Page 79 of The Time for Love
Curtin had pegged Eddie’s intelligence correctly. His gaze on the table, Eddie frowned in thought, then offered, “Not good.” He slumped on the stool and, voice lower, grumbled, “I wish Vince had never taken the job.”
Curtin nodded. “That would, indeed, have been the wiser course. Who did Vince take this job from?”
Looking glum and dismal, Eddie shook his head. “Don’t know. Never saw the geezer.”
“Were the accidents at the steelworks part of the same job?” Oliver asked.
Without looking up, Eddie nodded. “Aye. We was to find things to make go wrong—things that would create problems and”—his voice lowered to a whisper, and he hunched on the stool—“possibly even hurt some of the workers.”
Curtin’s tone turned cool and disapproving. “In this town, attacking a steelworks and steelworkers is regarded as a very serious crime, Eddie.”
Gloomily, Eddie nodded. “I know. Didn’t sit right with me at the time but…” He shrugged. “Job’s a job, you know?”
“Did Vince ever help stage the accidents?” Martin asked.
“Nah, not him. Just me and…me mate. Both of us’ve crewed at one or other of the works before, so we knew what to do. Vince just told us to make it look good, like what happened might have been an accident.”
Curtin had been diligently writing. Now he put in a last period, looked at Martin, then glanced at Oliver. “Any further questions for Eddie here?”
Martin shook his head, and Oliver murmured, “I can’t think of anything worthwhile.”
“Right.” Curtin closed his file and looked at Eddie. “I’m going to send you to the cells. What exactly you’ll be charged with”—he slid a glance at Martin—“I can’t yet say, but you’ll hear soon enough.”
Eddie made a defeated sound and slumped even lower.
Martin pushed back his chair, rose, and followed Curtin from the room.
The three of them gathered in the corridor. Curtin sent one of the constables to escort Eddie to a cell, then turned to Martin and Oliver and, rather eagerly, met their eyes. “Let’s do that again—enter in that way. We’re going to need all the edge we can muster with Little.”
They duly entered the second of the interview rooms as they had the first. When Martin paused in the doorway, he instantly agreed with Curtin’s assessment.
Previously, Martin had seen Little only from above, then after he’d rendered the man unconscious. Aside from being nearly twice Eddie’s width, John Little was a much harder, more experienced bruiser, altogether a different prospect. A heavyweight accustomed to using his fists, he had a degree of intelligence, too, and his expression remained impassive as he watched Curtin and Oliver. Although perched on a stool, hands and legs shackled as Eddie’s had been, Little was sitting bolt upright, apparently relaxed yet alert, tense, and ready to defend himself. He stared unyieldingly at Curtin as the inspector and Oliver settled in their chairs, and Curtin introduced himself and his assisting gentlemen.
As Eddie had, Little realized one man was missing, and his gaze shot to the doorway.
He had better control over his reactions than Eddie, but expecting that, Martin smiled tauntingly, and Little couldn’t stop his snarl. He half rose, but then saw Curtin watching, waiting expectantly, and forced himself to sink back to the stool.
Deliberately projecting an insufferable degree of arrogant assurance, Martin sauntered forward to claim the final chair.
As entirely unperturbed, he sat and elegantly crossed his legs, Little, unable to help himself, spat, “You!”
Faintly smiling, Martin met Little’s narrowed eyes.
Little studied him. There was a hint of grudging respect in Little’s gaze as he growled, “You was supposed to be a namby-pamby gentleman from London. Not the sort to leap off a roof onto a man and hit him in the head like a pile driver.”
Martin arched a brow. “Your—and your master’s—mistake.”
“Aye, this caper was a mistake, all right.” Little transferred his gaze to Curtin. “So get on with it already. The sooner you ask your questions, the sooner I can get my nap.”
Curtin smiled, oozing calm confidence. “We already know that you were the one who coshed Mr. Cynster and that you are partly responsible for the accidents that have recently plagued Carmichael Steelworks. We have reliable and solid identification and testimony on both counts.” Curtin waited while that sank in.
Little hunched over his clasped hands, and his frown, now directed at the table, deepened.
“We know,” Curtin continued, his tone almost gentle, “that in doing those things, you were, as usual, working for Vince Murchison.”
Little looked up and scowled. “Who told you that?”
“Come now, Johnny. Half of Sheffield knows that.”
