started to think. Did I call the police from here? In which case they were going to ask an awful lot of questions I didn't want to have to cope with. Like why did I call round to see him? And what about this computer which I'd accepted from him, in the full knowledge that it might be stolen? Oh yeah, I'm sure everyone says they were just trying to return it to its rightful owner . . .
Or I could do what I should have done as soon as I saw that handprint on the wall. I could make a fast exit and ring the police from a call box as far away from home as possible. I looked at the disgusting calling card I'd just left on Terry's floor. That couldn't be helped. I was just thankful I'd kept my gloves on.
Turning my back on Terry was one of the most frightening things. As though he was suddenly going to sit up and reach for me. Too many films, too much imagination. I don't know why, but I wasn't afraid that whoever had rearranged Terry's features was still going to be in the house. He'd obviously been dead too long for that.
I retraced my steps through into the lounge and out into the garden, sliding the patio doors shut behind me. They seemed to close with a terrifyingly loud thunk. I ducked into the shadows by the garage and waited, heart thudding, listening for the sounds of alarm, pursuit.
None came.
I moved down past the side of the garage and along the path, walking back along the street as quickly as possible, trying hard not to break into a run. My back was tense. I expected any minute a voice to shout, “Oi you, stop –
It never happened, of course, but I was never so glad as to see the bike sitting waiting for me, like the hero's faithful steed in an old black and white western. Shame I couldn't whistle and have the Suzuki start up and meet me halfway. I dare say if there was the demand the manufacturers would work on it.
I couldn't decide if it would look more suspicious to push the bike quietly out of the road or start it up there as normal. I plumped for the latter, but made sure my helmet was on before I kicked the two-stroke motor into life. It sounded raucously loud. I didn't look, but I could just feel all the curtains twitching in the surrounding houses.
Without waiting for the bike to warm up, I did a wobbly U-turn in the road, abandoning my dignity and paddling it round, feet down. I felt an awful lot better once I was on the move. The solidity of the bike was comforting. I leaned down and patted the bulge of its tank. A ridiculous action, but it made me feel more secure.
Part of the road leading away from Terry's place wasn't streetlit. The cone of illumination thrown out by the bike's dipped headlight seemed pitiably feeble. My eyes were constantly at its outer limit, waiting for the mad-eyed murderer with the bloodied knife, or the accusing policeman, to suddenly step into my path.
The streets of Lancaster were quiet, which was probably a good thing, because I was riding like a first-day learner, fluffing my gear changes and over-revving the engine, riding corners jerkily upright, too tense to be anything like smooth. The Suzuki's gearbox had never sounded so clunky, nor the motor so harsh.
I reached home in only a few minutes and left the bike parked up in the road outside. I ran up the steps, ignoring the dissent from half a dozen different muscle groups. I was panting as though I'd run a marathon.
I let myself into the flat like it was some sort of sanctuary. Well, they say an Englishman's home is his castle. Yeah, said a little voice in my head, tell that to Terry, lying slaughtered behind his own front door . . .
Fifteen
I slammed the door behind me and spent a few moments leaning back against it, eyes closed. It was only then that the full force of reaction hit me. I made a dash for the bathroom and spent the next few minutes heaving fruitlessly into the toilet bowl.
I needn't have bothered. I'd completely emptied my stomach in Terry's hallway. All I succeeded in doing was make my eyes and nose stream, and leave a vile taste in my mouth. My ribs felt as though the Scouser had been back for a rematch.
Suddenly I remembered again the words I'd half-overheard while I was lying on my lounge floor. The smoker had said,
I sat down on the toilet floor, resting my head on the seat. My skin felt cold and clammy and my hands were shaking. I knew I had to pull myself together, but it was a real case of easier said than done.
Finally, I staggered to my feet, blowing my nose on reams of loo paper. I splashed cold water on to my face, and cleaned my teeth. After that I felt almost human again.
I was going to have to call the police, but I made up my mind to do it from the anonymity of a public call box. I know you can dial 141 to stop your telephone number being registered by the person you're calling, but I'd never tried it. I didn't think this was the time to find out the police could override the system anyway.
I searched round for my voice changer device, but I hadn't yet found it among the flotsam that covered the lounge floor. I dithered over searching for it, then decided no. A good old-fashioned scarf would have to do the job of disguising my voice.
I had a complete brain dump about where the nearest phone box was. The marketplace. There were three or four phone boxes in the marketplace, near to the fountain. No, they were too public.
I racked my brains before I remembered the one on Caton Road. Not perfect, but it would do. At least you weren't likely to get loads of people hanging round it while you were trying to cryptically explain the discovery of a dead body to the desk sergeant.
By the time I'd ridden the short distance and parked up at the kerb next to the phone box, I was annoyed to find my hands were shaking again, so much I could hardly get my helmet off. I spent a few minutes just sitting there, trying to relax enough to work out exactly what I was going to say.
Finally, I couldn't put it off any longer. I left my gloves on just in case and fumbled dialling the Lancaster cop-shop, wrapping my scarf firmly round the receiver as I did so. A rather bored-sounding woman answered the phone.
“Listen up,” I said, my voice echoing gruffly in my ear. “You got a pen? Then write this down.”
“Hang on – yep, go ahead,” the woman said. She sounded suddenly more interested.
“There's a body of a guy in a house on Wilmington Avenue, the one with the big van outside.”
“A body? What do you mean?”
I didn't think I could have been much clearer. “What do you mean, ‘What do I mean?’? A dead guy, he's been knifed. Just get there.”
“OK son, don't worry, we're on our way. What's your name?”
On cue, I put the phone down. I hurried outside, cracked the bike up and struggled into my helmet. I expected a squad car to come screeching up at any minute and haul me inside, but there were only the usual few cars and trucks ambling past. I waited for a gap in the traffic and did another of my wobbly U-turns, then rode sedately back towards the middle of town.
In my mind I was going over it, trying to work out if there was any way I could be linked to Terry's place. It was only then that I remembered Terry's business partner, Paul. Shit. I didn't know if he was aware that Terry had given me the lap-top, but he was certainly the first person the police were likely to contact. If he mentioned me, and if any of the neighbours remembered seeing the bike . . .
With rather more urgency than before I dived through the traffic round the town centre and headed out towards Abraham Heights. On my way I passed the police station, lit up like late-night shopping.
There were no signs of undue activity and I wondered briefly if they'd taken my message seriously. I don't know what I expected to see – dozens of cars screaming out with lights and sirens blazing, I expect.
I got lucky with the traffic lights, and it was only a few minutes later that I pulled up on the pavement outside the video shop owned by Terry's partner. Or should that be ex-partner.
When I walked in Paul was lounging on the counter reading a sci-fi novel with an infeasibly well-endowed blonde in a sprayed-on jumpsuit on the cover. It must have been captivating, because he looked up with that slightly irritated expression of someone who really didn't want to be disturbed right at that moment.
Still, when he saw it was me he broke into a smile which did nothing to improve his looks. He and Terry had always made an odd couple. Where Terry had been fat, Paul was thin to the point of gauntness, his hunched shoulders emphasised by the bagginess of his jumper. Where Terry's features were spread across his face like he'd
