Her tone didn’t change. ‘What sort of things?’
‘Nothing to worry about, just some background information I need. I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Is it possible we could meet somewhere?’
‘Is it very urgent?’
I didn’t want to alarm her. ‘Not particularly, but it would be nice to get it out of the way.’
‘I’m trying to think when I’m around…’ She didn’t sound unduly worried. ‘I’ve got a lot on this afternoon.’
‘This evening?’ I ventured.
She thought about it. ‘How about tomorrow evening? That’d be easier. Why don’t you come round to my flat? It’s up in Kentish Town.’
This was an invitation if ever I’d heard one. ‘Yeah, of course. I could do that. What’s the address?’
She told me, and I wrote it down in my notebook. ‘I’ll find it. What sort of time?’
‘I normally eat at about seven. Come round after that. About eight?’
It sounded as though we were arranging a date, and I suppose in a way we were. ‘Eight o’clock’s fine. I’ll see you then.’
We said our goodbyes and I hung up, not knowing whether to feel pleased with myself or not. I was glad that I was going to get the chance to see her again, even if what I had to say wasn’t exactly going to endear her to me. I was interested too in what her answers were going to be. I didn’t at that point think that she’d had anything to do with the murder, but something had definitely been up between her and Miriam Fox and I wanted to know what it was.
I sat there for a few seconds mulling over the possibilities, but I found it difficult to concentrate. The problem was, I couldn’t help thinking about Barry Finn. Usually I can rid my mind of inconvenient thoughts – its something you’ve got to be able to do if part of your life involves ending the lives of fellow human beings – but this killing had hit me a lot harder than any of the others. It was the indignity of it. Right now, he was probably laid out on tarpaulin in someone’s garage being slowly and carefully dismembered like a piece of rancid meat.
Knifing a man to death in cold blood while he struggled to understand what the hell was going on, then sentencing his relatives to years of torment by removing all traces of his existence; making him vanish into thin air, like Molly Hagger and who knows how many other lost souls. Whichever way you chose to look at it, it was a shameful way to make a living.
I picked up my coffee, went to take a drink, then decided I needed something stronger. A lot stronger. Outside, the day had become grey and cloudy, and it had begun to spit with rain. There was a half bottle of Remy in the cupboard so I poured myself a couple of fingers, and filled a pint glass with the contents of a can of Heineken from the fridge. There didn’t seem any point doing things by half measures, and I had nowhere to go for the rest of the day.
I drank the brandy down in one, lit a cigarette, and took a good draw of the beer. I smoked the cigarette down to the butt, finishing it at about the same time I finished the beer. I poured myself some more brandy, drank it down, lit another cigarette. I didn’t feel any better. I could still picture Barry Finn. I could hear the noises he made as he died: that horrible gasping as he fought for breath through punctured lungs. Futile. All futile. I thought of the pleasure Raymond had taken in the murder, like a kid playing his first ever Playstation game. I’d never really taken him for a sadist before, but I wouldn’t underestimate his potential for cruelty again. Would he have worn that same smile had he been killing me? Somehow I felt sure the answer was yes. Maybe, he was even now planning my demise with his mysterious associates, men adept at making bodies disappear.
And how close were the coppers to me? Had the young cop at the roadblock talked to the investigating officers? Were they checking my background, viewing me now as a possible suspect? Had they gone further? Was I under surveillance even as I sat here getting drunker and drunker?
Paranoid thoughts were suddenly swarming through my brain like steamers on a tube train. There seemed no end to them, and no way to escape the strength-sapping fear they generated. I’d never had a panic attack before, but I could feel one coming on.
I filled the brandy glass again and found another can of Heineken in the fridge. I drank the one, then took a long gulp from the other. I tried to imagine what it felt like to take a knife in the gut. I’d read somewhere once that it was like being hit with a cricket bat, except twice as bad. I got the feeling it was plenty worse than that, especially when you were being held in a vice-like grip by someone you’d never met before and the one doing the knifing was your employer, someone you knew and trusted. Christ, I hated myself; for just a few seconds, I truly hated myself. I was no amoral bastard who didn’t give a fuck about his actions. I felt guilty. I knew I’d done wrong, I really did, and that was what was getting to me.
At some point the drink hit me hard. Cricket bat hard. I came over very tired and knew I was going to have to lie down. In a way, it was a relief. I lay back on the sofa and let the weariness wash over me, finally ridding my mind of its demons.
I don’t know for how long I slept. Maybe a couple of hours, something like that. I needed it anyway, however long it was.
I was woken by the
