Atkinson had made his feelings about my theories very clear the last time we spoke, so it came as a surprise when he called and invited me to breakfast again.
It came as less of a surprise when he picked the Green Zebra. He was there first, that morning. He picked the table we’d had for our first meeting. He picked the same food. Eggplant Benedict. I ordered the same kind of coffee. The place was as busy as usual, but I found it even more aggravating. The snippets of people’s conversations that washed over me were nothing but trivial. The arguments I overheard were petty. People kept bumping into one another and cursing. Plates were crashing. Silverware was rattling. I felt like I was crawling out of my skin. I kept picturing the bedrooms in the apartment in Madatov’s building. Imagining the women on those cots. Sick. Vomiting. Homesick. Scared. Thinking their lives had already been destroyed. Having no idea they were about to get so much worse.
“Anything on Pardew?” There was a sarcastic note in Atkinson’s voice.
“Not yet.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. I knew that was a long shot. But that’s not why I asked you to come here. I’ve got an update on another case you were interested in.” He slid an envelope to me across the table. “Have a look at these. But don’t let anyone else see.”
There were five eight-by-ten color photographs in the envelope. They were all of Norman Davies. One showed his body, covered from the waist down with a plain white sheet, lying on a stainless-steel mortuary table. One was a close-up of his head, taken from the left side so you could see where the bullet had smashed through his skull. The rest showed his torso. Specifically the parts of it that had been burned by the tip of a soldering iron.
“Recognize him?”
I said nothing.
“I think you do. He was the suspect in the Mason assault. The one who walked.”
I shrugged. “Live by the sword…”
“You were very bothered by that case, McGrath. Don’t deny it. Just tell me what you know about Norman Davies turning up DOA.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about that. When did it happen?”
“Take another look at the picture. He died from a .22 to the head. There’s an entry wound, but no exit. Meaning the slug bounced around the inside of his skull, pulping what little brain he had to start off with. It was a professional hit. But it happened after he was tortured. Somebody wanted information from him. I want to know who. And what.”
“Those are reasonable questions.” A server dropped off my coffee, and I took a long sip. “It’s a shame you didn’t act when I told you about the problem. If you had, you could have asked him yourself. Except that you wouldn’t have to, because he wouldn’t be dead.”
“I’m acting now.” Atkinson drummed his fingers on the table.
“Now? That’s more than a little late.”
“It wasn’t my case before. It is now. That’s how it works. The point is, I’m going to find the guy who killed Davies. If you know anything about that, now’s the time to speak.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Where were you last night?”
“At what time?”
“Between eight and midnight.”
“I was at my hotel.”
“You weren’t. I checked. You weren’t there all day, and you didn’t come back all night.”
“Which hotel did you check?”
“The Brincliffe.” There was a note of triumph in Atkinson’s voice. “Under your fake name.”
I shook my head. “Well, that explains it. A simple misunderstanding. I moved to a different hotel, and forgot to cancel the old room. I’m at the Grosvenor now. Room 346. I had room service last night. Pizza with extra anchovies and a bottle of Prosecco. Give them a call. Check my account.”
It’s an old trick. Order something that’s not on the menu while you’re out. Have it left outside your room. Call for the tray to be removed when you’re back. And be generous with the tip. You never know when you might need an alibi.
“I’ll check. You can count on it.” Atkinson drummed his fingers, then looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “There’s one other weird thing about Davies.” He took out his cellphone and called up a photograph. “Look at the back of his ear.”
The chip I’d stuck on him was still there.
“It’s from a cellphone.” Atkinson put his own phone back in his pocket. “But why was it on his ear? Have you seen anything like that before?”
I shook my head. “Beats me.”
Atkinson tipped his head slightly and looked away, as if trying to make a decision about something.
“OK.” He finally nodded. “Call me if there’s any news about Pardew.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Now, is there anything else? Or has your well dried up?”
“Nothing else.” I stood up to leave. “Nothing I can’t handle myself, anyway.”