which might mean a sole survivor would find himself forced on the street. Interesting, that.'
Not if you're called Darby Pollinger, thought Joe. This was a guy who now saw no situation which someone's death couldn't improve. Only reason he hasn't killed me yet is once he does that he's got to make his mind up who goes next. He could, of course, just make a run for it, change his identity, live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, but that option probably took all of two seconds to get the thumbs down. Not a real choice unless he'd got so much loot stashed away he could set up real security and live in style. But that would take millions rather than tens of thousands.
No, Joe guessed he'd decided to stay and play the game out. With Montaigne set up as patsy, nothing to worry about but Joe. And one of the women. Couldn't keep them both happy. Lucy was going to run amok if she didn't get the little girl, and she knew everything. Dorrie wasn't about to sit quiet either if she didn't get her man. OK, she presumably knew nothing about the killings, but she certainly wasn't about to give up her daughter. Not while she was alive. But dead, what more natural than that the natural father should hold his hand up and accept responsibility?
So one of them had to go. That was the debate raging in Naysmith's mind.
But which one?
And why am I worrying about them when I don't have no either/or working for me? thought Joe.
Time to try this thinking-on-your-feet game. Except he wasn't on his feet, he was on his butt with several yards of fishing line digging into his chest and arms, holding him to the chair.
Naysmith was regarding him almost sympathetically.
'Joe, you're not so stupid you can't see there's no way out of this for you, are you?' he said.
'You could gag me and make a run for it,' suggested Joe without hope.
'No. If I'd got my hands on really big money, I might think about it. But all I've had is peanuts really, and a hell of a lot of it's been spent already. Being a fugitive doesn't bother me all that much, but being a poor fugitive, now that's something else.'
To hear his own logic so emphatically confirmed was no joy to Joe. Being right was no fun if it meant being dead along with it.
Naysmith was moving behind the chair. Joe recalled Potter's broken neck and Sandra Iles's too. He felt those strong broad hands caress his hair. Had Mr. Takeushi told the martial arts class anything about resistance of fatal head holds when bound in a chair? If so, Joe hadn't been paying attention.
He thought of telling Naysmith that Beryl was sitting waiting for him in the Magic Mini, but aborted the idea almost before conception. Either Naysmith wouldn't believe him. Or he would check, and Beryl would be pulled into this mess by his side. Road accident, easy to fake, particularly when the driver had so much alcohol swilling around inside his veins.
The hands were taking, a grip on his head.
He said, 'Which one of them goes?'
Lucy had come back into the room and poured herself a whisky. Her expression was still faraway, dreamy. She was probably planning outings and birthday parties and
Christmas treats. She was so certain of her future now that she could afford to be patient and wait for the final farewells to be taken upstairs.
Naysmith said, 'Don't know. To be honest, it's not a choice I want to make. All the others, there really was no choice. But this ... look, what would you do?'
'Me. I expect I'd ring the Samaritans,' said Joe.
'That's why you'd never have made a half-decent PI, Sixsmith,' said Naysmith, tightening his grip on Joe's head. His hands felt really strong, which was a comfort. One quick twist and it should be over.
The telephone rang.
'Leave it!' snapped Naysmith.
But it was too late. Lucy had picked it up.
She listened and said, 'Someone wanting a taxi.'
The hands relaxed, let go of his head.
Naysmith said, 'Give it here,' and went to the desk.
Joe shouted after him, 'Promise me you'll look after my cat.'
Naysmith took the phone, said, 'Piss off!' into the mouthpiece and banged it down.
'What did you say about your cat?' he asked.
'Just wanted to be sure someone would take care of it,' said Joe.
Touching. Me, I can't stand the brutes,' said Naysmith, moving back towards him.
Figures, thought Joe, casting round desperately for something else to keep the guy talking. Nothing came to mind. Fortunately his mind had a mind of its own.
He said, 'One more thing, the phone reminded me, there was a message, couple of days back. Sounded like a guy I know. Doug Endor, the sports agent.'
'So what about it?' said Naysmith, puzzled.
Joe didn't know what about it. His meandering mind which seemed incapable of fixing on his very real and immediate problems had just casually registered whose voice the call had reminded him of.
He said, 'Nothing really. Just like to know, if we've got a moment to spare, what it was he wanted. Sort of last
