Chapter Fifteen
Callan sat staring at a sweating Beaulieu. The man grimaced, looking out of place in that plain interview room.
Jean Beaulieu had spoken – in fact, he’d sung like a bird during spring. And lo and behold, Callan had discovered some precious information, though it wasn't about the murders. Now he wanted to know:
‘Tell me, Mr Beaulieu, where is the ring?’
Beaulieu looked at his lawyer — The man said, ‘What ring, Detective?’
‘The one your client planned to steal.’
Beaulieu blinked, gripping the edge of the table, muttering something in french.
‘Ah Mr Beaulieu, I cannae understand ye. Do you have the ring?’
Beaulieu shook his head, ‘Non! I don’t know where your ring is.’
Callan was done with interviews. His eyes hurt from all the strain. And his bloody right knee protes
