemed to know already. A smile spread across his face as his glazed eyes met Ivan’s. He fell backwards and groaned as he hit the first steps. Not a sound emerged the rest of the way down.





38


A Bloke Called Speedy


JOE HEARD THE scratching at the front door, and peering through the glass at the new guest, bent double, he knew he’d made one of his rare mistakes. When he opened the door the guest collapsed against him. Had it not been for Joe’s low centre of gravity they both would have taken a tumble. Joe managed to get Harry’s arm across his shoulder and drag him to a chair in reception where he could examine him closer. Not that the blond drunk had been a pretty sight when he checked in, but now he really did look bad. He had a deep gash on one elbow – Joe could see red flesh gleaming through – one cheek was swollen and blood was dripping from his nose onto filthy trousers. His shirt was torn and his chest rattled whenever he breathed. But at least he did – breathe.

‘What happened?’ Joe said.

‘Fell down some stairs. No damage done, just need to rest a bit.’

Joe was no doctor, but judging from the breathing sounds he reckoned a rib or two had gone. He found some antiseptic ointment and plasters, patched up the guest as best he could and finally pushed some cotton wool up one nostril. Harry shook his head when Joe tried to give him a painkiller.

‘Painkiller stuff in my room,’ he gasped.

‘You need a doctor,’ Joe said. ‘I’ll—’

‘No doctor. I’ll be fine in a couple of hours.’

‘Your breathing doesn’t sound good.’

‘Never has. Asthma. Give me a couple of hours in bed and I’ll be out of your hair.’

Joe sighed. He knew he was about to make mistake number two.

‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘You need more than a couple of hours. Anyway, it’s not your fault that steps are so bloody steep in Sydney. I’ll pop up in the morning.’

He helped the guest to his room, settled him on the bed and removed his shoes. On the table there were three empty and two unopened bottles of Jim Beam. Joe was teetotal, but had lived long enough to know that you couldn’t discuss anything with an alcoholic. He opened one of the bottles and put it on the bedside table. The bloke would be feeling awful when he woke up at all events.

‘Crystal Castle. Hello.’

‘Hello, may I speak to Margaret Dawson?’

‘Speaking.’

‘I can help your son if you tell me he killed Inger Holter.’

‘What?! Who is this?’

‘A friend. You have to trust me, Mrs Dawson. If not, your son’s lost. Do you understand? Did he kill Inger Holter?’

‘What is this? Is this supposed to be a joke? Who is Inger Holter?’

‘You’re Evans’s mother, Mrs Dawson. Inger Holter also had a mother. You and I are the only ones who can help your son. Tell me he killed Inger Holter! Do you hear me?!’

‘I can hear you’ve been drinking. Now I’m going to ring the police.’

‘Say it!’

‘I’m putting the phone down now.’

‘Say it . . . Bloody cow!’

Alex Tomaros put his arms behind his head and leaned back in the chair as Birgitta came into the office.

‘Sit down, Birgitta.’

She sat on the chair in front of Tomaros’s modest desk, and Alex used the opportunity to study her more closely. He thought she looked tired. She had black bags under her eyes, seemed irritated and was even paler than normal.

‘I was interviewed by a policeman a few days ago, Birgitta. A certain Mr Holy, a foreigner. In the course of the conversation it emerged that he’d been speaking to some of the staff here and had information of . . . er, an indiscreet kind. We’re all interested, natur-ally, in the person who killed Inger Holter being found, but I would just like to draw your attention to the fact that any similar statements in the future will be interpreted as . . . disloyal. And I don’t need to tell you that, trade being tough right now, we cannot afford to pay people we don’t feel we can trust.’