‘What are you getting at?’
‘The man, for whatever reason, does not want to be found.’
‘He’s hiding out somewhere.’
‘We need to find where.’
‘He’s still our primary suspect, hidden or otherwise. What do we need to do to find him?’
‘Keep looking.’
‘That’s what you’ve been doing, you and Wendy.’
‘It’s not so easy when the man moves around, doesn’t draw money from anywhere.’
‘He must have some money,’ Isaac said.
‘Why? He could feed himself from Bob Robertson’s hostel, from a rubbish bin around the back of a restaurant late at night if he wanted to, and as for clothing, he only changed it when it fell off his back. Although, from what I’ve been able to find out, it was probably welded to him anyway.’
‘None of this makes sense, you know that.’
‘Of course. The man’s educated, articulate, yet he chooses the life of the street. There must be a reason.’
‘Sufficient to kill?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘We’ve a notebook that he had written in.’
‘Any help?’
‘It might be if we could understand what it meant.’
‘What do you mean?’ Larry asked.
‘Apart from poetry, some from the classics according to Bridget, some of his own, there are pages of complex mathematical formulas and technical drawings.’
‘Not my forte,’ Larry said.
‘Bridget is doing some research, not having much success.’
Chapter 7
Katrina Ireland, for the first time in several days, left the hostel in the care of one of the voluntary staff. Apart from a quick dash to the local supermarket, and the visit to a computer store to buy a cheap computer to replace the one that had been stolen, she had not left the area. Not that she wanted to: too many parts of London held unpleasant memories, and the withdrawal from her addiction still troubled her.
As she walked away from the hostel, not more than half a mile, she could see a couple – the man gaunt, the woman still showing some vitality – shooting up in a side alley. She looked at them, fascinated, noted that they were oblivious to her watching. She felt a yearning to rush down to them and to inject herself. Taking stock of the situation and acknowledging that she had responsibilities, she continued walking.
She passed the club where she had gyrated on a pole, passed by where she had sold herself, looking the other way. The memories were too vivid, too unpleasant. A voice that she knew called to her. ‘I need that notebook,’ it said.
‘Big Greg. The police are looking for you.’
‘They don’t understand,’ the man said. Katrina looked up at him. She could see that he had had a rough time since he had last been to the hostel, his clothes even dirtier than before, his face covered in grime. His hand was gripping her arm.
‘You’re hurting,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, but that notebook’s important.’
‘The police have it. Did you kill Bob Robertson?’
‘I had to.’
‘Why?’ Katrina asked. She had known fear in the past on more than one occasion; she felt it now with Big Greg.
‘Too many questions,’ Big Greg replied. The two of them were isolated from the people walking by, not more than fifty feet away. Big Greg pulled her to a bench and sat her down next to him. ‘If you’ll not run, I’ll release the pressure on your arm.’
Katrina knew one thing, the man frightened her. In the past, the fear and the beatings were from a drunken or drugged man, even her pimp, sometimes her boyfriend, but they had only wanted to satisfy their lust or to shake some sense into her, or they enjoyed violating women, making them suffer while they proved their masculinity. But with Big Greg, it was different. The man was a murderer, had just admitted it to her. She knew that he would kill her if she gave him a reason. ‘I’ll stay,’ she said.
Big Greg released the pressure, maintained his hold on her. She could smell him as he held her close.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said.
‘You’ve killed Bob.’
‘You would not understand.’
‘The police will catch you, you know that.’
‘That’s as maybe, but I must complete my task, protect others.’
‘Others?’ Katrina said. Big Greg ignored her question.
‘I need that notebook.’
‘What can I do? The police took it.’
‘Then I will have the computer. You must bring it to me.’
‘It’s been stolen.’
‘By who?’
‘I don’t know who he was.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘I saw him running out of the building with it. He jumped into a car and drove off.’
‘Describe him.’
‘He was dressed in a dark suit. Shorter than you, taller than me.’
‘Hair colour, clean-shaven, walked with a limp?’ Big Greg asked.
‘He was running, so I assume he didn’t have a limp. And yes, his hair was brown and he was clean-shaven. He was about forty to forty-five years of age. Do you know him?’
‘I know who he works for.’
‘Do you intend to kill me?’ Katrina asked.
You must do something for me.’
‘What?’
‘You must tell the inspector you’ve been speaking to.’
‘Which one? DI Hill or DCI Cook?’
‘DCI Cook.’
‘Tell him what?’
‘You must repeat this exactly, is that understood?’
‘You’re hurting me again.’
‘Sorry, but this is important. You must tell your police officer that he must not investigate the contents of the notebook.’
‘He’ll ask why.’
‘Tell him that people have died for what it contains and that more will die, including the police, if they attempt to understand was it written, or if other people know about it.’
‘That’s not how the police work. You’ve committed a murder.
