The Devil's Feather - Minette Walters [70]
“It wasn’t a fantasy. He’s incredibly intimidating, and knows it. Everyone was afraid of him in Sierra Leone.”
“Except other soldiers. Didn’t you say it was a couple of paratroopers who forced him to pay compensation to the prostitute?”
I tucked my hands tighter under my arms. “Yes…well, soldiers are braver than journalists. I expect it helps if you have some rudimentary knowledge of unarmed combat.” I took a deep breath. “Look, this is all fairly pointless, Peter. Believe it or not, I really do have quite a good grasp of where I am and what I need to do. I appreciate your help, and I’ll certainly read this protocol”—I nodded towards the papers on the table—“but, just at the moment—” I pulled up sharp as fear shot a spurt of adrenalin into my bloodstream. “Oh, God!”
In retrospect, Peter’s reaction still surprises me. I’d have expected some sort of intervention, if only a verbal one to instruct me to “calm down.” But he did nothing except fold his hands on the table and stare at them while I dragged a paper bag from my pocket and sucked air in and out of it with my eyes starting out of my head. Eventually, when my breathing had slowed enough for me to lower the bag to my lap, he looked at his watch.
“That’s not bad. One minute thirty-five seconds. How long does it normally take?”
My face was burning and I had runnels of sweat dripping down my cheeks. “What would you care?” I gasped.
“Mmm. Well, there’s always anti-depressants. If you insist on feeling sorry for yourself, I might even prescribe them.”
“Jess was right about you,” I snarled, fishing in my pocket for some tissues. “You’re about as much use as tits on a bull.”
He smiled. “How long have you had nosebleeds?” he asked, as I put my head back and pressed the wodge of paper to my nostrils.
“None of your business.”
“Do you want some ice?”
“No.”
“What did he use to stop you breathing? Plastic bags?”
It was exactly the way I would have asked that question. In the same uninterested tone and with the same lack of emphasis. And I fell for it because I wasn’t expecting it. “Usually drowning,” I said.
From:
connie.burns@uknet.com
Sent:
Sat 14/08/04 10:03
To:
alan.collins@manchester-police.co.uk
Subject:
Additional information
* * *
Dear Alan,
I’ve spent all night thinking about this email. There are numerous reasons why I don’t want to write it, and only one why I do—because it concerns my parents. Despite the pieces I’ve written over the years, highlighting the tragedies of women and children in war, I honestly believe I’d have allowed a thousand anonymous women to die before I said anything. It’s the old morality tale of the death-ray and the elderly Chinaman. Do you know it?
A rich man shows you a death-ray machine and promises you a million pounds if you push the button. The bad news is an old man in China will die if you do; the good news is no one will know it was you who killed him. The victim will be the only loser. His family are tired of looking after him, and pray regularly for his death, while you have only the rich man’s word that the machine can kill anyone—let alone a man you’ve never met. You have three choices: press the button and spend the rest of your life a million pounds richer, convinced the whole thing was a scam…press the button and spend the rest of your life a million pounds richer, with a murder on your conscience…or refuse to press the button and forgo the million pounds. Which do you choose?
I think the moral is that the first choice is impossible because there’s no such thing as a free lunch. You will always be plagued by doubt about its being a scam, and the rich man will always own your soul. The second and third choices are the only honest ones—to accept payment for murder, with all its consequences, or to refuse.
I’ve been trying to implement the first choice. Take the reward (my life) and convince myself