Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [51]
‘Why would they come and see you?’ Jack’s tone was cool but his blood pressure had started to climb.
‘Because my fucking message was still on Kass’s machine!’
‘What message?’
‘I rang to see if he would be interested in selling his personal copies. If I’d known the fucking police would be round here …’
‘Just relax, Sinclair. Your walnut might pop. What did they ask you?’
‘What do you mean?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I mean what did the police ask you?’
‘Hey, don’t come at me all smart-fuck-son-of-a-bitch! I’m allergic to the goddamn police. They make me come out in a rash and I can’t shit for a month.’
‘Try bran and some exercise.’
‘You just come and get these books out of here.’
Jack tried again, his voice calm, friendly. ‘So what did they ask you?’
‘They wanted to know why I was after Kass’s books.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘That I’d heard on the grapevine a collector was after them.’
‘And of course they asked who.’
‘Yeah, they asked.’
Jack let out a slow, measured breath. He hated Chester Sinclair. It was going to be his new hobby. He was going to spend a couple of hours at it every morning, like yoga. ‘And?’
Down the line, a sound of phlegm being coughed and then swallowed. ‘I told them to speak to you.’
‘You’re a real friend, Sinclair. Next time I need a two-thousand-volt migraine, I’ll give you a call.’
‘Hey, what was I going to say? It’s got nothing to do with me.’
Jack remained silent.
‘Anyway, what have you got to worry about? Just tell them who your collector is.’ The logic eased the tension in Chester’s voice. His smug, confident tone returned. ‘Just pass it on down the line, man, easy as that. It’s not like you killed the bastard. You’re just a guy who sells books. Like me!’
‘Just like you,’ said Jack in a low voice. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind him: nearly 10.00 a.m. Time to open up the shop. ‘Did they say anything about the shooting?’
‘No. But they wanted to see Kass’s books. I told them I didn’t have any.’
‘Right.’ It was a small lie, insignificant: not like Jack’s. He was jealous.
‘So you going to pick them up today?’ There was a bubble of hope in Chester’s voice.
Jack did not hesitate to pop it. ‘What for?’ he said. ‘Now that you’ve palmed the cops onto me, I’ll obviously have to palm them off onto my collector, who I doubt will be interested in any more books of poetry. So what the fuck would I want with them?’
‘Hey, we had a deal! Two hundred and seventy-five bucks! You can’t pull out now.’
‘Really? Did I sign something, Sinclair?’
‘What? No, you can’t —’
Jack hung up the phone. Fuck. Before speaking to Chester, he had believed there was a slim possibility the police might leave him alone. Not anymore.
He needed to buy a couple of newspapers, see if anything had been written up about Kass’s death. Jack slipped on his jacket, wound on his scarf and left the shop. There was a newsagent up the road.
He had just got back and was scanning the front page of one of the newspapers at the counter when Detective Peterson and Detective Sergeant Glendenning walked in. Peterson was grinning, arms casually slung into the pant pockets of his dark blue suit. Jack could hear keys jingling as he approached the counter. Glendenning followed: olive-green jacket and black pants, head down, stern faced, throwing quick sideways glances along the aisles of books. His shoes squeaked, but not like leather. Jack had known in his waters that the day was going to start with their arrival, no matter what time that was. He had been hoping for later.
‘These old books, they really stink, don’t they? How do you stand it all day?’ Peterson grimaced and puffed out his chest. ‘Like being locked up in an old woman’s closet.’
‘Wouldn’t know,’ said Jack. ‘Never been in one myself.’
Peterson’s brow tightened over his eyes like a belt. Jack casually flipped though the paper.
‘Good morning,’ said Glendenning. Nothing in his tone told Jack a thing. The detective moved up and stood beside Peterson, looking over