'I know. I just think it's worth repeating. I don't normally feel sorry for people but in Daniel's case I'm going to make an exception.
You failed him. I guess we all failed him. Poor little bastard.'
'Is that why you're here? Give me a good slagging?'
'Not at all. I came because you left a message on my mobile. I suppose I'm just trying to be helpful. Fill in the missing bits.'
'Sure, fine, you go ahead then. But you really think I haven't been through all this? How much I didn't know? How much I should have known? How it doesn't help to have a stranger barge into your life and tell you your son's just OD'd?'
'Are you talking about me?'
'No, I'm talking about the police. Nice enough guy, not his fault, just doing his job. But it doesn't help, does it? Knock on the door?
Seven o'clock in the morning? No reason to suspect your world's about to collapse?' He paused, reached for his empty cup, then changed his mind. There were tiny spots of colour high on his cheek. 'Daniel's mother was an alcoholic,' he said suddenly. 'Did you know that?'
'Was?'
'Is. These days I often think of her as dead.'
Eadie looked away for a moment, wondering how far to push this conversation. Anger was a force over which she had little control. She owed this man nothing. What the hell.
'Do you have any other family?' she inquired.
'No.'
'Two down, then. None to go.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'You heard what I said.'
The waitress returned with the coffee pot. Kelly avoided Eadie's gaze while she poured. Then he changed the subject.
'You mentioned some kind of interview…'
'That's right.'
'Are you still interested? Only' He gestured at the Filofax beside his cup '- I need to know.'
'Schedule it in?'
'Whatever. Listen. I'm trying to help here. I'm looking at a ton of stuff to do, things to sort out Daniel's flat, undertakers, a funeral — and I have to be back home by tonight. I listened to you on the phone. Tell you the truth, I admire what you're doing, and I don't blame you for being so…' He frowned. 'Uptight. You're right. I'm a tramp compared to my son. I sold out years ago. He never did. Not once.'
'Sold out?'
'All this showbiz shit.' He touched the magazine. 'Believe it or not, I represent A-class celebs by the drawerful, names you wouldn't believe. Sport, soaps, movies Manchester's the place to be. And you know what it is with these people? They're all into drugs big time, billy, coke, smack, you name it. Show them serious money and they stick it straight up their nose. That's a fact. So tell me. How come they get away with it when Daniel…?'
'Maybe they don't. Ever thought of that?'
'Yeah? Then how come they're still alive and kicking? Still walking around? Still rich and famous?'
'Because people like you look after them, do their deals.'
'Exactly. And you think that makes me feel any better? Sitting here with someone like yourself?'
Eadie brooded for a moment. There were images she simply had to off load She looked up.
'You said Daniel never sold out?'
'That's right.'
'And you believe that? You think that's really the case?'
'I do.'
'Then you're wrong, Mr. Kelly. I never knew Daniel, not properly.
What little I picked up came from a friend of his, a girl called Sarah.'
'He mentioned her.'
'I bet he did. My guess is that Sarah was the only thing that stood between Daniel and the fucking grave. That doesn't make it her fault, don't get me wrong, but when I say that Daniel sold out, what I'm really saying is this. The boy was obviously bright. He had a brain.
He had prospects, hopes, ambitions. He wanted to write a fucking novel for Christ's sakes. But what did he do before he picked the pen up? He looked for company, for love, just like the rest of us. And when it wasn't there, he found the next best thing and stuck it in his arm.
Friends are supposed to prevent that. And so are family.'
'Daniel didn't have any family. He had me.'
'I know. And here you are, taking him to the crematorium.'
Eadie sat back, oblivious to the waitress at her elbow. The last thing she wanted just now was another cup of coffee.
Kelly was lighting a small cheroot. Hands like his son's, Eadie thought. Short, stubby fingers, nails bitten to the quick.
'Tell me something,' Kelly murmured.
'Go ahead.'
'Why are you so angry?'
'Angry?' It was a reasonable question. 'Because I was there this morning, Mr. Kelly, and because I saw what happened. Have you ever been to a post-mortem? It's grotesque, truly fucking bizarre. First off, it's not too bad. There has to be a way of getting at all that plumbing so hey they cut you open. And then there's all that stuff they have to get at inside the ribcage, but that's no big surprise either. The right tools, it's a stroll in the park, crunch- crunch, all done. But then comes the head, and at that point, believe me, it gets personal. You know how they do it? They cut you from here to here.'
Eadie traced a line across her head from ear to ear. 'Then they peel your whole fucking face off so it's just hanging there. Then the scalp comes off too, backwards, all one piece, just like in the Westerns. You think that's bad? Just wait. They have this saw. It's called an oscillating saw. They run it right round your head and you're trying to keep the thing in focus in the viewfinder and you're wondering what the smell is, the new smell, and then you realise it's burning bone.
Bad shit, Mr. Kelly, but worse when the lid comes off the cookie jar, and you're standing about a foot from the body, and you're suddenly looking at somebody's brain. Know what happens then? It's help-yourself time. Out comes the brain and they take it across to the place by the window where they've put the rest of him and then they start cutting right through it, grey stuff, gloopy, wobbling around, slice after slice.' She paused to catch her breath, then nodded.
'Daniel's brain, Mr. Kelly. Daniel's memories. Hopes. Fears.
Dreams. Everything he never got a chance to say. Everything he never told you. Just lying there in slices. Yuk.'
Kelly had abandoned the cheroot. His hands were shaking. When he finally looked up, there were tears in his eyes.
'Have you finished?'
'No. I haven't.' Eadie was looking for a Kleenex. 'You still owe Daniel, big time.' She blew her nose. 'And I've got a camera in the car.'
Faraday was late getting to Harry Wayte's birthday drinks. The social club was on the top floor at Kingston Crescent, a generous space with half a dozen tables and views across the rooftops towards the distant chalk fold of Portsdown Hill.
Harry was propped at the bar, a pint of lager at his elbow, entertaining a tight ring of well-wishers with a war story or two. The dawn drugs bust, middle of winter, when they chased a naked dealer halfway round Emsworth in the snow. The covert op when they arranged for the transmitting mike to be secreted in a new sofa, only to have the wife send it back because she couldn't stand the colour. Each of these yarns raised a collective chuckle, prompting other stories, and Harry stood in the middle of it, a big smile on his scarlet face, floating contentedly
