Mott drank black coffee and smoked his tenth cigarette of the morning. Hacked into his fist for the hundredth time, the sound of sputum stuck in his throat, a redness with the effort that almost brought tears to his eyes.
‘It could be anybody.’
Troy was scarcely listening any more.
‘I mean … it could be anybody. Ally always did have a way with words. I mean there’s plenty o’ Jews in London. Why does this dead Jew have to be Bernie? For all we know Benie’s done a runner with a bit o’ totty. He was always a ladies’ man was Bernie. That’s probably it. He’s holed up in Bournemouth or Eastbourne with some tart. That’d be old Bernie, wouldn’t it, Mr Troy? It could be anybody. I mean anybody. Don’t have to be Bernie. Stands to reason. It don’t have to be. Could be anybody.’
‘Wearing Bernie’s clothes, with Bernie’s cheque book in his pocket? Of course.’
‘Planted, Mr Troy. Planted to make you think it’s Bernie.’
‘Mott, nobody planted anything. They hid him in the last place anyone would look. You’re familiar with the old adage “can’t see the wood for the trees”? That’s what the Ryans did. Hid him where we would not see him for looking. Once we found him, if we found him, what did it matter that it was Bernie? Nobody planted anything. They set him up, they topped him, then they dug a hole and shoved him in it. They could have done it to any one of you. Then they came to you lot, you miserable bunch of yes-men, and told you they were taking over and anyone who didn’t like it would be taking a hike to the bottom of the Thames. And you, Mott, you just rolled over and said, “Walk on me”, didn’t you?’
Mott flicked the ash from his fag on to the knee of his trousers and rubbed it in. The ashtray was only a foot away from his hand and still seemed too far for the effort. ‘Mr Troy, what is it you want me to say?’
Silently Troy weighed up the man who faced him across the table. Kettleman looked even more pathetic than he had yesterday. A scruffy ragbag of clothes posing as a man. A scarecrow made of straw that somehow lived and breathed his foul breath over Troy. A life hardly worth the living. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You can’t say anything because you don’t know anything. You never did.’
‘I spent most o’ last night telling you that.’
‘And I believe you, Mott.’
‘Then I can go now, right?’
‘Right. You can go. I’ll need about five minutes. You finish your cigarette.’
Next door Alice Marx was bashing away at an old Met-issue Smith-Corona and scattering as much fag ash as Mott. Shrimp Robertson sat across from her.
‘He’s supposed to type it for you,’ Troy said.
‘The boy types with two fingers. I’d be here all day if I had to wait for him. I can touch-type. Or did you think I’d never done a day’s work in me life?’
Troy let Robertson go.
Ally stopped typing, tore her statement and its carbon from the roller. ‘I never wanted to do this. I told you that. You’re a bastard. But Bernie’s dead now. No two ways about it. There’s nothing left to lose. I suppose,’ Ally said, ‘that you’re gonna tell me there was no other way to do this?’
‘There wasn’t.’
‘Fine. I won’t break yer bollocks over it. But there’s got to be a quid pro quo.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Don’t send a squad car roaring round to Millie Champion’s with some tosser of a copper to tell ‘er ‘er ‘usband’s dead.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’
‘Let me do it. I don’t want to do it. But I have to. If you see what I mean.’
Troy did. ‘My driver will take you to Millie’s. When you’re through she’ll take you back to your home. And I’ll put a copper from Hendon on your door until this is over.’
‘And that shitbag, Mott?’