Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [39]
Jack noticed a bottle of Semillon, about one-third full, standing guard beside a green salad. Looked like Annabelle had opened her innings already.
‘Thanks, I’m fine. Don’t let me stop you.’
‘I’ve had enough. Wine? Or Scotch, maybe? It’s after twelve.’
‘I’ll have what you’re having.’
‘Easy.’ She reached up to a cupboard, opened it and removed a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. Jack watched her pour generous portions. He put his bag down beside a chair and then removed his beanie, coat and scarf.
‘So, more developments?’ she said, turning around with the glasses. She walked over, handed one to Jack. ‘I suppose you’ve been talking to Celia again?’
He noticed the edge in her tone. ‘This afternoon, actually. I’m meeting her father, too. Hopefully he’ll be there.’
‘Ah, the dark poet.’
Jack smiled. He leaned back against one of the dining chairs. ‘So what’s big Hammond got against him?’
‘What hasn’t he got against him.’ Annabelle sipped her drink. She tilted her head slightly to the side and gave Jack a questioning look. ‘Do you mind if I ask what happened to your face?’
‘I was hoping your old man might be able to tell me.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jack knew the concern on Annabelle’s face was not for him. But the chance that it was, even just a little, nudged him in the ribs. He wanted to tell her what had happened. Even as he told himself to be wary, to read and consider the situation, the angles, he knew he would tell her. Given the chance, Jack realised he would always want to tell her, anything and everything.
‘Somebody broke into my shop. They were trying to burn a couple of uncle Edward’s books.’
‘I don’t understand. In your shop?’
‘In my rubbish bin. Set-up job gone wrong. I turned up when I wasn’t supposed to.’
Annabelle Kasprowicz looked out through the glass doors into the rear yard and frowned. Outside, the wind had tipped over a striped deckchair. ‘You think my father had something to do with it?’
‘Maybe.’ Jack looked down and swirled the glass in his hands. ‘He denied it on the phone.’
‘That’s why you wanted to speak with him?’
‘Yes. Nice of him to tell me about Hong Kong.’
‘It was out of the blue. I made the appointment for him.’ Annabelle ran a hand through her hair, thinking. Her eyes darted along the grooves between the terracotta tiles on the floor. Jack was disappointed she had lost interest in his face. ‘Couldn’t be helped,’ she said, more to herself.
‘So you earn your keep then?’
Annabelle reached for a packet of cigarettes, lit up, tossed a cheap blue lighter onto the bench. She scratched the corner of her mouth with her little finger, pensive. ‘Why would he try to set you up? He’d only be setting himself up, wouldn’t he?’
‘Maybe,’ said Jack. He had already thought of that and knew deep down that Kasprowicz probably had nothing to do with it. But the break-in was connected to something: to Hammond Kasprowicz, to this family. And now to Jack. A knife in the guts made him practically a relation.
‘Why does he want them in the first place?’ he asked, firmly, remembering his anger. ‘Why would he be burning them and sending them to his brother?’
Annabelle gave Jack a startled look. ‘You don’t know that for certain.’
‘I’ve seen the note.’
‘So what? That’s not proof. And those ashes could be burnt newspapers for all you know.’ She moved to the other side of the island bench, away from Jack. ‘I told you not to believe anything Celia Mitten said.’
‘You believed it the other night.’
Annabelle looked away.
‘Why don’t you give me something then?’ asked Jack, with more force than he had intended. ‘One little idea. Preferably true.’
Annabelle dragged on her cigarette, blew out a quick blue breath. ‘I would if I had one.’
‘Tell me what happened between your father and Kass. Why did he take all the money?’
‘Because.’
Jack waited for an answer.
Annabelle poured more Scotch into her glass. With her back to him, she said: ‘Edward Kass had an affair with my mother.’
One of the halogen lights in the ceiling