The Walking Dead

They'd made a hole for a hook in the concrete of the ceiling. The hook was big, heavy and had been given to them by McDonald in their second year at Ardchiavaig, because he was no longer permitted by regulations to slaughter his own stock and then to hang carcasses. It was Xavier Boniface who'd recognized that the hook might — one day — be of use, and it had done service for them in County Armagh and in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Donald Clydesdale had packed it in the Bergen with the galvanized bucket, the truncheons, the wires and all the other kit they carried when they went to work. Their prisoner was bound at the wrists, the binding looped over the hook, and suspended high enough for his toes just to touch the floor, but not his heels or soles. They'd started — as they always did — by allowing the prisoner to view the kit, and they'd explained graphically how they used it. Then Boniface had asked the first question on their sheet of paper. Their gentleman's head had tossed back, the loose hood had ridden up, his mouth had been exposed and he'd spat into Clydesdale's face. Not a good start, Boniface had said. Not being sensible, Clydesdale had said. Had hit him with the truncheons — in the small of the back, in the kidneys, and had let him scream. Had had his trainers off, and belted him on the soft soles of his feet. It was good when he screamed because their experience was that a screaming man was close to breaking. Then he'd gone all quiet, which was not so good. They'd done the beating. He'd coughed up blood — they'd seen it in the sputum dribbling down under the hood's hem. Then they had returned to that first question, and had not yet been answered.

'What about a brew-up first, before the bucket?'

'Good shout, Donald, my mouth's proper dry…Mr Hegner, would you like a mug of tea?'

They'd brought everything in the Bergen: the collapsible chair on which the American sat, a tiny camping stove that ran off a small gas canister; four plastic mugs and plates and, of course, the canvas bucket that was used most days for the grain they scattered for their fowls.

Hegner nodded; would appreciate a mug of tea. The American had a miniature tape-recorder on his knee, what a company executive might use for dictation, and his thumb had hovered on the depress switch when the prisoner had screamed, ready to hear him. But his thumb was off the switch now, as if he sensed they were still far away from breaking their man. They were both hot from the efforts put into the beating, maybe showing their age, sweating more than they ever had in the stinking, fly-blown heat at the gaol in Aden. The camping stove was lit, water was poured from a plastic bottle into an old and dented mess-tin that was then laid on the ring.

Clydesdale crouched beside the stove to watch the water rise and begin to bubble, then made ready the tea-bags, the mugs and the little carton of milk. Boniface stood behind the man and hit him some more in the kidneys but did not get a scream as a reward.

Clydesdale said, 'Won't be long, Mr Hegner.'

'Would that be answers to questions, my friend, or that cup of tea?' Boniface said, 'You're very droll, Mr Hegner…A sense of humour always helps with this work.'

They didn't take a mug outside to Mr Naylor, thought he'd probably have his own Thermos in the car.

* * *

'You got a moment, Banksy?'

'I was just about to bring them through from their room and on to the coach. Can it keep?'

'Don't think so, just a moment will be enough.'

Banks turned, faced the inspector. There had been nothing in the voice behind him that offered warning. He was led away from the jury-room door out into the corridor and was manoeuvred so that his back was to the wall. The inspector closed on him and the smile was gone.