Part 3 (2/2)
”Sorry, I don't do sarcasm before breakfast. Now is this an interior design kick or is there something I can actually do for you?”
Usually I let the d.i.c.k stuff go, but I didn't like Conway. He was too smooth, too slick and oiled, like a lazy cat's coat, and I hate cats, especially the lazy ones. He sat back, laid an ankle on a knee.
”Get much business with that att.i.tude, Bud?”
”Tuesdays, my att.i.tude makes me cry. Mondays I think I'm cute. Now start again and if you behave I'll let you finish because I haven't had a laugh in days.”
I was half-hoping Conway would take the hint and leave but all he did was lean forward, flick his cigarette at the ashtray, although not like he was worried about getting the scholars.h.i.+p. He put his elbows on the desk, cleared his throat, said: ”You're Harry Rigby?”
”Unless you're from the Revenue, yeah.”
”You're a private investigator?”
”I'm a research consultant.”
”What's that when it's not at the zoo?”
I took a deep breath and pitched the spiel.
”I research information that isn't readily available to private individuals. Running credit checks on prospective business partners, finding long lost lovers, that kind of thing. I provide covert observation for insurance companies in cases of suspected fraud. I doc.u.ment infidelity, or confirm that the husband's suspicions are just that, and they're usually the husband's. I a.s.sist companies with security surveillance, and sometimes I hop along behind bouncing cheques. Missing dogs and family trees are steady earners. The perks include creative tax returns, fast food, late nights and the manners of a Protestant. The ulcer I had before I took the job. The coffee's getting cold, by the way.”
He nodded, sat back. Took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders. I was guessing infidelity.
”The name's Conway. Frank Conway. And this is strictly confidential.”
”Think of me as a priest, all the women do.”
He laughed, a nasal bark.
”You should meet my wife.”
”She likes funny guys?”
”They're all hilarious, far as she's concerned.”
”Does she have a name, or is it relevant?”
”Helen.”
I dug a pad out of the top drawer, scribbled some notes.
”And has she left or is she going to?”
”Neither. I'm going to break her f.u.c.king neck.”
”And you want me for what an alibi?”
He blew smoke rings at the ceiling.
”Most husbands,” I prodded, ”want to kill the bloke.”
”f.u.c.k him,” Conway rasped. ”He doesn't know any better. If he did he wouldn't be s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the b.i.t.c.h.”
”You know for a fact that Mrs Conway is having an affair?”
”She's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. I know.”
”Worst thing you can do is jump to conclusions.” From where I was sitting, jumping to conclusions was all the exercise Conway got. ”Maybe you should consider other possibilities.”
”Like what?”
I knew, from experience, that the rational approach was pointless. When a man is so convinced his wife is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g someone else that he can tell another man, an act of G.o.d won't change his mind. I tried anyway, needing the gig. I always needed the gig. Chasing missing dogs is no job for a grown man.
”Most d.i.c.k jobs are paranoia,” I explained. ”Blokes who work so hard to compensate for the size of their d.i.c.ks, they don't get to use them. It's only a matter of time before they start wondering why wifey is so happy with the situation. Sometimes the bloke is right, wifey's playing away from home, but it doesn't happen that often. And either way, a happy ending isn't on the cards.”
”What the f.u.c.k is this, The Samaritans?”
Big Frank knew and nothing else mattered. I didn't point out that maybe the fact that nothing else mattered might be the reason Helen Conway was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. I said: ”She has the opportunity?”
The unholy trinity motive, opportunity and proof. Proof was up to me, and after ten minutes with Frank Conway even I wanted to have an affair.
”I'm out of town for a night or two most weeks,” he growled. ”On business.”
”Where?”
His voice ground out a warning, harsh.
”Here and there, it changes.”
He stared. I scribbled.
”So, what? You want me to confirm she's having an affair? Breaking her neck isn't really an option until you know for sure.”
He nodded, curt.
”Alright, I'll need details where she works, shops, gets her hair done. A recent photograph, that kind of thing.”
He dug into his inside pocket, handed me a driver's licence that should have carried a government health warning. She was the right side of forty, dark hair curling to her shoulders, head tilted back, accentuating the aquiline nose. There was mischief in the dark, almond-shaped eyes. The tiny smile was sardonic, knowing, and if the lower lip was less provocative than Ian Paisley it wasn't by more than a thumped lectern.
I'd seen her type before, mostly through binoculars, so I could understand why Conway might turn desperate if he thought she was playing away. That kind of woman comes around once in a lifetime, if you're lucky, and that kind of luck doesn't come cheap. I made a note of the details, handed back the licence. Wondering if Conway was carrying it because he'd come prepared, or in a vain attempt to stop his wife driving when he wasn't around.
”She has a bank account in her own name?”
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