A Spoonful of Luger (21 page)

Then
I
stood
up
and
apologized,
but
he
didn’t
hear
me.
Rose
was
vomiting
all
over
the
coloured
tele,
hanging
on
as
though
I
might
be
going
to
repossess
it.
I
had
a
look.
There
was
nothing
worse
than
a
fine
cut
along
my
ribs,
so
I
apologized
to
her
too.

By
the
time
Mike
was
sitting
up
I
was
going
through
drawers.
He
groaned.

“What
yer
after?”

“Money,”
I
told
him.
“The
shirt’s
ruined,
a
hole
in
the
jacket,
a
slit
in the
mac.
Money
mate.”

“Stupid
cow,”
said
Mike
and
Rose stopped
retching
long
enough
to
tell him
about
his
masculinity.

There
was
plenty
of
money
in
one of
the
drawers,
lying
around
loose.

“Twenty,”
I
said.
“That
should
cover it.
Where’d
he
go?”

“For
Chrissake
... ”

“Where
did
Norman
go,
a
week
last Saturday?”

“Don’t
know.”

“Took
his
car,
did
he?”

“He
ain’t
got
a
car.”

“Doesn’t
have
a
car
— only
crashes
‘em.
Right,
so
he
went
some
way
or
other.
Where
to?”

He
looked
at
me.
“Nottingham,”
he
muttered.

“Fine.
We
progress.”
I
made
a
mental
note
to
check
whether
Dennis
Cleave
had
been
missing
that
same
Saturday.
Had
he,
too,
gone
to
Nottingham?

I
yanked
open
another
drawer
of
the
sideboard.
It
was
stiff
and
came
out with
a
tinkling
sound.
I
looked
inside.
There
were
seven
bunches
of
keys,
on
rings
about
three
inches
across.
Each
ring
held
from
twenty
to
fifty
keys.

“Well
now ... ”
I
lifted
one
ring
out
on
a
finger.
“House
keys?”

“We
move
a
lot.”

“Or
ignition
keys?”

“Keep
your
hands
off
them,”
he
said
in
agony,
and
he
got
to
his
feet.
He
still
looked
dangerous.
A
lot
of
work
had
gone
into
that
collection.
I
did
not
keep
my
hands
off
them,
but
scooped
out
all
seven
rings.
As
I
piled
them
in
they
made
my
raincoat
heavy.
Mike
moved
between
me
and
the
door.
I
laughed.
My
ribs
were
sore
but
my
heart
was
high.

“I
want
them
keys.”

“I’ll
send
you
a
receipt.”

I
walked
at
him
and
he
made
a
feeble
gesture.
I
trod
on
his
toe.
I
was
getting
good
at
that.
He
was
still
telling
me
things
when
I
went
out
of
the
front
door.

I
was
surprised
to
find
that
I
had enjoyed
myself.
The
car
tried
to
dig
its
rear
wheels
into
the
mud,
but
I
was
patient
with
it
and
eased
it
back
onto
the
road.
Then
I
went
for
a
coffee
and
a
sausage
roll,
and
tackled
the
motorway
again.
It
didn’t
seem
so
bad
this
time,
though
the
engine
didn’t
like
it.

I
bounded
up
the
Station
stairs,
feeling
good.
It
was
a
long
time
since
I’d
had
to
deal
with
anybody
like
Mike,
and
it
was
gratifying
to
find
that
I
still
could
—
could
even
bound
up
stairs.
But
I
had
more
than
that.
I
had
something
I
could
show
Bycroft.

“Oh
lovely,”
he
decided,
almost
snarling.
“Trust
you
to
ball
things
up.”

5

I HAD
bounced
the
keys
on
his
desk,
and
waited
for
his
delight,
like
a
spaniel
with
his
tongue
flapping.
He
was
alone
and
surrounded
by
paper.
But
there
was
no
surge
of
pleasure.
He
just
stared
at
them.

“Keys,”
I
said.
“Car
keys.”

“So
I
see.”

“I
got
‘em
at
Norman
Lyle’s
place.
He
and
his
brother
Mike,
they’ve
obviously
been
working
a
stolen
car
racket.”
I
felt
I
was
beating
the
words
against
his
lack
of
enthusiasm.

“I
gathered
that.
So
now
you’ve
given
them
time
to
make
a
break
for
it.
That
was
very
clever
of
you,
George.”

“Frank,
think.
It
links
up.
Down
at
Cleave’s
yard
there
was
a
paint
spraying
plant.
Now
what’d
a
car
breaker
want
with
that?
And
remember
the
tape Tony
used
to
stick
that
pouch
under
the
table?
It
was
masking
tape,
the
stuff
they
use
when
they’re
spraying
cars.”

He
made
rumbling
noises,
then
slammed
his
fist
onto
the
desk.
“I’ll
kill
him!”

“Who?”

“That
Tony
Finch.
You
have
to
drag
every
detail
out
of
him
with
pincers ... ”