‘It’s not for ever, just till I can work this all out.’
‘Lie?’
A cardinal sin in Rollo’s book, one for which he’d have to account to God himself.
‘It’s not even a lie,’ said Conrad. ‘I just need you to keep quiet about this for a couple of days. Can you do that for me?’
‘I…’
‘They killed my friend, Rollo. I think that man there killed her. But I need to know a bit more, I need a bit more time. Only you can give that to me.’
Rollo nodded gravely. ‘I won’t tell no one,’ he said. ‘No one.’
‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’
Conrad led Rollo towards the doors, stopping to gather up his clothes and his boots as he went.
The man came round slowly to find the fisherman seated on the floor in front of him, dressed now and smoking a cigarette. A gun rested in his lap.
It felt like someone had cleaved away the right side of his body. Then he remembered and he looked down.
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Christ.’
‘You’ll live,’ said the fisherman.
‘There’s a fucking pole in me!’
‘It’s a killing lance—for whales.’
‘Whales!?’
‘Shut up.’
‘I need a doctor.’
‘Shut up and listen. I’m going to say this once. I’ve got some questions. If you lie to me, I’ll kill you. There are no second chances. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look at me. I said look at me.’
He looked up into the two pockets of shadow cast by the overhead light.
‘I want you to know that I hope you lie to me.’
‘I won’t.’
‘When did you first meet Manfred Wallace?’
‘Never heard of him. It’s the truth, I swear it.’
‘Who are you working for?’
‘I don’t know his name. He calls me with jobs, I don’t know who he is.’
‘What were you going to do, kill me after you’d got the document?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Make it look like a suicide.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then nothing. You’re dead, I get my money.’
‘How?’
‘How what?’
‘How do you get your money?’
‘He leaves it. In places. Hotels usually.’
‘How much did he pay you to kill Lillian Wallace?’
He was too slow. He’d hesitated just that little bit too long for it to be convincing.
‘I want to know,’ insisted the fisherman. ‘How much was her life worth to you?’
He realized then that he had the answer to his riddle, written in the fisherman’s face, buried in his voice. It was suddenly clear to him that he was sitting across from the dead girl’s lover. And for one of the few times in his life he felt the cold touch of fear on his heart.
‘Eight hundred dollars,’ he said.
It took a while for the fisherman to absorb the news. ‘The price of a second-hand car?’
‘That’s what I got. I don’t know what the guy who did it got.’
He congratulated himself. He’d slipped it in nicely, naturally.
