looking for something but didn’t know what it was. Coe wanted a bone to drop at Tearney’s feet. Show her his quality. But bouncers aside, all he really knew was that Bettany was active, had spoken to a policeman, and was staying in his dead son’s flat.
Tearney had emerged from the tube station a pulse behind a commuter surge.
“Walk with me,” she said.
The morning traffic did what morning traffic did. Rain threatened, but kept changing its mind.
Dame Ingrid said, “What news of our friend?”
This was a test. If Tearney wanted to know what Bettany had been up to, she’d have had a three-inch thick dossier waiting on her desk. 10:03:02 P.M. , Subject blew his nose. 10:03:04 P.M. , Subject returned handkerchief to left trouser pocket.
He said, “He’s doing what I said he would. Well, he’d already started doing it by then.”
“Elaborate.”
Coe told her about the bouncers.
“So he’s looking for the drug connection.”
“… Yes.”
Tearney halted by the pedestrian lights. She was wearing a different outfit this morning. Coe himself changed his shirt more or less daily, his trousers twice a week, his jacket seasonally, but First Desk had to make an effort. Her raincoat was black, belted and reached to her knees, and Coe had no hope in hell of identifying it by label, but it looked expensive. Beneath it she wore a pale suit and neat black boots with a red buckle. That her hair today was a tight crown of black curls, Coe knew enough not to comment on. On her raincoat’s collar a seam had pulled loose. He’d have pointed this out, but valued his prospects.
She said, “That didn’t sound convinced.”
The lights changed, and the green man beckoned. They crossed the road in step.
Coe said, “He didn’t kill them.”
“You’re unhappy about that?”
“It strikes me as strange.”
“Explain.”
“Maybe they sold Bettany’s son his dope, and maybe they didn’t. I don’t see that it matters either way. They were probably selling
somebody
dope, and that’s all Bettany needed. This was never a job for Hercule Poirot. He went looking for pushers and he found a pair. So given who he is, what he can do, I don’t see what kept him from killing them.”
They weren’t far from Regent’s Park. Tearney wasn’t leading them that way, though. Whatever this meeting’s about, thought Coe, it’ll be over before she heads for her desk.
Now she said, “Perhaps you’re doing him an injustice. Hemight be more targeted than you suggest. More focused. Less inclined to settle for a token victim.”
“If he wants to find the actual dealer who sold Liam the actual dope he was smoking, he’s going to have to dig around in his son’s life.”
Tearney said, “That does present a slight problem.”
And Coe sensed they were arriving at the point.
The horses were past him now, leaving JK Coe with a view of their fine hindquarters. Animals built for dumping from a great height. Not for being dumped on.
A bus backfired and a clatter of pigeons took flight. Coe followed their progress into the grey mid-air, where they wheeled figure eights before settling back on the square and resuming their mindless milling.
And just like that he wasn’t alone any more. Tom Bettany sat next to him, calmly watching pigeons and tourists, as if he’d been occupying that same spot for half an hour.
Coe said, “I don’t need to ask who you are.”
“I don’t expect you do.”
But then, he’d seen Bettany’s Service photo. Bettany had put on a few miles, but fundamentally he looked the same.
His eyes were unnaturally bright, though. Coe wondered if he were on anything, and immediately answered himself,
No.
He was high on the task in hand, that was all. The same energy pulsing through him as in that alley, when he took apart the bouncers.
The thought unnerved him, bringing to mind Dame Ingrid’s instruction.
Meet him somewhere public.
He noticed Bettany’s crooked smile.
“What?”
“You’re
Tearney had emerged from the tube station a pulse behind a commuter surge.
“Walk with me,” she said.
The morning traffic did what morning traffic did. Rain threatened, but kept changing its mind.
Dame Ingrid said, “What news of our friend?”
This was a test. If Tearney wanted to know what Bettany had been up to, she’d have had a three-inch thick dossier waiting on her desk. 10:03:02 P.M. , Subject blew his nose. 10:03:04 P.M. , Subject returned handkerchief to left trouser pocket.
He said, “He’s doing what I said he would. Well, he’d already started doing it by then.”
“Elaborate.”
Coe told her about the bouncers.
“So he’s looking for the drug connection.”
“… Yes.”
Tearney halted by the pedestrian lights. She was wearing a different outfit this morning. Coe himself changed his shirt more or less daily, his trousers twice a week, his jacket seasonally, but First Desk had to make an effort. Her raincoat was black, belted and reached to her knees, and Coe had no hope in hell of identifying it by label, but it looked expensive. Beneath it she wore a pale suit and neat black boots with a red buckle. That her hair today was a tight crown of black curls, Coe knew enough not to comment on. On her raincoat’s collar a seam had pulled loose. He’d have pointed this out, but valued his prospects.
She said, “That didn’t sound convinced.”
The lights changed, and the green man beckoned. They crossed the road in step.
Coe said, “He didn’t kill them.”
“You’re unhappy about that?”
“It strikes me as strange.”
“Explain.”
“Maybe they sold Bettany’s son his dope, and maybe they didn’t. I don’t see that it matters either way. They were probably selling
somebody
dope, and that’s all Bettany needed. This was never a job for Hercule Poirot. He went looking for pushers and he found a pair. So given who he is, what he can do, I don’t see what kept him from killing them.”
They weren’t far from Regent’s Park. Tearney wasn’t leading them that way, though. Whatever this meeting’s about, thought Coe, it’ll be over before she heads for her desk.
Now she said, “Perhaps you’re doing him an injustice. Hemight be more targeted than you suggest. More focused. Less inclined to settle for a token victim.”
“If he wants to find the actual dealer who sold Liam the actual dope he was smoking, he’s going to have to dig around in his son’s life.”
Tearney said, “That does present a slight problem.”
And Coe sensed they were arriving at the point.
The horses were past him now, leaving JK Coe with a view of their fine hindquarters. Animals built for dumping from a great height. Not for being dumped on.
A bus backfired and a clatter of pigeons took flight. Coe followed their progress into the grey mid-air, where they wheeled figure eights before settling back on the square and resuming their mindless milling.
And just like that he wasn’t alone any more. Tom Bettany sat next to him, calmly watching pigeons and tourists, as if he’d been occupying that same spot for half an hour.
Coe said, “I don’t need to ask who you are.”
“I don’t expect you do.”
But then, he’d seen Bettany’s Service photo. Bettany had put on a few miles, but fundamentally he looked the same.
His eyes were unnaturally bright, though. Coe wondered if he were on anything, and immediately answered himself,
No.
He was high on the task in hand, that was all. The same energy pulsing through him as in that alley, when he took apart the bouncers.
The thought unnerved him, bringing to mind Dame Ingrid’s instruction.
Meet him somewhere public.
He noticed Bettany’s crooked smile.
“What?”
“You’re
Similar Books
