Blood Tears by Michael J. Malone Page A

and decide I’ll let him do most of the talking.
    ‘Don’t patronise me, you prick. I know my rights.’ Obviously, he’s happy to help us with our enquiries. This will be interesting. I peel the clear plastic film off the tapes and insert one in the recorder’s drawer.
    ‘Don’t worry, Paul. You can see a lawyer. You are entitled to free and independent legal advice.’ Now that the tape is running Peters issues the caution quickly, anxious to get to the interesting bit.
    ‘You are not under arrest. You are free to leave, Paul. We just want to ask you some questions.’
    ‘Is that right? I’m free to leave?’ He speaks the last sentence in a high camp voice, as if he is mimicking Peters. Trying to piss him off.
    ‘What do you know about Patrick Connelly?’ Peters is unmoved.
    Crichton leans back on his chair and folds his arms, ‘He’s dead. Seen it in the papers. Can’t say I’m chief mourner. Know what I mean?’
    ‘Did you want him dead?’
    ‘Every fucking day of my life, mate.’ He sits forward, his eyes bright. ‘He was worse than scum.’ He picks up the cigarettes, unwraps them and pulls one out. He waves the cigarette at both of us in turn, his way of asking for a light. ‘Is that what this is all about? You think I did it?’ Pleasure dances the length of his smile. ‘Believe me, I would love to have done it. But hey, you know how it is with your goals,’ he shrugs, ‘life gets in the way sometimes.’ He sticks his cigarette in the flame of a match held out by Peters and breathes in deep. Deep with hunger. He closes his eyes and takes the nicotine hit. ‘Fuckin’ magic.’ He regards us both, his gaze frank and fearless.
    ‘Didnae do it, guys. Wish I did. But ah didnae.’ He leans back in his seat as if he’s in his favourite pub. Usually I can ignore this, but today, for some reason it really pisses me off. Keep a lid on it, McBain, this is Peters’ interview. I take a deep breath, force my shoulders down and sit back in my chair.
    ‘Where were you on the night of September 23rd?’asks Peters.
    ‘Damn, would you look at that?’ He sits up and pats down his pockets. ‘I’ve left my diary in the house.’
    ‘Keep your cheap sarcasm for your mates, son. Just answer the question.’
    ‘I was in the house,’ he fidgets with the cigarette packet, like something just occurred to him, ‘with the wife and wean.’
    ‘How long you been married?’
    ‘A few months.’ He takes a deep drag, his eyes squinted against the smoke. Or was it something else?
    ‘Did you guys have a long engagement?’
    ‘What the fuck is this? An interview for daytime TV? Am I going to be on Jeremy Kyle or something? We shagged, she got pregnant. I wanted to do the right thing by her. Didn’t want a wean of mine being brought up a bastard.’
    ‘Was your wife grateful?’
    ‘What the fu…’
    ‘I’d bet most of the lassies on the scheme, when they got caught, would be left on their own. They’d be left to carry the baby.’
    ‘Well, I said,’ he preens a little, ‘…that I would stand by her.’
    ‘So she’s grateful?’
    ‘Leave my wife out of this.’
    ‘Grateful enough to lie for you?’
    ‘You calling my wife a liar?’
    ‘You religious, Paul?’ I ask. Time to change the pattern of the interview. Keep him on the hop.
    He snorts. ‘No thanks. The opiate of the masses? I prefer my drugs to be more… literal. If you get my drift.’
    He’s got a brain then, I think. ‘You don’t believe in Jesus?’
    ‘Listen mate, I was brought up in a home where he was used as a role-model, ’cept them that taught it, forgot it. Do as I say, and all that shite. Most o’ they bastards wouldn’t know a Christian thought if it came up and fucked them.’
    Inwardly, I nod. This is a sentiment I share.
    ‘Nice clothes, Paul.’ I say. Time for another change of direction.
    Smiling, he looks down at himself and gives each lapel of leather a quick tug. ‘Not too shabby, eh? Got this down the