1 by Wildtrack (pdf)

Author:Wildtrack (pdf) [Ismeretlen]
Language: hun
Format: epub

“Because I need Bannister’s money to repair it.”

Micky gave me a long and disbelieving look. “If I recall correctly, which I bloody well do, us taxpayers gave a hundred thousand quid to everyone who got badly wounded in the Falklands. Didn’t you qualify?”

“I got stitched up by a divorce lawyer.”

“Bloody hellfire. A hundred grand?”

“Damn nearly.”

“Jesus, mate. You need a bloody nanny, not a newspaper reporter.

So tell me all.”

I told him about Sycorax. I also told him about Bannister, Jill-Beth, Kassouli and the Honourable John. I told him everything. I told him how I had let myself be suckered into Kassouli’s house and how, as a result, I now had a problem. I wanted to head Kassouli off, not because I was on Bannister’s side, but because it was impossible to do nothing when so many jobs were threatened. It had become a matter of patriotism. Micky grimaced when I used the word. “So why don’t you just play shtum?” he asked. “Clearly the fucking Government’s happy

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for Bannister to get knocked over, the jobs get saved, and you keep your boat. What do you need me for?”

“Because there’s no proof that Bannister did kill his wife.”

“Oh. You want to be honourable as well, do you?” He said it in friendly mockery, then lit a cigarette and stared at the smoke-stained ceiling. He was a big man with a coarse tongue and a battered face and a mind like a suspicious weasel. He gave me an overwhelming impression of world-weariness; that he had seen everything, heard everything, and believed very little of any of it. Now he looked dubious. “It’s the word of a convict’s son versus the British Government and one of the world’s richest men?”

“That’s about it.”

“The VC will help, of course—” he thought about it some more—“but Kassouli will deny talking to you?”

“Utterly.”

“And the Government will say they never heard of you?”

“I’m sure.”

“Dodgy.” He went silent again for a few puffs of his cigarette.

“Do you think there’s a chance Bannister did it?”

“I haven’t the first idea, Mouse. That’s the whole point about a perfect murder. It’s so perfect you don’t even know if it was murder.”

“But if we say it was murder, Nick, or if we even bloody hint at it, Bannister will slap a bloody libel writ on us, won’t he?”

“Would he?”

“Of course he would. Worth hundreds of thousands, that libel.

Tax-free, too.” He shook his head. “It just can’t be proved that he murdered his wife, can it?”

“No.”

“It would be the perfect bloody murder.” He said it admiringly.

“And a damn sight cheaper than divorce.” He lit another cigarette.

“I want it. It’s a lovely little tale. A stinking rich Yank with a wog name, a murdering Brit bastard, a pusillanimous government, a copper-bottomed war hero, and a corpse with big tits. Just right for a scummy lowlife rag like mine. Cheers, Nick.”

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“So can you help?” I felt the relief of a weight being lifted, the relief that I was no longer alone between the rock and a hard place. If the British Government would not take on Kassouli’s obsession, then the press certainly would.

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