Kiss Her Goodbye (10 page)

"I think I'm beginning to get the picture."

Cooper stood up. "How much do you want?"

"For perverting the course of justice? That's got to be worth five grand."

"Easily," Cooper agreed.

"So make it ten."

Mr. Park chuckled. "We don't have that much cash. You take a cheque, Tina?"

"One second." She hurried through to her bedroom and rummaged in the desk. She returned to the sitting room. "I can take Switch, Delta, Visa, MasterCard, Amex or Diners." She placed the credit card machine on the desk and looked at their puzzled faces. "I run a legitimate business under my real name. How would you like to pay?"

Cooper said, "What's the business?"

"I teach self-defence," Tina said. "Mainly to women."

"You work in a gym?"

She shook her head, but didn't expand on the subject. She held weekly classes in a disused church. The rental was next to nothing, but it had to be. With Cooper's donation, she was thinking she might be able to hire somewhere with heating. Somewhere that didn't have broken windows would be a start.

"A woman of many talents." Cooper put his hand in his inside pocket, took out his wallet. "Joe's often commended your blowjobs. You wouldn't like to throw in a freebie? Cement the deal, as it were?"

"I wouldn't suck you off if you paid me."

"Got plenty spunk already, I see," Cooper said.

"Let's do this quickly," she said. "I want you out of my house."

"Some people have no taste." Cooper sat down. "You pay a percentage on that?" He jerked his head at the credit card machine.

"Four point six percent."

"Extortionate," Mr. Park said.

"I'll get the cash together for you," Cooper said.

"Let's get this over with now," Tina said. "I want you out."

"Four point six percent of ten grand is four hundred and sixty pounds."

"I went to school," Tina said. "I can do sums."

"Can you do logic?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't want the extra money? You want to end up paying tax on it? I'll get you the cash."

"When?"

"Maybe today." She was about to say okay when he added, "Tomorrow at the latest."

"Today, or it's no deal."

"I'll see what I can do."

Tina pretended to think about it. After what seemed an appropriate amount of time she nodded slowly. "You strike me as the sort of man who deals in cash a lot," she said to Cooper. "I wouldn't imagine my request would present too much of a challenge for you."

"I like a challenge," Cooper said. "Don't mind admitting it."

Mr. Park got to his feet. He held out his hand and said, "Pleasure doing business with you."

Tina shook his hand. He had a surprisingly firm grip. "By the way," she said. "What's my story?"

"Keep it simple." Cooper's knees clicked when he stood up. "Joe arrived at" — he looked at her — "whatever time he arrived. When was it?"

"Back of eight. Half past, maybe."

"Okay. He was drunk, yeah? He'd had some bad news. You went to bed early. You gave him a quick gobble and he fell asleep. In the morning he didn't feel too good, so he stayed here until his head cleared."

"What time did he leave?"

"Eleven? Doesn't really matter. The important thing is that he was tucked up snug in bed with you when he was supposed to be killing his wife."

"One thing bothers me." Tina faced Mr. Park. "Why me? Traditionally, sex workers don't make the best witnesses."

"Traditionally," Mr. Park said, "they do favors for money."

"Come on." Cooper started to go. He turned mid-step and said to Tina, "Not a word. You say anything to anybody and I'll cut your face to ribbons. You understand?"

Tina said, "I'd like to see you try."

Cooper closed his eyes, clasped his hands in front of his stomach and stood perfectly still. "You want a taster, just say the word."

Tina studied the little man stuffed into the charcoal suit. Short hair. Number three back and sides, slightly longer on top. Shit-brown peppered with grey. The heavy lines scoring his forehead betrayed his pretence at relaxation. He was tense. Lightly tanned face. Patches of white faded the edges of his mouth. Evidence of more tension. The lack of a tie exposed his abnormally thick neck. Muscles bulged under his open shirt. His chest strained against the buttons of his jacket, biceps swelled under his sleeves. He looked like he was about to explode out of his clothes.

Tina could do without having to clear up the mess. "You can open your eyes," she said. "I'll be a good girl."

Cooper raised his eyelids. "I like you." He offered her his hand. "And I can tell you like me."

She took it. "Now piss off," she said.

FOURTEEN

Joe put his hands on the table. They hadn't cuffed him this time. He glanced around him. Yet another police interrogation room. Windowless, which was probably why it reeked of sweat. Bare walls. The table where the three of them were sitting, four plastic chairs, a tape deck. Same layout as the interrogation room in Kirkwall. The only difference was the color of the walls. Grey, this time, instead of yellow.

Monkman obviously felt at home. Slumped in his chair, head hanging to the side. Slobber trickled out the corner of his partly open mouth. His arm twitched and he moaned.

"You'd think he'd spent a night in the cells," Joe said to the other detective. "Want me to fetch his slippers?"

"He was up all night." Detective Sergeant Grove's brown eyes were huge behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He was very much awake. "Working on your wife's case." He placed his hand on Monkman's shoulder and shook him gently. Monkman's eyes flipped open. He stared at Joe, bewildered, and no doubt a little disoriented.

"The plane crashed," Joe said. "You're dead. It's just you and me and some ugly bloke with horns goes by the name of Satan."

Monkman turned to face Grove. "Sorry. Don't know how—"

Grove cut him off. "How do you take your coffee?"

"Huh?"

"Coffee, sergeant. I think you need it."

Monkman yawned and cupped his hand over his mouth. He nodded.

"How do you take it?"

"White." Monkman wiped his lips with the heel of his hand. "No sugar." He sniffed his wrist and pulled a face.

"Mr. Hope?" Grove said.

"Very kind of you to offer."

"How do you take it?"

"Same as Sleeping Beauty."

Grove turned to the uniformed cop by the door. "Would you be kind enough to fetch two coffees, constable? White. No sugar."

"If you think you're up for the challenge," Joe said.

The constable grunted and let himself out.

Monkman said, "I'm sorry I—"

Again DS Grove stopped him. "We're all tired. Mr. Hope's been through a lot, too." Grove peered at Joe over the top of his glasses. "He must be exhausted."

Joe said, "Is this rehearsed?"

"I'm not with you."

"You and him. Good cop, bad cop. You offer me coffee. What's he going to do? Spit in it?"

Grove sat back, removed his glasses and squeezed his nose. "How are your ribs?" He put his glasses back on and looked at Joe. He pinched his nose again.

"What's it to you?"

"You feel well enough to proceed with the interview?"

Somehow, despite the heavy strapping, Joe felt able to move more freely. And he could breathe now without feeling that somebody was chiselling splinters off his ribs. "I'm fine."

Grove said, "Unfortunate you fell over."

"Unfortunate," Joe said. "Sure."

"Unfortunate, also, that you refused medical attention."

"Is this concern for my health leading somewhere? What's your point?"

DS Grove shook his head as if he was disappointed. "I want to establish something, Mr. Hope. Nobody's playing games here. No good cop, bad cop routine. We're not that inventive. I'll be honest. We like results. So we do what's most likely to obtain a conviction. And frequently, believe it or not, that means following protocol. Our insistence that you see a doctor and have your ribs looked at was entirely procedural."

First thing last night after he was placed in the custody of Lothian and Borders police force, they drove him to the hospital, checked him for breakages, and, despite finding none, bandaged him up. Joe had to admit, the strapping helped. Even if he looked like a mummy under his shirt.

From the hospital, they escorted him to St. Leonard's, Edinburgh's main custody
center
. They booked him in and immediately led him to the cellblock. When the turnkey opened the iron door, he released a stench that made Joe gag. "You'll get used to it," the turnkey said. Joe's eyes watered. The air was rancid. Puked-up alcohol, laced with stale sweat and piss. The policeman holding his arm urged him forward. Muffled shouts escaped from the cells lining the corridor. Outside each locked door was a pair of trainers.

They made him remove his shoes before shepherding him into one of the cells. Blue plastic mattress on the floor. Toilet bowl minus its seat in the corner. A combination of graffiti and smeared blood decorated the mustard-colored walls. The turnkey dropped a grey blanket on the mattress and said, "Try to get some sleep."

The policeman removed Joe's handcuffs and left with the turnkey. Joe lay down on the mattress and buried his head under the blanket. He thought he'd never get to sleep. In fact, sleep came like a headlong fall into a pit.

When he awoke, his mouth tasted like a cat litter tray. Still did. He should ask if he could brush his teeth.

Grove was speaking again. He seemed to have a problem with his nose, the way he was squeezing and pulling it all the time. "Sometimes brute force won't open a safe. The trick is to get hold of the combination. We get results here. If anybody steps out of line we send them home."

Joe glanced at Monkman and grinned. Grove seemed okay. For a policeman. "You know I'm not saying anything until my lawyer gets here," Joe said.

Grove pulled back his cuff and looked at his watch. "Our young, idealistic Mr. Brewer appears to be late. It's practically lunchtime. You hungry?" When Joe shook his head, Grove took off his glasses and placed them on the table. He held the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb and screwed his eyes shut as if he'd just experienced a stabbing pain. When he opened them, he said, "Touch of indigestion, excuse me." He gave his watch another glance. "If Mr. Brewer doesn't turn up within the next ten minutes, we'll give him a ring and find out what's happening. I apologize on his behalf for the delay."

"Don't know about you," Monkman said to Joe, "but I've got nothing better to do today."

"Now you mention it," Joe said, "I was going to visit a mate."

"What's his name?"

"Like I'm going to tell you."

"This mate piss you off, did he?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Just wondering whether it's only women you beat to death."

"Sleeping Beauty's definitely woken up," Joe said to Grove. To Monkman he said, "My friend's an accomplished classical pianist. He accompanies me while I indulge in my favorite pastime of singing Schubert
Lieder
."

Monkman said, "Wanker."

"Piss off," Joe told him.

"Gentlemen," Grove said. "Please." He said to Joe, "You're an educated man."

"He's a smart-mouthed little shit," Monkman said.

"I pick things up," Joe said, ignoring Monkman.

"Aye," Monkman said. "Busted ribs." He grinned, delighted with himself.

"You went to university," Grove said, also ignoring Monkman.

"Doesn't mean anything."

"On the contrary. It means a great deal."

"It does?"

"Means you're bright."

"Your logic's debatable. But, suppose what you say is true. How does it help?"

"It means you can be reasoned with, Mr. Hope." Grove retrieved his glasses from the table, held them by the leg and swivelled them from side to side. "You can't possibly appreciate how valuable that is. Intelligence is not something we see very often within these walls." Slipping on his glasses, he turned to face DS Monkman. "You know what I'm talking about?"

"Yeah," Monkman said. "Criminals are thick."

"Quite a generalisation," Grove said. "But it's not far from the truth. In my experience."

Joe said, "You think I'm special, then? Well, gee boys, I'm flattered. I hope you don't mind, Sergeant Grove, if I point something out."

"Be my guest."

"The criminals you see are only the ones you catch. The intelligent ones elude what you call justice. Therefore, your statement is wildly inaccurate."

"You think so?"

"Criminals that get caught are thick. That's all you can say. And I'd also like to point out that criminals are not the only people within these walls. If intelligence is a rarity in your everyday life, you need look no further than the redneck sitting next to you to see why."