be straightforward. Have you ever been a client of any woman on the fifth floor?â
Cartwright shifted from one large black unpolished shoe to the other.
âYou did understand the question?â Sheâd bluff. âYou do know they keep records and itâs not in their interest to keep secrets.â
âOnce or twice,â he said, chin jutting forward. âSo what?â
âOnce or twice. Who did you see?â
âFatima.â
âAnd?â
âSabrina.â
âWhen was that?â
Cartwright grunted, âI donât know. Iâve been away. Before that.â
How to phrase her next question. âWhen you visited Ms. Trepanier, did you ever talk about anything personal?â
âI might have. She didnât. I wasnât paying her for chit-chat about herself,â he said. His brows drew together. âI have a plane to catch.â
âWhere were you last night?â
âMy place. I watched TV and went to bed.â He stared at Rhona. âI hope youâre not going to say what I think youâre going to say.â
âCan anyone verify that?â
âWhat the fuck do you think? Of course not.â
Rhona knew he wouldnât react well to her next statement. âIâm sorry, but youâre not going anywhere.â
She ducked out of the office before the boiler blew and motioned a thin, unprepossessing young man to join her.
Rhona watched him approach. Nothing distinctive about him. Middle height, average weight, short, light brown hair â an unremarkable man in his thirties.
âTim, Tim OâToole, I work a four-to-twelve shift, so I thought Iâd better be one of the ones who talked to you first.â
He stretched out his hand. His grip was minimal. It reminded Rhona of holding wet, cold pasta, slimy and sticky simultaneously.
âDid you know Ms. Trepanier?â
âSabrina. Oh yes, a beautiful woman.â His lips curved into a smile that revealed uneven teeth. âOh, yes.â
âDid you ever talk to her?â
âOh, no. Woman like that donât talk to men like me.â His smile faded into an apologetic grimace. âThe women who talk to me are the ones in grocery stores, women who have to speak to me.â
What young man would say something like that? He wasnât movie star handsome, but there was nothing wrong with his looks.
âWhere were you last night?â
A quick glance to either side. âOh, I go out,â he said in a voice so low Rhona strained to hear. âI donât get home from work until almost one and I canât sleep, so I walk the streets at night.â He produced a rueful smile. âEver since I worked as a watchman, I got used to being awake at night.â He produced a tiny smile. âYou couldnât call it a night life, but itâs definitely a nocturnal life.â
âWhere do you work?â
âAt Sobeyâs supermarket. I stock the shelves.â He shrugged. âNot a great job, but if you donât want to work in the daytime, there isnât a huge choice.â
A second nocturnal witness was a plus. She hoped he was as observant as Agnes Johnson.
âDid you see anything unusual last night?â
He appeared to be running a mental video. âOh, not here. All sorts of people coming and going, though. The fifth floor women are busy, busy women.â
âHave you ever used their services?â Rhona asked.
His small, pale blue eyes widened, showing yellow, blood-streaked whites. âOh, not me. Never.â He bent forward, releasing an enveloping cloud of pungent aftershave. âOh, Iâd like to, but I donât imagine I could afford to.â
Rhona felt an urge to laugh. It wasnât the answer sheâd expected. Maybe she should suggest he save up and give himself a treat.
âPerhaps when we run the tapes to see who came and went last night, you could help identify
Learning to Kill: Stories