flat? It was far too soon to believe that, but at least the starting signs were good.
“Have a nice day at Uttoxeter tomorrow,” she said as I stood up to leave.
“I will,” I replied, giving her a kiss.
I debated in my mind whether to worry her about Luca. I really wanted her opinion, and I suppose she had a right to know if I was about to become a fifty percent partner rather than a sole proprietor of the business.
“Luca Mandini wants a full partnership,” I said.
“Does he indeed?” she said. “He’s still very young.”
“He’s twenty-seven,” I said. “That’s not so young. And he’s good. Very good.”
“Do you think you’ll lose him if he doesn’t get it?” she asked.
“Probably. He’ll either start up on his own or go to someone who’ll give him what he wants.”
“But can you afford it?” she asked.
“Yes, I think so,” I said. “I would save on his salary, and it wouldn’t be a whole lot different moneywise. I already give him a sizable share of the profits. But it would mean I’d lose some of my independence. We’ve been doing very well lately with him running the computer. I don’t really know enough of that side of things. If Luca left, I suppose I could always employ another assistant who does, but…”
“But not as good?” she said.
“Probably not,” I said.
“Seems a no-brainer to me, then. Give him what he wants.”
“You really think so?”
“Sure,” she said. “Can you afford not to? Luca won’t be able to simply walk away if he’s a partner, will he? But make sure you tie him down with a contract so it costs him to leave.”
Tie him down with a contract so he can neither leave the business nor destroy it with dodgy dealings, I thought. I had decided against telling Sophie about Internet outages, mobile phones that wouldn’t work and fixing the starting prices. I also failed to mention fists and steel toe caps in the Kempton parking lot. There were still limits to what was prudent.
But I was glad I’d asked her about Luca. Crystal clear business thinking had always been her forte-when she was well, that is-and her current advice seemed as sound as her present mental state.
“Thank you,” I said to her. “I’ll do just that.”
We kissed good night, a joyous, loving kiss.
On this occasion, she was not even fed up at me for leaving her behind. I think we both knew she would be coming home with me on Monday, and a couple more days or so wouldn’t matter.
Dundalk, the Internet told me. Paddy Murphy’s telephone was in Dundalk. I further discovered that Dundalk was some fifty miles north of Dublin on the northeast coast of the Irish Republic, close to the mouth of the Castletown River and not far from the border with Northern Ireland.
My computer also told me that Dundalk was the biggest town in Ireland that was not actually a city, with a population of about thirty thousand. Within the surrounding area, the 42 area code, there were nearly half a million people. I could hardly turn up in Dundalk asking for someone called Paddy Murphy, now could I? If I did, it would probably be me they would be throwing in the loony bin.
I was sitting in my office after another undisturbed night in Station Road.
I remained highly concerned about Shifty-eyes. I was under no illusions that he would have given up in his search for the money. Consequently, I had once again slept with the chair from Sophie’s dressing table wedged under the bedroom door handle. I had also left the cash in the cupboard beneath the stairs just in case he turned up with his twelve-centimeter knife. Perhaps he could then have been cajoled into taking the money without also using my body for target practice.
I looked again at my father’s telephone. I had tried Paddy Murphy’s number a few more times late the previous evening after I had returned from the hospital. I pushed the button once more and heard the familiar ringing tone.
“If you were the Garda, you’d be here by now,” Paddy said, answering. “So I’ll assume you’re not.”
“No,” I said, “I’m not.”
“So who are you?” His Irish accent was stronger than ever.
“I told you,” I said. “I’m Alan Grady’s son.”
“He doesn’t have a son,” he replied.
“Oh yes he does,” I said.
“You don’t sound Australian.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I was born before he went to Australia.”
There was a long pause at the other end.
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“Maybe,” he said. “What do you want with me?”
“How well did you know my father?”
“What do you mean ‘did’?” he asked.
“My father was murdered at Ascot races. In the parking lot. He was stabbed.”
There was nothing but silence from the other end.
“When?” he asked finally.
“A week ago last Tuesday.”
There was another long pause.
“Have they caught who did it?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said.
“Any suspects?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“Don’t they have any leads at all?” he asked persistently. I thought he might be a little scared. Perhaps he had good reason.
“The murderer was a man in his mid to late thirties. Thin build, with shifty-looking eyes,” I said.
“How do you mean ‘shifty’?” he said slowly.
“Slightly too close together for his face,” I said.“Do you recognize the description?”
He hesitated too long. “Could be anyone,” he said.
“But you know who,” I said. It was a statement, not a question.
“No,” he said. But I didn’t believe him.
“Is this man likely to come after you?” I asked.
“Why should he?” he said with a slightly nervous rattle to his voice.
“I don’t know. But you do.”
“No,” he said again rapidly.
“Denying it won’t stop it happening,” I said. “Who is it?”
“Do you think I’m bloody mad or something?” he said. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be telling you, now would I?”
“Why not?” I asked him.
“Do you think I’m bloody mad or something?” he said once again. “Because he’d kill me too.”
“He might do that anyway,” I said.
It added to his discomfort.
“Blessed Mary, Mother of Christ,” he said.
“Praying won’t help you,” I said. “But telling me or the police might. And why would this man want you dead anyway?”
He didn’t reply.
“Have you stolen money from him?” I asked.
Still nothing.
“Or is it something to do with the microcoder?” I said.
“The what?” he said.
“The microcoder,” I repeated. “A black box with buttons on it.”
“Oh, you mean the chip writer,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Who does it belong to?”
