‘Probably the same reason she didn’t mention it to anyone.’
‘But she did—to the maid.’
‘They were very close,’ said the Basque.
Hollis was beginning to understand how the English psychiatrist must have felt.
‘I’m waiting for your answer,’ said Milligan.
‘I guess I think what happened between us wasn’t anybody else’s business but ours. I still don’t. That’s my answer. Will it do?’
‘Don’t you get smart with me, son. You’re the subject of a formal complaint.’
‘By who?’
‘Manfred Wallace.’
‘Oh,’ said the Basque indifferently. ‘You mind?’ He pulled his tobacco pouch from the pocket of his pants. Milligan gestured impatiently that it was okay, then he launched into an account of a fishing trip the previous weekend. It was the first Hollis had heard of it.
‘There was some tension, yes,’ said the Basque.
‘He’s accusing you of intimidation.’
‘He screwed up. He could have killed someone with a keg.’
‘A keg?’
‘We were swordfishing,’ said the Basque, as if that explained everything, knowing full well that it didn’t.
Milligan was floundering now, but he had a trump left to play. Holding it back was the only thing he’d done right.
‘That’s all fine, Mr Labarde, except for the small matter of your war record.’
The Basque visibly stiffened. Milligan allowed the silence to linger.
‘If you’ve got a problem with Manfred Wallace I’d say he has cause for concern. Wouldn’t you, if you were me?’
The Basque lit his cigarette with the Zippo. ‘I can’t imagine,’ he said, ‘what it’s like to be you.’
Milligan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You watch yourself.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said the Basque.
‘Two years?’ Milligan glanced at Hollis. ‘You think that’s a long time?’
The last thing Hollis wanted was to be drawn into the exchange, but both men were waiting on his reply.
‘It’s more like three years,’ he said.
Words for which he would be made to suffer later.
‘Two, three…ten,’ said Milligan, leaning forward in his chair. ‘You leave the Wallaces well alone. I don’t want you anywhere near them, you hear me?’
‘I hear you.’
Milligan looked at Hollis and nodded towards the door: get him out of here.
Hollis followed the Basque down the stairs and out of the building. The sunlight was spilling into Newtown Lane.
‘I had nothing to do with that,’ said Hollis.
‘I figured as much.’
‘I’ll run you back.’
‘I’ll walk.’
He walked at a pace most men ran at, with a long easy stride. Hollis felt foolish hurrying along beside him, dodging the pedestrians.
‘It’s him, isn’t it—Manfred Wallace?’
‘Is it?’
‘He knows you’re on to him. He’s trying to head you off.’
‘Is he?’
‘Talk to me.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos you did before.’
‘I was wrong to.’
‘You need me. What are you going to do, put a bullet in his head?’
The Basque drew to a halt, his cold gray eyes fastening on Hollis. ‘Now why would I want to do that?’ he asked. ‘Killing’s easy.’
From anyone else it would have sounded like an empty boast, but Hollis had read the files and the words chilled him. He was being closed out, and it was a moment before he figured a way to penetrate the Basque’s guard.
