He pushed his hat to the back of his head. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re as dumb as you seem to be. You couldn’t be dumber than a hophead, the way that brain of yours works. Do something about it? Well, what you want me to do? Send for the cops? Call an ambulance? What?”
She raised both hands and pushed her hair off her ears. She did it unconsciously. “But you must know what to do,” she said.
Duffy stood looking at Cattley with a faint grimace, then he went over and took hold of him. He gripped his arm and shoulder. It gave him quite a turn when the arm bent back at the elbow. There were a very few bones in one piece with this guy. He pulled and slid Cattley off the roof and let him as gently as he could on to the floor. Cattley’s legs folded up, but not at the knees, they folded up in the middle of his shins. Duffy felt himself sweating. Putting his hands under Cattley’s shoulders, he dragged him into the flat and laid him out in the hall.
“What are you bringing him in here for—?” Her voice was pitched half a note higher.
“Don’t talk now,” he said, looking with disgust at the blood on his hands. “This guy’s going to make a mess in your joint, but it’s better than making a mess of you.”
He walked back to the lift and inspected the roof. The woodwork was smeared with blood.
“Get me a wet towel,” he said.
She went into the apartment, carefully walking round Cattley. He stood by the lift watching her. She’d got a good nerve, he told himself. She came back again with a wet hand-towel. He took it from her and carefully mopped off the bloodstains. Then he wiped his hands on the towel and folded it neatly. He walked into her apartment and put the towel on Cattley’s chest. She followed him in, again skirting Cattley, drawing her green wrap close to her.
“Will you see if he’s got the money on him still?” she said.
Duffy looked at her hard.