The Judas Heart by Ingrid Black

Author:Ingrid Black [Black, Ingrid]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-05-19T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

It took him so long to answer the door I began to suspect he wasn’t there.

“You think he’s moved on again?” I whispered.

“No,” said Fitzgerald. “Someone’s coming.”

A number of emotions crossed Kaminski’s face when he opened the door and saw me standing there. First came the shock that I was there at all, then a resigned smile crept into his features, and he murmured: “So you tracked me down. Does this mean you’ve decided to -?”

Then the door swung open wider and he saw who was standing behind me. The smile vanished.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’re the tooth fairy.”

Fitzgerald held out her badge for him.

Kaminski looked at it, rubbing his face, rubbing away sleep. He looked ashen. He needed to shave. I wondered again what his former self would think if he could see himself now.

Whether he would even recognise himself.

“Detective Chief Superintendent Grace Fitzgerald,” he read aloud. “I’m honoured.” He handed the ID back without looking at Grace once after that initial realisation that she was there. Instead his eyes were fixed firmly on me. “So you sold me out,” was all he said.

“I didn’t sell anybody out,” I said thickly.

He didn’t answer that. Instead he stepped back and waved a hand. “I guess you’d better come in,” he said to the both of us. “Unless you’re here to put me under arrest?”

This time he did look at her.

“Why would we be putting you under arrest, Mr Kaminski?” asked Fitzgerald.

He shrugged. “For withholding vital information from the police, for being in the country under false papers, for sounding my horn in a built up area after 11pm, that sort of thing. I’m sure you can think of something.”

“You didn’t tell me you were here on a false passport,” I said.

“You didn’t ask,” Kaminski pointed out. “But you didn’t seriously think I’d have come here under my own name, did you? I’m a little tired of everyone knowing where I am.”

“Right now,” said Fitzgerald, stepping into the room briskly, “I don’t much care what name you’re travelling under. Our priorities are a little different.”

Kaminski shut the door behind us.

It was a small room, little more than enough space for a bed and a few sticks of furniture. Grey net curtains were drawn over. In the corner, a TV was switched on. Kaminski had been watching golf. There were the remains of a meagre room service lunch on a tray. His bag was on a chair, still only half unpacked, as if it hadn’t made up its mind whether it was staying,, and the bed was crumpled, like he’d been sleeping when we knocked. A half empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s stood on the bedside table next to a tumbler. Kaminski made no move to remove it. He clearly didn’t care what we saw. Or what we thought about what we saw.

All he did was pick up the TV remote and snap the sound off. He kept the set on, though, so the sight of long acres of green,

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