A Spoonful of Luger (32 page)

“That’s
the
ring
road
just
ahead,”
she
said
suddenly,
and
I
slowed.

We
were
coming
into
the
ring
road
from
outside
the
perimeter.
Dulcie,
it
had
been
assumed
—
because
of
the
bus
times
—
would
have
been
waiting
for
her
bus
on
the
inner
side
of
the
ring.
But
as
I
slowed
I
saw
that
Dulcie’s
bus
stop
was
right
opposite
the
road
junction.
I
let
out
a
deep
breath.

“Which
way
would
he
go
from
here,
do
you
think?”

“Left,
I’d
say.”

Which
was
the
opposite
direction
to
Dulcie’s
supposed
bus.
The
police
had
assumed
wrong
when
they
tackled
the
Green
Belt
area,
which
was
way
on
our
right.

“Look,”
I
said.
“It
was
getting
dark
when
she
went
for
her
bus.
She’d
be
waiting
over
there.
Dennis
Cleave
comes
round
this
slight
bend,
his
headlights
on,
and
they
sweep
across
that
bus
stop.
He’s
going
to
turn
left
into
the
ring
road.
But
he
stops.
Head
out
of
the
window.
Dulcie,
want
a
lift?
Yes,
Uncle
Dennis.
Pitter
patter
of
feet
across
the
road,
into
the
cab ... ”

Her
hand
clamped
on
my
arm.
“George ...
easy
now.”

I
got
out
my
pipe
and
filled
it
and
felt
better.

“Which
way
to
your
place,
Anne?”

“You’re
taking
me
home?”
she
protested.

“It’s
getting
too
close.”

“Ah
yes.
You’re
nervous
when
you
get
too
close.”

“This
isn’t
for
you.”

“You
won’t
discuss
it,
won’t
get
it
out
into
the
open.”
She
was
deliberately
misunderstanding
me,
forcing
the
issue
back
to
personalities.

“Anne,
you
know
what
I
mean.”

“Yes,
I
know.
The
child.”
She
seemed
very
tired
and
sad.
“It’s
the
wrong
time
to
talk
about
us.
It’s
always
the
wrong
time.
If
you
must ...
turn
right,
and
keep
going.”

I
turned
right.

“You’re
so
good
at
that,”
she
added,
and
I
didn’t
reply.

As
we
parted
she
said
nothing
about
meeting
again,
or
about
phoning.
I
felt
the
emptiness
as
she
walked
away.
But
I
had
to
put
it
out
of
my
mind
and
concentrate
on
the
one
final
requirement
that
would
lead
me
to
Dulcie,
the
snag
being
that
they’d
probably
have
Tony
round
at
the
Station.
His
father
told
me
they
hadn’t
taken
him
in,
though,
and
maybe
I’d
find
him
in
town.

“Hangs
around
cafés,”
he
said,
still
looking
a
bit
shaken,
and
I
was
lucky
because
Tony
was
in
the
only
one
I
knew.

I
took
a
coffee
over
to
the
corner
table,
where
Tony
was
sitting
over
an empty
cup,
moodily
folding
the
silver
paper
from
a
chocolate
biscuit.

“Wanted
to
ask
you
something,”
I
said.

He
raised
his
eyes.
They
were
angry
and
tired.
“I’ve
answered
enough
questions
for
one
day.
Go
and
talk
to
somebody
else.”

There
was
only
one
thing
I
wanted
to
know.
It
would
take
a
minute.
I
didn’t
ask
it.

“Got
yourself
into
trouble,
haven’t
you?”
I
asked.

“Nobody
said
so.”

“But
they
will,
Tony.
You
admitted
too
much.
Cleave
telling
you
Norman
was
dead
—
that
gives
everybody
the
impression
that
you
were
closer
to
him
than
you’ve
admitted.
So
far
the
inspector’s
left
you
running
around
loose.
I
wonder
why.
Maybe
he’s
waiting
for
you
to
make
another
mistake.”

“It
wasn’t
a
mistake.”

“You
might
get
back
in
his
good
books
if
you
helped
us
a
bit.”

“Who’s
us?”

I
shrugged.
“Tony,
there’s
two
possibilities
in
this
Cleave
business.
Either
there
were
two
guns,
or
somebody
found
a
way
of
getting
into
that
box.
You
follow
me?”

“Oh
sure ...
sure.”

“Inspector
Bycroft’s
stuck
on
the
two
guns
idea,
but
any
time
now
he’s
going
to
get
a
ballistics
report.
And
there
just
can’t
be
two
guns.
So
he’s
going
to
have
to
come
back
to
you.
Are
you
listening?”

He
was
making
a
butterfly
from
the
silver
paper.
He
picked
it
up
and
admired
it.
“I
only
told
the
truth.”

“Now
listen.
All
you
could
see
was
that
you
were
in
trouble.
You
thought
you
had
to
prove
you
couldn’t
have
made
a
third
key.
But
that
wasn’t
necessary.
Cleave
wouldn’t
have
swallowed
his
key
if
he’d
been
facing
somebody
he
knew
could
find
the
pouch
under
the
table.
So
you
don’t
have
to
prove
anything.
You
may
have
thought
you
did,
so
you
made it
cast-iron.
You
didn’t
just
prove
you
couldn’t
have
made
a
third
key,
you
proved
nobody
could.
And
that’s
got
to
be
plain
ridiculous.”