Page 78 of The Time for Love
CHAPTER13
By the time Curtin returned with the news that Vince Murchison and his two bully-boys were in interview rooms in the basement, Oliver—thrilled to have the chance to sit in on the interrogations—had arrived and joined Martin and Lady Bracknell.
Curtin had had the presence of mind to order a tea tray for her ladyship, and when Martin and Oliver rose, ready to sally forth with the inspector, she waved them on. “Go, go! I’ll be perfectly comfortable here.”
With Oliver beside him, Martin followed Curtin out of the room, along the corridor, and down several flights of stairs.
“Might I suggest,” Martin said, descending in Curtin’s wake, “that we start with Murchison’s men and see what we can get from them before we confront the man himself?”
“Agreed.” Curtin stepped off the last stair and halted.
Martin and Oliver joined him and found themselves at the end of a long corridor with doors on both sides. Two policemen stood with their backs to the wall between the nearer three doors on the left.
Curtin had brought three files with him, each at least half an inch thick. He glanced at them briefly and shuffled them, then looked at Martin and Oliver. “They’re in the nearest rooms. Why don’t we start with the youngest?” Curtin consulted the uppermost file. “Eddie McBain. He’s nervy and will be the easiest to rattle. He’s in the first room. Our second thug is John Little, locally known as Little John. He’s older and wiser—we might not get much from him.” Curtin shut the files. “Murchison’s in the third room along.”
The inspector’s lips lifted in a feral smile. “Ready?”
Martin nodded toward the relevant doors. “Lead on.”
Curtin marched to the first door, opened it, and walked through. Martin was about to follow, but just before the doorway, a thought struck, and he halted, then waved at Oliver to precede him. When Oliver quirked a brow his way, Martin whispered, “He’ll recognize me and, with any luck, will give himself away.”
Oliver’s “Ah” of understanding was soundless, and he strolled on, into the room.
Martin waited two heartbeats, then silently followed. He paused in the doorway and looked at the thug perched on a stool on the other side of a bare wooden table. Sophy had labeled him wiry, and he was certainly that. His shackled hands were clasped on the table, his fingers nervously gripping, shifting, and gripping again. No doubt his feet were shackled as well; they shuffled and clinked as he shifted on the stool.
Eddie McBain was thoroughly unnerved, his gaze darting between Curtin, who had claimed the middle chair of the three arrayed on the nearer side of the desk and set his files on the table before him, and Oliver, who was subsiding into the chair on Curtin’s left.
“Now then, Eddie,” Curtin commenced. “I’m Inspector Curtin, and these gentlemen are assisting me in this matter.”
Martin saw the moment Eddie registered that there was an empty chair and a gentleman yet to arrive. Eddie’s gaze streaked to the doorway, and he saw Martin, who took that as his cue to slowly walk in and, equally slowly and deliberately, shut the door, all the while keeping his gaze on Eddie’s face.
Eddie blanched. His eyes huge, he froze.
For a moment, Martin wondered if the man would faint.
Curtin had been watching Eddie closely and, almost as if they’d rehearsed the moment, acidly remarked, “Indeed. I believe you and Mr. Cynster are already acquainted, Eddie.”
Eddie swallowed, then a hint of color returned to his pasty cheeks and, as Martin drew back the chair on Curtin’s right and elegantly sat, Eddie raised his shackled hands and pointed at Martin. “Here! He knocked me out, he did.”
“Really?” Curtin sounded interested and potentially sympathetic. “When was that?”
“When we was up on the moors at that shepherd’s hut…” Eddie trailed off as his brain caught up with his tongue, and he looked at Curtin as if only then realizing the man was a fox and he was a rabbit.
Curtin’s smile was all edges, but he nodded encouragingly. “The hut on the moors in which you and your friend had incarcerated Mr. Cynster after coshing him unconscious and kidnapping him from the gardens of Mistymoor Manor. Indeed. So what can you tell us about that, Eddie? Why were you there?”
“I…” Eddie was thoroughly rattled. He continued to stare at Curtin. When the inspector waited with apparently limitless patience, Eddie licked his lips and said, “Well, it were my job, see?”
“In what way?” Curtin inquired. “Who hired you?”
“The gaffer, o’course.” When Curtin again waited, Eddie burst out, “Vince. You know I work for Vince Murchison.”
“We knew that, yes, but you might have taken a job with someone else.” Curtin jotted a note. “We just need to be sure of our facts, and now, we are.”
Martin sat back and admired the inspector’s style. The man was demonstrably good at this. There was little doubt he’d earned his rank. With Oliver and, even more distractingly, Martin flanking him, Curtin likely appeared to Eddie as the lesser of three largely unknown evils.
Eddie was eying Martin with increasing wariness. “And for the record, like, it wasn’t me who coshed the gentleman. I just helped…manage things.”
“Hmm.” Curtin continued to write in Eddie’s file. “And got knocked out for your pains and, later, no doubt hauled over the coals by Vince, and now arrested.” Curtin paused in his scribbling and looked squarely at Eddie. “How do you feel about that, Eddie?”
