“What?”
“You know. Ant from Ant and Dec. The one with the big forehead. Got done for drink-driving. That one...”
“Oh,” I say, breaking into a smile. “Surprisingly not. But now you mention it, I do want your opinion on something...”
He presses his hands down on his knees. I suspect it has been some time since anybody asked his opinion on anything important. “Whether England will win tonight? I hope not...”
I laugh. Pause. Take a deep breath.
“Do you think he could still be out there...?"
He gazes at me again. His blue, sparkling eyes are truly intense, totally intimidating. I long to look away, but that would feel disrespectful. I look right back at him.
"Why are you asking...?"
He doesn't ask who I'm talking about. I like that: there is no bullshit, no pointless foreplay leading to the main event.
"Somebody has been playing with my mind, bringing up the past. It came out of the blue. Only been the last couple of weeks. Since the beginning of the month, to be exact. Now it is either him, or somebody who wants me to believe they are him. You knew the case better than anyone. You knew him better than anyone. If anyone could tell me if there is even the remotest possibility that he is still out there, then it is you..."
DCI Baldwin looks away, stares into space. "I don't deny that I know him better than most, but that doesn't mean much. The bastard consumed my life for over five years. I was obsessed. Every time I felt like I was getting close, that I was within touching distance, I realised that I was nowhere, that he was just pulling me close so he could laugh in my face. The longer I was on the case the more I realised that I knew shit. I wasn't one of his victims, but I may as well have been. He killed me just like the others, only he tortured me. The guy is an enigma. I haven't a clue who he is..."
The words trail off. Plump, wet tears trickle down his cheek. I feel torrid for bringing up the subject, for being here, in his home, disturbing his retirement, bringing up memories of a life long gone. This old man doesn't need this, doesn't need me. He looks at me now and, though his eyes are red, salty slits, I'm scared. "We both know I don't know him better than anybody," he says.
I look away.
"You were the only clue I ever had to solving the whole thing,” he says. “That's why I tried to suck everything I could out of you. I was doing my job, damn it."
"I know that," I say. Looking down, I notice his hands are cracked and threaded with blue veins. The fingers tremble.
"So what do you think?" he asks. "Do you think he is still out there?"
I've been asking myself this question repeatedly over the last few weeks. It is only now I feel certain of the answer. "I do," I say. "I think all of this is him. I can feel him. Watching me. Laughing at me. I just don't know what he wants."
"He wants revenge," Baldwin says. "And he wants it in kind."
He speaks the words so matter-of-factly that I flinch.
"So you already know the answer to your question," DCI Baldwin says. "I'm no longer a detective, but I suspect that isn't the real reason you're here?"
I turn to him now. Make sure my eyes stay fixed on his. "I just wanted to say thank you," I say.
His eyes flicker over my face, but his mouth remains closed. Moments pass with us sat in silence. Then DCI Baldwin nods his head and smiles.
******
I put my key in the lock to the door to my home. I haven't checked the time, but a full, white moon tells me it is late. I take a deep breath. It is odd - it is bizarre - but I haven't lived in the house back in Bridgend for thirty years and I've not visited in all of that time, and yet it still feels like my real home, not the home in Clapham, and definitely not this makeshift, temporary one that isn't even designed to remain in one place. It can be moved at any time. The fucking thing floats!
There is a reason for the deep breath, of course. I am taking a moment. It reminds me of when Emma was a baby. I'd stand over her cot in the morning and just watch the gentle rising and falling of her body. I savoured the few, peaceful moments before she woke. Emma was, and still is, a beautiful, tiny bundle of joy and happiness and yet - and yet she was a baby - and so she was also a beautiful, tiny bundle of manic, zany energy.
Now, these are my final quiet moments before the storm erupts.
I push open the door, and the storm erupts even faster than I expected. Footsteps charge down the narrow passageway, a Labrador protecting his home from an intruder. The footsteps are fast and frantic and they're coming straight for me. My face begins breaking into a friendly smile, but before it can do so, my face is struck. On the cheek. Hard.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
My natural reaction, the response that is spontaneous to Marcus Clancy and not to Jeffrey Allen, is to say something sarcastic. Nice to see you, too. But even Marcus Clancy is not that shallow, not that pathetic. Not quite. Erica has done nothing with her hair; it flows freely to the nape of her back. Her scent feels natural, like she has just jumped out of bed without spraying any perfume. I notice that her face is free of make-up.
