She turned off the water and gazed at him sullenly.
“I don’t believe anyone anymore,” said Fat Charlie. “Mrs. Dunwiddy’s probably faking being ill. Probably as soon as I leave here she’ll be out of bed and doing the charleston around her bedroom.”
“She not eating. She say it makes her feel bad inside. Won’t take a thing to fill her belly. Just water.”
“Where in Saint Andrews is she?” asked Fat Charlie.
“Just go,” said Mrs. Bustamonte. “Your family, you done enough harm here.”
Fat Charlie looked as if he was about to say something, and then he didn’t, and he left without another word.
Mrs. Bustamonte took the jug of water in to Mrs. Dunwiddy, who lay quiet in the bed.
“Nancy’s son hates us,” said Mrs. Bustamonte. “What you tell him anyhow?”
Mrs. Dunwiddy said nothing. Mrs. Bustamonte listened, and when she was sure that the older woman was still breathing, she took off Mrs. Dunwiddy’s thick spectacles and put them down by the bed, then pulled up the sheet to cover Mrs. Dunwiddy’s shoulders.
After that, she simply waited for the end.
FAT CHARLIE DROVE OFF, NOT ENTIRELY CERTAIN WHERE HE WAS going. He had crossed the Atlantic for the third time in two weeks, and the money that Spider had given him was almost tapped out. He was alone in the car, and being alone, he hummed.
He passed a clutch of Jamaican restaurants when he noticed a sign in a storefront window: Cut Price to the Islands. He pulled up and went inside.
“We at A-One travel are here to serve all your travel needs,” said the travel agent, in the hushed and apologetic tone of voice doctors normally reserve for telling people that the limb in question is going to have to come off.
“Er. Yeah. Thanks. Er. What’s the cheapest way to get out to Saint Andrews?”
“Will you be going on vacation?”
“Not really. I just want to go out for a day. Maybe two days.”
“Leaving when?”
“This afternoon.”
“You are, I take it, joshing with me.”
“Not at all.”
A computer screen was gazed at, lugubriously. A keyboard was tapped. “It doesn’t look like there’s anything out there for less than twelve hundred dollars.”
“Oh.” Fat Charlie slumped.
More keyboard clicking. The man sniffed. “That can’t be right.” Then he said, “Hold on.” A phone call. “Is this rate still valid?” He jotted down some figures on a scratch pad. He looked up at Fat Charlie. “If you could go out for a week and stay at the Dolphin Hotel, I could get you a week’s vacation for five hundred dollars, with your meals at the hotel thrown in. The flight will only cost you airport tax.”
Fat Charlie blinked. “Is there a catch?”
“It’s an island tourism promotion. Something to do with the music festival. I didn’t think it was still going on. But then, you know what they say. You get what you pay for. And if you want to eat anywhere else it will cost you.”
Fat Charlie gave the man five crumpled hundred-dollar bills.
DAISY WAS STARTING TO FEEL LIKE THE KIND OF COP YOU only ever see in movies: tough, hard-bitten, and perfectly ready to buck the system; the kind of cop who wants to know whether or not you feel lucky or if you’re interested in making his day, and particularly the kind of cop who says “I’m getting too old for this shit.” She was twenty-six years old, and she wanted to tell people she was too old for this shit. She was quite aware of how ridiculous this was, thank you very much.
At this moment, she was standing in Detective Superintendent Camberwell’s office and saying, “Yes, sir. Saint Andrews.”
“Went there on my holidays some years back, with the former Mrs. Camberwell. Very pleasant place. Rum cake.”
“That sounds like the place, sir. The closed-circuit footage from Gatwick is definitely him. Traveling under the name of Bronstein. Roger Bronstein flies to Miami, changes planes, and takes a connection to Saint Andrews.”
“You’re sure it’s him?”
“Sure.”
“Well,” said Camberwell. “That buggers us good and proper, doesn’t it? No extradition treaty.”
“There must be something we can do.”
“Mm. We can freeze his remaining accounts and grab his assets, and we will, and that’ll be as much use to us as a water-soluble umbrella, because he’ll have lots of cash sitting in places we can’t find it or touch it.”
Daisy said, “But that’s cheating.”
He looked up at her as if he wasn’t certain exactly what he was looking at. “It’s not a playground game of tag. If they kept the rules, they’d be on our side. If he comes back, then we arrest him.” He squashed a little Plasticine man into a Plasticine ball and began to mash it out into a flat sheet, pinching it between finger and thumb. “In the old days,” he said, “they could claim sanctuary in a church. If you stayed in the church the law couldn’t touch you. Even if you killed a man. Of course, it limited your social life. Right.”
He looked at her as if he expected her to leave now. She said, “He killed Maeve Livingstone. He’s been cheating his clients blind for years.”
“And?”
“We should be bringing him to justice.”
“Don’t let it get to you,” he said.
Daisy thought, I’m getting too old for this shit. She kept her mouth shut, and the words simply went round and round inside her head.
“Don’t let it get to you,” he repeated. He folded the Plasticine sheet into a rough cube, then squeezed it viciously between finger and thumb. “I don’t let any of it get to me. Think of it as if you were a traffic warden. Grahame Coats is just a car that parked on the double yellow lines but drove off before you were able to give him a ticket. Yes?”
“Sure,” said Daisy. “Of course. Sorry.”
“Right,” he said.
She went back to her desk, went to the Police internal Web site, and examined her options for several hours. Finally, she went home. Carol was sitting in front of Coronation Street, eating a microwavable chicken korma.
“I’m taking a break,” said Daisy. “I’m going on holiday.”
“You don’t have any holiday time left,” pointed out Carol reasonably.
“Too bad,” said Daisy. “I’m too old for this shit.”
“Oh. Where are you going?”
“I’m going to catch a crook,” said Daisy.
FAT CHARLIE LIKED CARIBBEAIR. THEY MIGHT HAVE BEEN AN INTERNATIONAL airline, but they felt like a local bus company. The flight attendant called him “darlin’ ” and told him jus’ to sit anywhere that struck his fancy.
He stretched out across three seats and went to sleep. In Fat Charlie’s dream he was walking beneath copper skies and the world was silent and still. He was walking toward a bird, vaster than cities, its eyes aflame, its beak agape, and Fat Charlie walked into the beak and down the creature’s throat.
Then, in the way of dreams, he was in a room, its walls covered with soft feathers and with eyes, round like the eyes of owls, which did not blink.