‘Better hours.’
He hangs up and I walk across the road, feeling the turf beneath my shoes. I am closer to understanding things now. I know why Ray Hegarty was murdered, why Annie Robinson was poisoned and why Sienna was framed.
Not everything makes sense. If there’s an exception to every rule, then that rule itself must have an exception. Novak Brennan tried to corrupt a judge. Sway a jury. Secure a verdict. Yet so much of it depended upon factors that he could never fully control. A majority verdict to acquit required ten jurors - a huge ask. By blackmailing a judge the only thing he could completely guarantee was the collapse of the hearing and a retrial with a new jury and a new judge. Novak must have known this.
I glance towards the hospital and see my reflection cast back at me from the doors. I am a man standing alone in a field. Some things we have to do alone. Birth. Death. Sitting in a witness box . . .
Uneasiness washes over me, inching upwards, lodging in my throat. Fumbling for my phone I call Julianne. Her number is engaged. I start over. This time she answers.
‘Where’s Marco?’ I ask.
‘He went to buy me a present.’
‘Does he have a number?’
‘He doesn’t have a phone.’
She’s at Broadmead Shopping Centre, which is fifteen minutes away.
Julianne senses my fear. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You have to find him. Get him out of there.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s not safe. Find him and call me.’
Ruiz has pulled up outside the hospital. I try to run but suddenly freeze and stare helplessly at my legs, telling them to move. I direct all of my concentration to just my left leg, telling it to step forward. It must be like watching a man step over an invisible obstacle. Once I get a degree of momentum, I’ll be fine. One leg will follow the other. Walk and then run.
I pull open the passenger door and tumble inside, telling Ruiz to drive, telling him that Julianne’s in danger. Without hesitation, he accelerates, weaving between cars, demanding answers.
We’re on the M32. Middle lane. Passing the concrete towers, shuttered shops, factories, pawnshops and ‘For Lease’ signs. There are hookers walking up and down Fishponds Road: women who are women and men who are women and crack-heads who will be anything you want.
‘When you were following Carl Guilfoyle - you said it was strange, you said he seemed to know he was being tailed. Maybe we were
Ruiz looks at me askance and back to the road.
‘Why?’
‘Novak couldn’t guarantee an acquittal, but he could guarantee what happened today.’
‘You’re saying he
‘He needed more time.’
‘More time for what?’
‘To silence Marco Kostin.’
‘I thought he was under police guard.’
‘He was until this morning.’
Traffic lights. Amber then red. Ruiz brakes heavily.
My mobile chirrups. Julianne.
‘I’ve seen him.’
‘Marco?’
‘No, the man with the black tears.’
My heart lurches.
‘I saw him outside WHSmith.’
‘Was he following you?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t find Marco.’
I tell her to stay calm. ‘I’m going to hang up now and call the police.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Where were you going to meet Marco?’
‘At Brasserie Blanc.’
‘Go there. Sit outside. Somewhere public.’
My heart is banging in my ribs. Cray’s number is engaged. I try again. Monk answers. I tell him to get the boss. It’s an emergency.
The DCI replaces him.
‘Carl Guilfoyle is going after Marco Kostin. They’re both at Broadmead Shopping Centre.’
‘Is anyone with Marco?’
‘Julianne is looking for him. We’re almost there.’
‘Don’t approach Guilfoyle. Get them out of there.’
The lights are green. Ruiz accelerates. Seventy miles an hour. Chasing tail lights and leaving them behind.
My mind is zigzagging ahead, like a small furry creature darting through undergrowth, following a scent, switching direction, moving away from me. We’re going too slowly.
Ruiz leans on the horn as we get caught in traffic on the Old Market Roundabout. He swings across two lanes, braking hard, the tyres screeching. We almost sideswipe a lorry and he wrenches the wheel, correcting twice. The pine-scented air-freshener swings violently from the mirror.
We’re in Quakers Friars. Ruiz pulls over. Hazard lights flashing. I’m already out the door and running across the flagstones, dodging pedestrians, shoppers, office workers.
Julianne is standing alone outside the restaurant in her buttoned-up trench coat and the boots she bought in Milan. Nearby there are children running in and out of water jets that spout like molten silver from the slick pavers.
‘We were supposed to meet here,’ she says, wide-eyed, anxious.
‘Where did you see him last?’
‘In Merchant Street.’
‘How long ago?’
‘He should have been back by now.’
Ruiz arrives. We’ll split up and search. Somebody should stay here in case Marco turns up: Julianne.
‘Call if you see him.’
I start moving, my scalp itchy and damp. There are hundreds of shops over almost six blocks and three levels - department stores, boutiques, speciality shops, restaurants and cafes - the biggest retail centre in Bristol. As long as Marco stays somewhere public. As long as he’s in the open . . .
Weaving through the crowd, I keep looking at the faces, expecting to see Marco or Carl Guilfoyle. There are too many people. He could walk right past me and I might not see him.
Pushing through the doors of BHS, I jog up the escalator and weave between racks of clothes. The window overlooks the intersection of Broadmead and Merchant Street.
I scan the crowd. Young mums with prams, joggers in Lycra shorts, a hooded youth with a skateboard, an elderly couple, hunched arthritically, moving in slow motion. A juggler in a clown’s hat has drawn an audience by tossing coloured balls in the air and bouncing them off the pavement.
There are so many people, a sea of moving heads. That’s when I see Marco on the edge of the crowd watching the juggler. He’s wearing a red baseball cap and carrying a glossy carrier bag.
Retreating down the escalator, through the automatic doors, I emerge on street level. A toddler runs under my feet. Half catching him as I fall, I bounce up and spin around, planting the boy on his feet. His mother gives me a foul-mouthed tirade, but I’m looking past her for Marco.
I can’t see him. He was on the far side of the square. Pushing through the crowd, I look for his red baseball cap. In the periphery of my vision I catch sight of Julianne. What’s she doing? She must have seen Marco too.
