‘Same reason the Garden of Paradise shouldn’t’ve had a forbidden fruit tree,’ York explained. ‘Too much fucking temptation!’
57
The further south York pushed, the worse the weather got. By Milton Keynes there was a sprinkle of moisture in the air dappling the windscreen. By the time he reached Dagenham in east London, the heavens were fully open, the rain battering down in torrents.
Will Graham’s house was a semi-detached set back from the road, the contrast of the two adjoining homes astounding. Graham was always going on about his neighbours being reprobates, an unruly bunch that was up until all hours in the morning, the front of their house a state. He could see what Graham was talking about. The front garden was overgrown, a rusty pedal bike rotting against the back fence. A couple of the soffits were hanging from their moorings and paint was flaking away from the overhang. The only thing missing was a burnt-out Ford Cortina up on blocks.
The time was eleven-twenty. Box under one arm he darted down Graham’s driveway and pounded on the door, thin capillaries of rainwater sneaking under his collar and down his back.
Graham came to the door rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes. ‘You’re erm…late,’ he yawned.
‘Is the kettle on?’ said York pushing his way in.
‘Come in, make yourself at home,’ Graham sighed.
Placing the box on the kitchen table, York flipped off his hat and ran a hand through his oily hair. Graham followed him through and began making tea.
‘Is this it?’ Graham asked fumbling in the box. Plucking out one of the reels Graham held it up to the light. ‘Oh, this is the old Super-Eight stuff alright. I loved this format as a kid, used to make home movies on it. Made one once of this lad, he had this infection –’
‘You’re able to convert it?’ York cut in.
The forensics man narrowed his eyes. ‘You know who you’re talking to, right? I’m the Super-Eight master.’
York crossed the kitchen and finished making the tea. ‘Where’s Ross?’
Graham looked up. ‘Where do you suppose he is at half-past eleven on a Friday night, Nick? I couldn’t stay awake, let alone him.’
‘You got him all weekend?’
‘Until Sunday afternoon.’
For over a year Graham had been in a legal battle with his ex-wife over the custody of their son. She was an alcoholic. Will was losing regardless.
‘So listen,’ Graham said, ‘this is going to take some time. Have a brew, get some zeds, whatever you need to do. I’ll see if I can get this finished before the Pit Bull finds out you’re here and hangs me in the second noose along.’
‘You worry too much,’ York muttered examining his mug. ‘Don’t fret about it, you’re on my side.’
‘You know who’s in the first noose, don't you?’
‘I’ll never tell her you gave me that info, Will. You know that.’
‘Of course I know that! But she’s a shrewd one, that woman. Every single time she puts two and two together she comes out at four. I’d find it only courteous if she could be wrong once in a while.’
For Graham’s benefit, York smiled. By his account, keeping Newport on the case made Mason’s decision-making score less than impressive. ‘So how long will this take?’
Graham blew air out through pursed lips. ‘Depends on the quality of the reels. Three hours minimum.’
‘Then I’m going to take a quick trip out. I’ll be back by two.’
‘Where could you possibly need to go at this time of night? It’s coming down in buckets out there.’
‘Need to go and see a dog about a man.’
Before Graham could protest further York was gone, his tea untouched.
*
Mere streets away, York contemplated leaving the keys in the ignition and driving away. He also contemplated pocketing them and knocking on the red door across the road, its front room lights spilling out though the cheap pink curtains and onto the rain-swept street.
The longer he sat still, the more conceivable his intentions became. Holding his hand out in front of him, palm facing away, he tried to control the shaking. The burning desire in his gut inflamed threefold, pouring out of him in fat globules of sweat. He threw open the car door and stepped out into the drizzle.
He hammered on the red door and waited, the rain sluicing through him. He could hear some fumbling inside and finally the door opened a crack, Tank Henderson’s huge squashed face poking through the gap. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he muttered, taking off the security chain and opening the door wider. A handful of seconds ticked by, York standing fast and staring ahead, the implications of his being there making his heart stammer. He pictured Charles Kilroy's disappointed eyes, but in the face of it, the doctor's Methadone was no substitute for the real thing.
‘Yorkster,’ Tank grumbled, ‘Haven't seen you for a while, I thought you'd kicked it. You coming in or what? Rain’s getting on the carpet.’
Swallowing hard, fists curled, York stepped inside.
‘Nice hat, dude,’ said Tank, and clicked the red door shut.
*
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ said Graham excitedly. ‘I’ve been waiting for you so we can run this bad boy!’
In Graham’s hand was a plain VHS tape. He’d written something on the front in white marker but York didn’t catch what it said.
‘I managed to fit all the reels onto one tape. I almost played it too, but I decided you’d have my balls for a beanbag if I did.’
The digital clock on the wall read three-oh-two. ‘Told you, I had to see a man about a dog.’
‘Dog about a man,’ Graham corrected.
York raised his eyebrows.
‘When you left, you said you were going to see a dog about a man.’
‘That too.’
Graham’s living room was small but
