“I have many associates—” Macinnes began, acting again.
“Three years in prison,” said Andrews, “and a thousand-pound fine. Both of which I can make go away if you are as cooperative as you say you are.”
The color drained from Macinnes’s cheeks. He opened his mouth to protest, but Andrews just stared him down. No one else in the shop made a sound.
“How do I know you’ll be as good as your word?” he ventured. “If I had, indeed, anything less than strictly legal to report, which I’m not saying I have.”
“You don’t,” said Andrews. “But I’ll tell you this. I don’t actually care about tracking stolen goods. This is a murder inquiry.”
Macinnes looked taken aback, but before he could say anything, a door into the rear of the shop opened and a woman came in.
It was Bessie.
She had been about to speak to Macinnes, but hesitated when she took in the sight of the police. Then she noticed me.
Her face flushed, her eyes—already red rimmed from crying—shone, and she took two decisive steps toward me before anyone could stop her. She slapped me hard across the face, and though I turned fractionally, I did not try to evade the blow.
One of the officers seized her from behind before she could strike me again, and for a moment she struggled before sagging into their arms, face averted, sobbing.
Macinnes looked embarrassed, and Andrews merely turned his eyes down. Through my confused horror I felt an urge to go to her, to whisper my apologies, but this was not the time. It probably never would be.
“Perhaps we should step outside,” said Andrews, motioning Macinnes toward the door.
We moved into the street, and the terrible sound of Bessie’s furious grieving was lost to us. It felt like an evasion, and for what felt like a very long time I stared off down the road, seeing nothing.
“I got it from this black fella,” Macinnes said. “The dowager’s pendant. I’d never seen him before. Hand to god. He just came in and showed me what he had.”
“He wanted you to sell it for him?” asked Andrews.
“Kind of,” said Macinnes.
“What does that mean?”
“He wanted to know what it was worth, how much I could get for it, how much I thought I could sell if he brought more.”
“He said he had more?”
Macinnes nodded. “Showed me another piece about the same size and shape,” he said, “but said he could get more.”
“Did he say where he had gotten it from?”
“I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me. Said he would bring me more and we would talk then. Was supposed to be here three nights ago with more merchandise. I waited up, but he never showed. That’s all I know. Certainly nothing about no murder.”
“This black man,” Andrews said. “Young or old? Local or Unassimilated?”
“Old,” said Macinnes, relieved to be able to answer something definitively. “And not local. Tribal herder type, by the look of him. Didn’t speak Feldish too good either.”
“Name?” asked Andrews.
“Didn’t give one. Said he’d find me.”
“And he said nothing about where he had come from?” asked the detective.
“Nothing. And, to be honest, he seemed a bit, well, not entirely right in the head. Looked like he’d been out in the sun too long. Even his hands were burned up.”
“Wait,” I said, speaking for the first time since we had fled from Bessie’s awful sorrow. “His hands were burned when he came to see you?”
“On the insides, yes. Blistered and pink. None too steady on his feet either.”
“Did he visit any of your neighbors?” Andrews asked.
“He got thrown out of a couple places,” said Macinnes. “Saw it myself. Not all my competitors have my eye for a bargain.”
“Or your flexible ethics,” said Andrews.
Macinnes scowled but said nothing.
“Did he go in there?” I asked, nodding across the street.
“To Ansveld’s?” said Macinnes. “That he did.”
“And was thrown out?”
“Not so far as I saw,” said Macinnes, grinning now. “Was in there at least a half hour, then came out and wandered off down the street. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that the high-and-mighty Mr. Ansveld, who thought he was too good to walk on the same cobbles as the likes of yours truly, made a little purchase that day.”
*
“LET ME GO IN by myself,” I said to Andrews.
“This is a police matter, Miss Sutonga,” said the detective. “I’m letting you tag along. That’s all.”
“I was talking to him earlier,” I said. “We don’t want to alarm him.”
“‘We’?” said Andrews, lowering his voice and turning his shoulder so that the uniforms wouldn’t be able to see his face. “There is no ‘we.’ I represent the police. You—”
“Have helped.”
“That may be true,” said Andrews. “But you have also been, shall we say, an instigator. Trouble follows you like weancats after a wounded gazelle.”
“Just give me a minute alone with him,” I said. “If he doesn’t tell me what we need to know, you can question him.”
“And if he lies?”