Quite. He was probably drunk when he asked her. Perhaps he hurt her and made her shout anything to get away.
Sorme was surprised at the detachment in Glasp's voice; there was none of the rage he expected.
But in that case… you might be able to charge him with false accusation later. You ought to get a solicitor.
Glasp said, shrugging:
And pay him with bottle tops?
It wouldn't cost much. And I'm sure Father Carruthers or Gertrude would lend you the money…
I'll think about it, Glasp said.
Sorme felt he was trying to keep him quiet. He said:
All right. That's up to you.
They had arrived at Glasp's address in Durward Street. As he started to insert the key the door opened. Sorme had the impression that the old woman must have been hiding behind it. She said:
Oh, it's you. I thought you were in gaol.
Glasp leaned forward, and shouted in her ear:
No. It's all right now.
Oh, it's all right, is it? Why have they let you out?
I can't explain now, Glasp bellowed. He pushed into the front room and closed the front door behind them. The old woman shouted:
I can't have this sort of thing in my house. I'm only an old woman all on my own, but I can't have that sort of thing in my house.
Have the police been here? Glasp shouted.
The police? Yes, they've been here. You'll have to go. I can't have it…
Glasp turned to Sorme, saying quietly:
Go on upstairs while I explain to this bloody old cow…
As Sorme went up the uncarpeted stairs, smelling the familiar paraffin odour, he heard the old woman shouting:
I've never had trouble with the police before…
Glasp shouted back:
It's not my fault. I can explain…
He let himself into Glasp's room and closed the door. It was damp and cold. He found matches on the windowsill, and lit the oil stove and the gas ring. He found Glasp's kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the gas. A few minutes later Glasp came in. He said:
Those f-ing cops have been in here searching the place.
What? But surely they can't do that without a warrant? Did they have a warrant?
No. They just asked the old woman's permission. It's her house.
But it's your room. I'm sure they're not allowed to do that. You ought to get a solicitor.
Glasp sank on to the stool, warming his hands above the oil stove. He said gloomily:
The old bugger wants me to move out. That bloody father of Christine's!.. I'd like to kill him. Why can contemptible animals like that make such a mess of my life!
Never mind. It's just a farce… But why should they search your room? What would they expect to find?
Christine, of course.
Oh yes.
Glasp said bitterly:
Or maybe her body. I don't think they put anything past me.
He began to wander round the room, peering at canvases. He said suddenly:
Oh, Christ!
What is it?
This portrait of Christine… I'd forgotten it.
Sorme remembered in time that he was not supposed to have seen the picture. He crossed to Glasp, and looked at the portrait of the underfed child. Glasp had pulled several canvases forward to expose it; they leaned against his shin.
Do you think they saw it?
I don't know.
I doubt it. Why should they? If they were looking for her they wouldn't examine your pictures.
Glasp opened a cupboard and took out a large folder made of brown paper. He laid this on the bed and opened it. Sorme deliberately refrained from showing curiosity, although he caught a glimpse of a sketch of a naked child. He asked:
Is there any sign that they've seen it?
Glasp peered closely at the pages.
Not as far as I can see. But I wouldn't expect the police to leave fingermarks.
Glasp closed the album with an exclamation of disgust. He dropped on to the edge of the bed and sighed. His big hands hung loosely between his knees. He said between his teeth:
F-ing swine.
The kettle began to simmer. Sorme emptied the teapot into the sink and rinsed it with warm water. He found the tea on the shelf, in a packet with the top screwed round. While he made it, Glasp began to go around the room systematically, looking for signs of disturbance. He said at last:
They're bloody clever. They've left no traces.
Have some tea.
Glasp lay down on the bed, pushing the folder aside, and closed his eyes. With his bony face upturned to the ceiling, and the big hands resting limply on the coverlet, he looked like a corpse. Sorme said quietly:
Poor Oliver. I know just how it feels. Why can't things be simple and straightforward?
Glasp's chest heaved with a kind of laugh that was little more than an expulsion of breath. He said:
No, you're wrong. I don't want things simple. That's not me. I don't know what I want. If my life was simple, I'd be like a fish out of water. I once knew an actress like that. She had to manufacture complications in her life. All her love affairs had to be messy. If they went wrong, she was all right. If they went right, she felt there was something wrong.
I think you're doing yourself an injustice, Oliver.
Glasp sat up, saying tiredly:
Thank God for my friends. They never let me think the worst of myself.
Sorme noticed the bundle of wood that lay in the fire grate.
You ought to get yourself some coal, Oliver. You need a fire in here.
There is coal. It's outside the door. I was just making a fire when the police arrived.
Let me make one for you.
Glasp said:
Thanks, Gerard.
He took a gulp of the tea, then lay down on the bed again, his eyes closed. Sorme found a coal scuttle outside the door and a bucket containing ashes. He laid the fire and started it with paraffin; in a few minutes the flames were roaring up the chimney. He crouched over it. The cold of the room had penetrated his overcoat. Glasp was lying in his shirtsleeves, the collar unbuttoned.
Aren't you cold there, Oliver?
I… suppose I am.
Glasp seemed fascinated by the flames. He crossed the room and sat on the stool, leaning forward, the teacup between his hands.
It's good of you to bother with me like this, Gerard.
Not in the least.
I'd have been fixed if you hadn't come today.
That's OK. You'd do the same for me.
The paraffin flames began to die down, but the wood was burning well. Outside, the afternoon was turning
