‘I can’t.’
‘Your boyfriend?’
‘We’re living together.’
‘You’re both young, maybe too young to be living together.’
‘That’s what my mother would have said, and if she were still alive, then I wouldn’t be. Troy’s a very moral person, but my life, as well as Billy’s, is not normal, is it?’
‘I’ve seen too much to form an opinion of what is normal now,’ Isaac said.
‘Samuel, was that normal? I remember how he looked after his death, how I felt.’
‘I’ve seen worse. And time heals, you know that.’
Isaac could see that the young woman wanted to stay at the police station with him, but he had work to do, and a superintendent who wanted to be kept informed. On the other hand, he worried that at any time she could be snatched off the street, even if she was taking care to watch out who was around her. In the end, he asked Bridget to drop her off at Troy’s place.
Free of anyone in his office, Isaac opened his laptop, saw ten emails, six from Caddick. He let out a long sigh, almost felt like swearing, but checked himself.
It was clear that Caddick’s demands were designed to deflect Isaac away from the investigation, with the inevitability of one of Caddick’s people coming in to wrap it up. Isaac knew that he had to play the man tactically. If he abided by his dictates, he was finished; if he didn’t, then he had a good chance of wrapping up the investigations.
Isaac knew that a successful outcome would remove any pressure on him from Caddick. He leant back in his chair, put his hands on the back of his head and weighed up the pros and cons for a few minutes. In the end, he sat up straight, nominally filled in the reports, and left the office. He knew there’d be trouble.
***
Negril Bob enjoyed the notoriety. He had beaten the system, as far as he could see it. The police had wanted to arrest him for murder, yet he had evaded them, and now they couldn’t pin anything on him, not even a parking ticket. Larry had observed him from the other side of the pub; an opportunity for him to have a couple of drinks. At one stage, Negril Bob had looked his way, another of his gang letting him know that there was a police officer in the pub. A couple of women were draped around Negril Bob’s neck. Larry knew one of them, knew her to be a prostitute who hawked her wares from a small house not far from the pub; the other woman he did not recognise, other than noting she was the prettier of the two.
Larry knew that he should not have been there on his own, but he had seen the man highest on Homicide’s radar entering the pub. It had been several weeks since he had started following his wife’s instruction on sensible eating and drinking; three days since he had had a beer. He had wondered at first if he was an alcoholic but decided he wasn’t, although he sure missed it. And now, a pub and Negril Bob; the need to enter and to order a pint was irresistible, and if his wife complained, not that she did as much as before when his weight had been piling on, he could say that it was in the line of duty.
As he sat there, not talking to anyone, pretending to check his emails on his phone, occasionally glancing around the pub, he could see that not much had changed since Rasta Joe’s death. The amorous couple in the corner who should find a room before it became embarrassing, the old man sitting on a chair in the corner, the assorted businessmen, the local villains, black and white, some English-born, some recently arrived in the country.
Larry ordered another pint, took the opportunity to buy himself a pub lunch, a juicy steak. He’d had enough salads at home to last him a lifetime, and a pint and a steak were as close as he was going to get to heaven that day. Another two pints and he would be sleeping on the sofa with only a cat for company. For once, he was going to take the risk and to indulge himself.
‘Spying on me, is that it?’ a voice said.
Larry looked up, saw the ominous presence of Negril Bob. ‘Not me. I often come in here for a pint,’ Larry said. He knew that he was compromised. The pub was full, but no one would be coming to his rescue. He was not ashamed to admit that he felt a little frightened. The man who sat opposite him was an imposing figure: jet-black with pearly white teeth, the scalp clean-shaven, his muscles apparent under the shirt he wore. Negril Bob was a good-looking man, no one had ever denied it. Rasta Joe with his dreadlocks and the faint odour of ganja, had not been. And now Negril Bob was threatening him.
‘Look here, Hill, I’m a law-abiding man. I mind my business, I suggest you mind yours.’
‘Can’t a man have a pint without being disturbed?’ Larry said by way of a weak defence.
‘You know who I am. I’m a tough man, not afraid to mix it with the locals, not willing to let anyone say anything against me or get in my way.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Not from me, it isn’t. I mind my own business, I suggest you mind yours, as well.’
‘There’s still a case against some of your people.’
‘Who’s to say it was them.’
‘There was a witness to Rasta Joe’s murder.’
‘Your drinking pal. I’m surprised you bothered with the toad of a man, although he was no doubt keeping you informed. Did he ever mention me?’ Negril Bob
