A Clear Conscience by Frances Fyfield Page B

quite enough, what with having to identify her only kith and kin and then being asked to confirm what time I came home that night, as if it was me who needed the alibi! What does it matter what she does for a living?’
    Bailey could picture the statement of Mary Catherine Boyce. Short and to the point. Identifying her brother. Saying what time her husband had gone out and come in. Cleaning lady, he remembered suddenly, as if that mattered.
    He got up. ‘I’d only want to ask her a few questions about Damien’s background. I know there was a fight, but we’re still, well, how can I put it, short on the motive.’
    â€˜Anyone can get killed in a fight,’ said Boyce, pointing to the bruise. ‘Happens every day in this God-forsaken place. You could work hard all your life without ever putting a foot wrong and still go that way. What difference does your background make?’ He was becoming increasingly agitated.
    â€˜Where could I find her, Mr Boyce? I’ll do my best not to cause any upset.’
    â€˜I believe you. Others wouldn’t. Why don’t you send that other bloke? I liked him.’
    Because Ryan is so often blind, Bailey thought, watching the other man struggling for control. Boyce was working out how to minimise the inevitable, a primitive, Bailey concluded: a body responsive to orders and not so stupid as to imagine he could hide his wife for ever. Nothing unusual in that: there were not many men who wanted police officers calling on their wives, especially a spouse unlikely to declare her meagre income or pay tax on it. But it was not this aspect of the black economy which worried Boyce. He was weighing up the pros and cons of where such an interview with Cath should take place. Should he invite this interference home some afternoon when he could insist on being present, or could he ensure Bailey saw Cath somewhere where she would be equally awkward, embarrassed and taciturn? He smiled. There was no malice in the smile, Bailey noticed, merely satisfaction.
    â€˜Allright, if you must. No time like the present. She’s working round the corner here. Chantry Street. You might know it. Big houses. Number seven.’
    Then it was Bailey’s turn to mask surprise. Declining the now effusive offer of a drink, something Ryan rarely did, he left with a nod of acknowledgement.
    As he reached his own car, Bailey saw a large, silver-coloured Jaguar, old but perfectly preserved, moving with all the grace of an ageing ballerina as it rolled over the cobblestones of the mews. It stopped outside the flowers of the Spoon with scarcely a sound, while Bailey looked on, enviously. There were few materialistic ambitions which moved him much, outside the clocks he collected, but the sight of this elegant vehicle inspired an acquisitive admiration. The very best vintage, he thought, I would love one of those, a car which was more than a car. He was thinking, as an antidote, how such a motor would not last five minutes in his neck of the woods without a garage built like a fortress, when a figure rose out of the driving seat, yawned, stretched and executed three karate kicks, before ambling into the Spoon. A huge creature, dressed in a vivid shell suit, with a walk both languid and energetic, the sun catching pale hair and a face tanned by sunbeds. Bailey smiled to himself, envy of the car dispelled. Awesomely gorgeous Mickey Gat. A legend in her own time, except for lazy investigators like Ryan who never listened to important gossip and never kept their eyes open wide enough. Feminism incarnate, in one sense, that was Mickey Gat; big enough to make jelly of a man. One of a dying breed, lawless, but law-enforcing. Like the Jag, Bailey reflected: they were both in their way the very best of British. The sight of Mickey, looking like a bull in a china shop amid the discreet wealth of the mews, somehow made Bailey feel at home. He smiled after the retreating figure with affection, almost