inviting. It was the perfect place to rest an aching head. Then, an
ice pack for the boot- print branded onto his neck.
Robinson
said gently, 'Your neighbour Mr Woodsmith claims you had a fight with the
landlady yesterday morning. Do you recall that incident?'
Mr
Woodsmith, the harmless window peeper, had supplied the police with a
time-honoured motive for foul play: bad blood between the landlady and the
lodger; a storyline lifted from Detective
Tales. Emmanuel closed his eyes and focused beyond the pain that split his temple.
Should he tell the truth or take evasive action?
'There
was no fight,' he said.
'Really?'
'We
talked about dogs. Small versus big.'
'Mr
Woodsmith claims the landlady was scared of you. Couldn't wait for you to
vacate the premises.'
'I
don't know anything about that.'
Discs
of light flickered across the room in a bright meteor shower. It was getting
hard to hold up the weight of his head.
The
detectives' attention was drawn away when the interview door swung inward. A
young constable in an olive drab uniform entered and placed a shoebox onto the
table with boyish awkwardness. White puffs of bloody cotton wool protruded from
his nostrils. Fletcher patted the constable's shoulder, a gesture that said,
'We are both men bloodied in the fight against crime'. Stuttering constable to
station hero; this afternoon would be a career highlight for the young
policeman who'd taken blows from a vicious killer. His incompetence might even
get him a medal from the police commissioner. The injured constable whispered
something to Fletcher that made him smile.
'What's
in here?' Robinson, the good detective, reached into the shoebox once the
constable had left the room. He extracted a bone-handled knife. It was
Parthiv's gangster switchblade. Emmanuel had forgotten it in his pocket when
he'd rushed from Saris & All, then shoved it into a drawer. Out of sight,
out of mind. He lifted his head a fraction. The uniforms had searched his room.
Robinson
dipped into the box again and produced Jolly's notebook. He dusted off the
cover and rubbed the white powder between his fingers, curious.
'Where
did the constable find this?' he asked.
'Wrapped
in newspaper and hidden in a flour tin,' Fletcher said with satisfaction. 'In
Mr Cooper's kitchen.'
'Strange
place to keep something.' Robinson flicked through the pages and then glanced
at Emmanuel, waiting for edification on the notebook's placement.
Emmanuel
didn't even try to explain how an imaginary Scottish sergeant major's warning
had made him cautious to the point of paranoia.
'The
boy on the docks . ..' Robinson handed the notebook to his partner. 'What was
it his ma said about him?'
'Ran
errands at the port. Collected food and booze for various people. Kept
everything written in a book.'
'You
know a boy by the name of Jolly Marks, Mr Cooper?' Robinson asked.
The
empty glass rattled against the metal chain of Emmanuel's cuffs. The shakes
were coming on strong. White clusters of light erased outlines of objects and
people. The detectives were soft Vaseline smears.
'I
can't think,' Emmanuel said. 'I need painkillers . . . something for my head
and my neck.'
'Medicine's
not going to fix what's wrong with you,' Fletcher said. 'The hangman will set
you straight.'
Emmanuel
forced his chin up and tried to focus. The white-snow haze of his migraine
blinded him.
Your eye is
fucked, soldier. The rough Scottish voice filled his head. I'll tell you
what they have. The Indian's knife and the dead boy's notebook. Now you know.
Your eye's not the only thing that's fucked .
Emmanuel
rocked backwards. The glass flew into the air and smashed against the concrete
floor. Darkness swamped him. Fletcher grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him
to his feet.
'Faking
illness?' he said. 'Don't even think about going soft now.'
'Wait.'
Robinson examined Emmanuel's pale face and the sweat on his bruised neck. 'The
arresting constable clobbered him too hard. Probably knocked some
ice pack for the boot- print branded onto his neck.
Robinson
said gently, 'Your neighbour Mr Woodsmith claims you had a fight with the
landlady yesterday morning. Do you recall that incident?'
Mr
Woodsmith, the harmless window peeper, had supplied the police with a
time-honoured motive for foul play: bad blood between the landlady and the
lodger; a storyline lifted from Detective
Tales. Emmanuel closed his eyes and focused beyond the pain that split his temple.
Should he tell the truth or take evasive action?
'There
was no fight,' he said.
'Really?'
'We
talked about dogs. Small versus big.'
'Mr
Woodsmith claims the landlady was scared of you. Couldn't wait for you to
vacate the premises.'
'I
don't know anything about that.'
Discs
of light flickered across the room in a bright meteor shower. It was getting
hard to hold up the weight of his head.
The
detectives' attention was drawn away when the interview door swung inward. A
young constable in an olive drab uniform entered and placed a shoebox onto the
table with boyish awkwardness. White puffs of bloody cotton wool protruded from
his nostrils. Fletcher patted the constable's shoulder, a gesture that said,
'We are both men bloodied in the fight against crime'. Stuttering constable to
station hero; this afternoon would be a career highlight for the young
policeman who'd taken blows from a vicious killer. His incompetence might even
get him a medal from the police commissioner. The injured constable whispered
something to Fletcher that made him smile.
'What's
in here?' Robinson, the good detective, reached into the shoebox once the
constable had left the room. He extracted a bone-handled knife. It was
Parthiv's gangster switchblade. Emmanuel had forgotten it in his pocket when
he'd rushed from Saris & All, then shoved it into a drawer. Out of sight,
out of mind. He lifted his head a fraction. The uniforms had searched his room.
Robinson
dipped into the box again and produced Jolly's notebook. He dusted off the
cover and rubbed the white powder between his fingers, curious.
'Where
did the constable find this?' he asked.
'Wrapped
in newspaper and hidden in a flour tin,' Fletcher said with satisfaction. 'In
Mr Cooper's kitchen.'
'Strange
place to keep something.' Robinson flicked through the pages and then glanced
at Emmanuel, waiting for edification on the notebook's placement.
Emmanuel
didn't even try to explain how an imaginary Scottish sergeant major's warning
had made him cautious to the point of paranoia.
'The
boy on the docks . ..' Robinson handed the notebook to his partner. 'What was
it his ma said about him?'
'Ran
errands at the port. Collected food and booze for various people. Kept
everything written in a book.'
'You
know a boy by the name of Jolly Marks, Mr Cooper?' Robinson asked.
The
empty glass rattled against the metal chain of Emmanuel's cuffs. The shakes
were coming on strong. White clusters of light erased outlines of objects and
people. The detectives were soft Vaseline smears.
'I
can't think,' Emmanuel said. 'I need painkillers . . . something for my head
and my neck.'
'Medicine's
not going to fix what's wrong with you,' Fletcher said. 'The hangman will set
you straight.'
Emmanuel
forced his chin up and tried to focus. The white-snow haze of his migraine
blinded him.
Your eye is
fucked, soldier. The rough Scottish voice filled his head. I'll tell you
what they have. The Indian's knife and the dead boy's notebook. Now you know.
Your eye's not the only thing that's fucked .
Emmanuel
rocked backwards. The glass flew into the air and smashed against the concrete
floor. Darkness swamped him. Fletcher grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him
to his feet.
'Faking
illness?' he said. 'Don't even think about going soft now.'
'Wait.'
Robinson examined Emmanuel's pale face and the sweat on his bruised neck. 'The
arresting constable clobbered him too hard. Probably knocked some
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