English.
He put the phone to his ear, waited. Mike stared at him, mouth open, breath held.
‘Now? … Where? … Fee? … ’ He nodded. ‘Good.’ Pocketed the phone.
‘Don’t want to hurry you, mate,’ said the suited man, ‘but we got another one in at seven.’
‘No trouble,’ said the Golem with his heavy accent. ‘Take seconds.’
‘No,’ said Mike, ‘no, no, no … ’
The Golem reached out, wrapped a huge hand round his neck. Mike stared into his eyes, expecting to see … something. Anything. His life flash before him. He saw nothing. Just empty grey pools.
No, he thought, this isn’t fair. I can’t … no. This isn’t the way my life ends. It can’t be … I’ve—
A quick snap and it was done. Mike Dillman was gone. The Golem straightened up, turned away. ‘You clean up,’ he said as he passed the suited man. ‘He has pissed and shit.’
The Golem disappeared into the shadows. The suited man watched him go. Then he crossed to the centre of the room, began to clean up.
As he reached for the broom, he noticed that his hands were shaking.
A lot.
19
DS Jessica James checked her notebook once more. Looked up. Back to the notes. This wasn’t right, she thought.
She looked at the house in front of her, expecting it to match up to the one she had pictured in her head. It didn’t. Old, she had thought, but well maintained. Perhaps wooden or clapboard, with charm and character. Idiosyncratic even, but speaking of money and taste. Probably in a stylishly understated manner. Blue and white pottery on the windowsill.
The house before her was nothing like that. It was old, yes, but poorly maintained. The wooden window frames were flaking paint, rotting round the glass. The once white front was now a mottled, mildewed green. The path to the door was broken concrete, weeds sprouting unchecked through the cracks.
Not the kind of house she had expected Stuart Milton to live in.
DCI Franks had phoned her while she was on her way here. She hadn’t minded; in fact she had expected it. Would have done it herself if the positions had been reversed. He wasn’t trying to tell her her job, he had said, and from the tone of his voice she had believed him. He just wanted to check how the investigation was proceeding and see if there was anything he could do to help.
‘Like what?’ she had asked.
There came a noise down the phone. She imagined him puffing out his cheeks and blowing air. This, along with the gruff Welsh roll of his voice, gave her the mental image of a bull. ‘Anything really,’ he had said. ‘Background, stuff you want to run by me, support, you name it.’
‘I already told—’ She stopped herself. Unsure whether Mickey Philips had told his boss that he had come along to help. She suspected Franks knew, but she didn’t want to be the one to tell him, just in case he didn’t. She didn’t want to get Mickey into trouble. ‘I’ve got a team out looking for the missing girl. We’ll be following up any leads. I think we’ve got everything covered,’ she had said. ‘But if I need anything, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Appreciate it.’ Franks sounded genuine enough. He paused. For all the gruffness, there was a quality in his voice that she found appealing. Eventually he spoke. ‘Marina, Marina Esposito, she’s gone. Left the hospital. Did you know?’
‘I had heard.’
‘Walked out. We need to find her. She’s in a fragile state of mind.’
‘I can imagine. I’m off to re-interview the eyewitness who was with her. Something he mentioned got me thinking. I’ll see if he can add anything else.’
Stuart Milton’s testimony hadn’t quite rung true. Something niggled and she didn’t know what. When she had run the conversation back in her mind, she could find nothing wrong with it. He had seemed like a perfectly credible witness. He had stopped Marina from re-entering the burning cottage, and had the grazes to prove it. But there was something not right about him. Copper’s intuition, she had thought. The fact that he had disappeared from the car just confirmed it. Or at least deepened her suspicions of him.
‘Good idea, DS James. Keep me posted.’
She said she would, and cut the call.
It was only afterwards that she realised Franks hadn’t pressed her on what Stuart Milton had said. That meant he was either a bad copper, which she doubted, or he already knew. That was more likely. At least she didn’t have to worry about keeping Mickey’s involvement quiet.
Jessie looked round, up and down the terrace. She wouldn’t have said Aldeburgh had any mean streets until she came here. She stepped up to the door, knocked on it. There was a bell, but she doubted it was working.
She waited. Was about to knock again when she heard someone making their way towards the door. Slowly, like they were dragging something.
The door opened. A man stood there. Definitely not Stuart Milton. He wore tracksuit bottoms and carpet slippers. An old fraying vest with ingrained stains; on top of that an open shirt with a faded print. His hair was greasy, and although he wasn’t fat, his frame looked loose and flabby, like his body had lost a lot of weight but hadn’t told his skin.
‘Yeah?’ He was breathing heavily, like he’d just finished a marathon.
Jessie held up her warrant card. ‘DS James, Suffolk Police. I’m looking for Stuart Milton. Is he in?’ She’d guessed the answer to the question before she had even asked it.
His eyes turned away from her, unreadable. ‘Who?’ Said in a rasping voice.
Jessie glanced behind the man into the hallway. It was dimly lit, which hid the poor state of the decor. A little. Against the gloom she made out the frame of a wheelchair, the outline of an oxygen bottle. She didn’t need to be a detective to work out that the man had severe respiratory problems. Fatal, even, from the sound of him.
She persisted. ‘Stuart Milton. I spoke to him earlier. This was the address he gave me.’
His eyes closed. Once more, she couldn’t read them. ‘There’s … no one here … by that … name … ’ He began wheezing, gripped the door for support. The wheeze threatened to turn into a rumbling, racking cough.
Cancer, thought Jessie. Lung cancer.
He made to close the door. It was clearly an effort.
‘Can I just describe him to you? I won’t take up much of your time.’
He said nothing. She took that as an invitation and described Stuart Milton.
As she spoke, the man’s expression changed slightly. Jessie thought she caught a flash of recognition flit across his eyes. He might even have smiled. She stopped talking. ‘You know him?’
The man shook his head. ‘No … ’
‘Sure?’
‘I said no, didn’t I?’ There was anger behind his words. It threatened to bring on another coughing fit.
‘I won’t take up any more of your time, then. Mr …?’
He just looked at her.
‘I didn’t get your name.’
‘Didn’t … give it … ’
‘Mr?’ She waited.
He’d obviously realised he wouldn’t get rid of her until she had his name. ‘Hibbert. Jeff, Jeffrey … Hibbert.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hibbert. I’ll be on my way now.’
She turned and started back down the path. The door closed behind her. She heard the deferred bout of coughing start, even through the closed door. It sounded like he was trying to cough up his insides.
