‘Two days ago.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about the Monday before?’
‘Can’t remember that far back. Might have been when he took me out for a meal. We went to the pub. Don’t remember which one. You should check the visitor’s book. Time in. Time out.’
Patrick pinches the skin on his wrists again. It’s a trigger mechanism designed to stop his mind from wandering, helping him stay on message.
‘Why are you so interested in Gideon?’ he asks.
‘We’d like to speak to him.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ he takes a mobile from the pocket of his track pants. ‘I’ll call him.’
‘That’s OK. Just give me his number.’
Patrick is punching the buttons. ‘You got all these questionsjust ask him.’
I glance at Veronica Cray. She shakes her head.
‘Hang up,’ I tell Patrick, urgently.
It’s too late. He hands me the mobile.
Someone answers: ‘Hey, hey, how’s my favourite loony?’
There’s a pause. I should terminate the call. I don’t.
‘It’s not Patrick,’ I say.
There is another silence. ‘How did you get his phone?’
‘He gave it to me.’
There is another pause. Silence. Gideon’s mind is working overtime. Then I hear him laugh. I can picture him smiling.
‘Hello, Professor, you found me.’
DI Cray is running her finger across her neck. She wants me to hang up. Tyler knows he’s been identified. Nobody is tracing the signal.
‘How is Patrick?’ asks Gideon.
‘Getting better, he says. It must be expensive keeping him here.’
‘Friends look after each other. It’s a matter of honour.’
‘Why did you pretend to be him?’
‘The police came bursting through the door. Nobody stopped and asked me who I was. You all assumed I was Patrick.’
‘And you maintained the lie.’
‘I had some fun.’
Patrick is sitting on the bed, listening and smiling secretively. I stand and walk past the nurse into a corridor. Veronica Cray follows me, whispering harshly in my ear.
Gideon is still talking. He calls me Mr Joe.
‘Why are you still looking for your wife?’ I ask.
‘She took something that belongs to me.’
‘What did she take?’
‘Ask her.’
‘I would, but she’s dead. She drowned.’
‘If you say so, Mr Joe.’
‘You don’t believe it.’
‘I know her better than you do.’
It’s a rasping statement, laced with hatred.
‘What were you doing with Christine Wheeler’s mobile?’
‘I found it.’
‘That’s a coincidence- finding a phone that belonged to your wife’s oldest friend.’
‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’
‘Did you tell her to jump from the bridge?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘What about Sylvia Furness?’
‘Name rings a bell. Is she a TV weathergirl?’
‘You made her handcuff herself to a tree and she died of exposure.’
‘Good luck proving that.’
‘Maureen Bracken is alive. She’s going to give us your name. The police are going to find you, Gideon.’
He chuckles. ‘You’re full of shit, Mr Joe. So far you’ve mentioned a suicide, a death due to exposure and a police shooting. Nothing to do with me. You don’t have a single solid, first-hand piece of evidence that links me to any of this.’
‘We have Maureen Bracken.’
‘Never met the woman. Ask her.’
‘I did. She says she met you once.’
‘She’s lying.’
The words are sucked through his teeth as though he’s nibbling on a tiny seed.
‘Help me understand something, Gideon. Do you hate women?’
‘Are we talking intellectually, physically or as a sub-species?’
‘You’re a misogynist.’
‘I knew there’d be a word for it.’
He’s teasing me now. He thinks he’s cleverer than I am. So far he’s right. I can hear a school bell in the background. Children are jostling and shouting.
‘Maybe we could meet,’ I say.
‘Sure. We could do lunch some time.’
‘How about now?’
‘Sorry, I’m busy.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m waiting for a bus.’
Air brakes sound in the silence. A diesel engine knocks and trembles.
‘I have to go, Professor. It’s been nice talking to you. Give my best to Patrick.’
He hangs up. I hit redial. The mobile is turned off.
I look at DI Cray and shake my head. She swings her right boot at a wastepaper bin, which thuds into the opposite wall and bounces off again. The large dent in the side of the bin makes it rock unevenly on the carpeted floor.
46
The bus door hisses open. Students pile forward, pushing between shoulders. Some of them are carrying papier mache masks and hollowed-out pumpkins. Halloween is two weeks away.
There she is; dressed in a tartan skirt, black tights and bottle green jumper. She finds a seat halfway down the bus and drops her school bag beside her. Strands of hair have escaped from her ponytail.
I swing past her on my crutches. She doesn’t look up. All the seats are taken. I stare at one of the schoolboys, rocking back on forth on my metal sticks. He moves. I sit down.
The older boys have commandeered the back seats, yelling out the windows at their mates. The ringleader has a mouthful of braces and bum fluff on his chin. He’s watching the girl. She’s picking at her fingernails.
The bus has started moving- stopping, dropping and picking up. The kid with the braces makes his way forward, moving past me. He leans over her seat and snatches her schoolbag. She tries to grab it back but he kicks it along the floor. She asks nicely. He laughs. She tells him to grow up.
I move behind him. My hand seems to clap him gently on the neck. It’s a friendly looking gesture- fatherly-
