Little Fingers! by Tim Roux Page A

between us. It is not sexual on my side. I
would not necessarily be revolted by the idea, but it is at least
lower than 500 on my list of desirable things to do, somewhere
below doing the washing up or taxing the car.
    For you, I
realise it is different. The fixation is physical as well as
mental, and it started in this interview. I behave in a way that is
atypical, challenging to your authority, playful, wounding, brutal
even.
    Like many of
your kind, determined bullies committed to a crusade of
self-righteousness, you are vulnerable to the coolly efficient
counter-attack. At first you bite harder, then you admire and, in
my case, ultimately you are ensnared. You want to be with me. You
accord me powers that are almost supernatural. I do have a few of
those, I admit, yet I do not believe that those are the ones you
are thinking of.
    I smile
affectionately at you. “You seem to be having some difficulty
keeping your tie straight.”
    You give me a
“what on earth are you on about?” look.
    “ You are a
bit of a messy eater, too. You need a good woman to take some care
of you.”
    “ Did you have
anyone in mind, seeing that we are wandering off the subject of a
murder investigation in which you are currently the chief
suspect?”
    “ I do not
know the village very well, Inspector. Nor you. Nor Tom, come to
think of it.”
    “ But you
still believe you know who the murderer is?”
    “ Yes.”
    “ How could
you possibly know that?”
    “ Women's
intuition.”
    You cough over
the coffee you are not drinking.
    “ You are
having me on. No wonder I have problems solving my
cases.”
    “ Men are much
less observant than women. You talk more and you listen
less.”
    “ And do you
know what I am thinking at this moment?”
    “ Of course I
do, Inspector. And I am flattered, without being inclined to share
your fantasy.”
    You are
uncertain as to whether to shout at me, or soften your
approach.
    “ You flatter
yourself.”
    “ May be I
flatter you. I can help you, and maybe I flatter you with the sense
to realise that it is better to work with me rather than against
me.”
    “ I think that
I get to choose that.”
    “ My point
precisely.”
    “ Well, you
are certainly arrogant.”
    “ Why would I
deny it? I have a lot to be arrogant about. And you need a lot of
help. Be an obstinate man, if you wish, or solve this case. You
will do it a lot faster if we share ideas. I am not going to
straighten your tie, but I can tidy up your mind.”
    You get up
abruptly. “Enough of this. I will come back later.” That is
bravado. You are considering carefully what I am saying.
     
    * *
*
     
    Mary is there.
I march down the stairs mid-morning, having had rather too much to
drink the night before, and there she is, her shoulders to me,
sitting at the kitchen table, ruminating over her
coffee.
    She turns
round sharply. “I thought you were a man for a second.”
    She appears
angry, not repentant, or sheepish or even ingratiating. Is this how
she handles shame? It seems ungracious to me.
    I join her at
the table.
    She meets my
eyes. “How have you been?”
    “ OK.”
    “ Just
OK?”
    “ Just
OK.”
    “ It has been
hell for me.”
    “ Why?”
    “ Do I need to
explain?”
    “ Mary, you do
not need to explain anything to me.”
    “ Then I won't
say anything.”
    “ Fine.”
    Mary is
daggers drawn. "You are totally devoid of emotion, Julia, aren't
you? You do not feel anything at all. You are dead.”
    “ And it is
nice to see you too.”
    “ But there is
nothing there. You are not angry. You are not hurt. You are not
relieved. You are not welcoming. You haven't stood up and walked
out. Nothing.”
    “ Which of
those would you like me to do?” I smile ironically. “Then I will
know that it is really irritating you when I do not do
it.”
    “ That is how
you get your revenge, is it? How small-minded of you!”
    “ Up until
now, I was thinking how broad-minded I was being.”
    “ Hooray for
heroines then,” she