Kill and Tell by Adam Creed Read Free Book Online Page A

woman with long, raven hair is busy with her computer – fingers clattering super-fast. There is no paper on her sleek, glass desk. Staffe tries not to look, but her blouse is a half-size too small, a button too undone. She looks up, smiling, but her fingers keep clattering and behind her, on the wall, is a framed certificate. Ms E Thyssen-Wills.
    ‘And your father?’ says Staffe. ‘Does he still look after Mister Trapani?’
    ‘You speak as if Carmelo is still with us. We feared the worst when Attilio advised what had happened.’
    ‘You represent Attilio Trapani, too?’
    ‘You know I’m not going to divulge that, Inspector Wagstaffe, unless Mister Trapani instructs me so.’ He winks and indicates that Staffe should sit in one of the deep-cushioned, cream armchairs.
    Smooth fucker
, thinks Staffe. He says, ‘ Does your father represent Carmelo Trapani?’
    ‘My father is retired.’
    ‘So you handle Carmelo.’
    ‘That’s the wrong word, but I administer his investments.’ Goldman’s eyes are too light. Just then, they blinked too fast.
    Staffe suspects contact lenses; his nails are manicured, but his skin is a little loose around the neck – a little too tight around the eyes. ‘You seem a little young,’ he says.
    Staffe hears a stifled snort behind him and Goldman shoots a look at Ms Thyssen-Wills. ‘Look, I’m busy, and I won’t answer anything about Carmelo until I have an instruction or you have a warrant. If you don’t have any meaningful questions I can answer—’
    ‘Tell me about Martin, your brother.’
    ‘Martin used to do this, but he wasn’t as suited as me. It’s a dirty business, inspector.’ He laughs. ‘Father soon saw it was I who had the knack with money.’
    Staffe stands.
    ‘Did Carmelo share his opinion?’
    ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    ‘He was moving his portfolio around, from what I’ve heard. Didn’t he dissociate himself from Abraham Myers?’
    ‘Like I said—’ says Goldman.
    ‘You said you had a knack for money. Did you mean you had a knack for figures?’
    ‘I suspect you have a gift for finding the truth. It’s what you’d want in a policeman, but it’s not the same as having a gift for the law.’
    ‘Very clever,’ says Staffe, leaving.
    ‘Is that it? You’re done?’
    ‘Not by a long chalk. Next time, we’ll be even closer to the truth and the lies will be there for all to see.’
    ‘You only just got here.’
    ‘You’re not going to tell me anything. It’s what I came to find out, Mister Goldman.’
    *
    Josie is in Veneto’s, an old-school sandwich shop with a few stools in the window, which is where she perches, alongside two damp, steaming cycle couriers who talk in a metro patois, constantly saying ‘dude’, ‘random’, ‘awesome’.
    The rain comes and goes. When it comes, it is biblical and people rush to the sides of this ornate, Victorian arcade, sloping into the coffee shops and spaghetti houses that line Sicilian Avenue. Just across from Veneto’s is Blum’s, advertising chicken soup and salt beef on its ancient sign.
    Josie can see straight into Blums and Attilio is sitting in the back with a Jewish man slightly older but not nearly so kempt. They have been there an hour now and the waiter has stopped bothering them.
    Her phone goes and she looks down, feels a small surge in her tummy. ‘Conor calling’. She looks at her watch, sees it is ten to and she is not yet late. ‘Hi you,’ she says.
    ‘I’m here already. Finished early.’
    ‘I’m tied up.’
    ‘Oh my.’
    ‘I was about to call, but I—’
    ‘You’re going to blow me off, aren’t you?’
    ‘I’m sorry, Conor.’
    ‘I hope they’re paying you well.’
    Josie looks to the sky. The rain has stopped and a chasm of blue dares to open up. People in the streets are looking up.
    ‘You still there? Hey, it’s sunny. Is it sunny where you are?’
    ‘You’re smoking,’ she says.
    ‘How d’you know that?’
    ‘You can’t see the sky from