TORN by CASEY HILL Page A

death threats, irate call or letters in response to his articles, anything like that? Stalkers, even?’
    ‘He said there have been some inflammatory responses down the years, but no stalkers, no one who swore they’d kill him or whatever. What about the wife?’ he asked, referring to Kennedy’s second interview with Sandra Coffey in light of Kirsty Malone’s revelations.
    The detective looked grim. ‘I tried beating about the bush, but she knew where I was coming from.’
    Chris nodded sympathetically. There was no easy way to ask a woman about her dead husband’s affairs.
    The music seemed to grow even louder, battling the chirping of the crowd.  Kennedy leaned towards Chris to make himself heard. ‘She admitted knowing that Coffey had had several “secretaries” throughout the years. She gave me a couple of name s I’ll follow up on them tomorrow, see if there was anything unseemly, unpleasant, whatever.’  He sighed. ‘We’re pissing in the dark, Chris, and I’m not sure we’re hitting anything except our own shoes. Think about it, a provocative middle-aged journalist with a string of affairs, and by all accounts an arsehole too. The question isn’t who would want him dead – it’s more like who wouldn’t ?’
    Chris nodded tiredly. This was making him feel drained yet again. ‘My guess is it’s more than that,’ he said. ‘I reckon we can forget the girlfriends, or any wounded husbands, to be honest. It’s the whole setup of the killing. This isn’t a crime of passion – it’s a carefully planned, meticulous job, and it’s intended to make a point.’ He picked up his glass again. ‘Think about it – you’re a killer, you’ve got it in for a guy for whatever reason.  Fair enough, we know that happens.’
    ‘All too often, unfortunately,’ Kennedy grunted.
    Chris was warming to his theme. ‘But why do something so elaborate – sensational, even?’ he asked. ‘Stuffing a guy in a septic tank to drown in his own shit … that’s pretty imaginative even by the standards of the low-lifes we come across.’
    Kennedy picked up his own pint and knocked it back. ‘Ah, what the hell. We aren’t going to solve anything on this one without a lot of work and a little bit of luck. Right,’ he licked froth off his lips, ‘I’d better go home to the wife.’
    ‘Do – while your dinner is still warm and you can still walk.’
    The older cop gave him a look. ‘Sneer all you like, but what do you go home to, eh? An empty flat and the Playboy channel?’
    Chris grinned. ‘Admit it, you miss the bachelor’s life sometimes.’ As he spoke, two attractive women passed their table – one of them looked over and gave Chris an appraising glance.
    Kennedy caught the look. ‘Some parts of it, yeah.’  His eyes followed the girls across the bar. ‘Trouble is, Romeo, I never got the kind of looks you just did.’ He stood up and shook his head. ‘Guess some women just have no taste.’
     
    At the GFU lab, Reilly spread Tony Coffey’s clothes out for examination, the dried sewage-encrusted garments looking incongrous against the gleaming white counter top. 
    Lucy and Rory, another lab tech, stood either side of her, face masks in place, although these weren’t much help in protecting them from the stink. Even a big strong rubgy player like Rory, who was well used to getting down and dirty, was having trouble.
    Reilly wore a mask too, not for protection from the smell – she’d become accustomed to that by no w but because they were going to get up close and personal with the victim’s clothes in the hope of finding some crucial piece of evidence on them that might have been trapped beneath the layer of sewage.
    At the time of his death, the journalist had been wearing a dark blue shirt, a small-check-patterned tweed jacket, and gray woolen trousers. She slid the trousers towards Lucy and the jacket towards Rory.
    ‘So what are we looking for?’ Rory wore his usual slightly