sat down, giving myself two minutes to recover. When my breathing was back to normal, I pulled out the address book and found Andrea Bloom's entry. But when I called the mobile number, it was out of order.
I recognized the road she lived on. It was about a mile from where I was sitting. And once again time didn't feel like it was on my side.
So I got to my feet and started walking.
26
According to the address book, Andrea Bloom lived just off the Kingsland Road in Hackney. It might have only been a few hundred yards as the crow flies from the bistros and restaurants of south Islington, but the Kingsland Road was a world away from them. It's the sort of place you end up in when you've taken a wrong turn — a long, straight, desolate road lined with council estates and heavily fortified shops selling cheap goods — where gangs of kids in hooded tops hang round on their mountain bikes waiting for something to happen, or someone to mug. It hadn't changed much since I'd been away and still didn't feel that safe, even at eleven o'clock in the morning, but I walked most of its length south to north, unchallenged and unscathed, which either meant I looked too hard to take on or, more likely, it was still too early for the local street robbers.
Andrea's street was quieter and a bit more upmarket, being made up mainly of three-storey townhouses, most of which could have done with a decent exterior paint job. Hers was about thirty yards down on the right-hand side, and was one of the more ramshackle residences.
I had to ring the bell several times before an early-twenties white guy with a dreadlocked mane of naturally blond curly hair answered. He must have been getting on for six foot six, but was as lean as a rake. He had a large ring through his nose, and a smaller one through his right eyebrow. The expression on his face was suspicious, but it didn't sit that easily there. I guessed he was quite a friendly sort to the people he knew, but maybe a little earnest. He was dressed in a light green T-shirt with a photo of Che Guevara on it, and combat trousers of the same colour, while his feet were bare. I'd have put money on the fact that he was a vegetarian, and that he was better educated and from a family higher up the social ladder than either his garb or current location would suggest.
'Yes?'
'I'm here to see Andrea Bloom.'
He looked me up and down carefully, like a man examining a fake designer shirt on a cheap market stall. Even after all this time, I must still have had the demeanour of a copper, and I doubted that any members of the law-enforcement fraternity were very popular round here.
'I don't know any Andrea Bloom.'
I could tell he was lying. It wasn't difficult to spot. 'Yes, you do,' I told him. 'Is she in?'
'Who are you?'
I was beginning to get tired of this question. 'It's personal. Is she in?'
'She's at work.'
'And where's her work?'
'I'm not telling you,' he snapped.
'Fair enough. I'll come in and wait for her, then.'
I pushed past him and stepped into the hallway. The carpet was threadbare, but the general decor a considerable improvement on Delly's place. I turned left and walked into a small sitting room with a cheap-looking TV in the corner and a profusion of different coloured beanbags on the floor. I found a chair and plonked myself down.
He came stomping in after me. 'I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but you can't just come walking in like this.'
'Tell me where I can find Andrea and I'll walk right back out again,' I said, making myself comfortable.
'I want to know why you want to see her. She's my girlfriend.'
He added this last with a hint of pride in his voice and I felt a bit sorry for him. 'I want to talk to her about her relationship with Jason Khan and Ann Taylor.'
Something happened then. His body tensed, and a perceptible flicker of fear crossed his face like a storm front. He knew something.
'Andrea hardly knew them,' he said, talking far too fast. 'I don't think there's much she can tell you. Now if you give me your card, I can-'
'I promise you I don't mean her any harm. I'm a private detective. So, please, why don't you just make it easier by telling me where I can find her?'
'Hold on a moment,' he said, then left the room.
I stood up to follow him, taking my time, keen not to spook him any more than he was already. But very interested, nevertheless, in his reaction to the mention of Jason Khan and Ann Taylor.
I hadn't taken more than two steps when he suddenly reappeared. Only this time he was carrying a gleaming kitchen knife with an eight-inch blade. He waved it at me as menacingly as he could manage, the tension in his features telling me that he liked this situation even less than I did, which, given that I was standing only three feet from the end of the blade, took some doing.
'Put that thing down,' I said, taking a step back, reluctant to go for the gun and ruin any chance of a meaningful discussion with either him or his girlfriend. 'You use it and you'll be going to prison for a long, long time.'
He stepped forward, gaining in confidence. 'I want you out of here now. Andrea's got nothing to say and she doesn't want to see you.'
'I think you should let her decide that.'
He took another step forward, waving the knife for effect. 'Out.'
I shrugged. 'All right, have it your way.' I went to go past him and he moved to the side. As we came level, I lunged forward and grabbed the wrist of his knife arm, twisting it away from him. He didn't immediately let go so I balled my other hand into a fist and slammed it down on the upturned forearm. He cried out in pain and the knife clattered to the floor. I kicked it out into the hallway, then forced the arm behind his back and pushed him down to his knees.
He tried to struggle so I pulled the arm higher up his back, and he quickly stopped. I put my mouth to his ear. 'I repeat: I am a private detective. I mean your girlfriend no harm, but it's important I speak to her. Two people have been murdered and she may have information that could help one of the dead men's families. Please. I need to know where to find her.'
'How do I know you're not going to hurt her?' he demanded.
'Why should I?' I asked, genuinely interested in his answer.
But he didn't tell me why. Instead, he asked me to let him go.
'Are you going to tell me where I can find her?'
'I'll come down with you. If you want to talk to her, you'll have to do it with me present as well.'
'Fair enough.' I released my grip and let him stand up.
'I'll need to phone her,' he said, starting to walk into the hallway, but I pulled him back by the neck of his Che Guevara T-shirt.
'Use mine,' I told him, handing over my mobile and picking up the knife. 'And please don't try and get her to disappear for a bit. I'll just come back.'
He nodded, looking shaken, but didn't take my phone. Instead, he produced his own and dialled the number. When she answered, the two of them conducted a hushed conversation, with him standing in the corner of the living room next to the TV, his back to me. I couldn't hear everything that was said, but the gist of it was that he'd heeded my warning and was trying to persuade her to meet me.
When he'd finished, he shoved the phone into the pocket of his combat trousers and told me that she'd join us in a cafe they both knew in twenty minutes. 'But you're wasting your time. She doesn't know anything.'
'We'll see,' I said, ignoring his hostile stare.
Twenty years in the Met had left me immune to that sort of look. The cafe was called the Forest, and it was
