The rain had taken a break and was replaced by cold, wintry weather. Sky the colour of wood ash suggested that it might snow. Wrapped up in a heavy overcoat and wearing a beanie, I headed into town and called Simone en route. She answered sleepily after several rings.
‘What time is it?’
‘9.45 a.m. – time you were up.’
She let out a groan. ‘I didn’t get to bed until four.’
‘What the hell were you doing until that time?’
‘I worked on a guest list until late and then had drinks with friends. You could have joined us,’ she added, clearly awake enough to throw in a barb. ‘Did you get your work sorted?’
‘Still on it.’
‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed. ‘Are you still free tomorrow night?’
‘Is this a formal invite?’
‘Mais oui, it is.’
‘Do I get you on my own or do I have to share you with dozens of others?’
She let out a wonderfully raucous laugh. ‘I’m sure I could spare you half an hour or so.’
‘Good. Where do we meet?’
She gave me an address in Belgravia. I knew the street. Once again, memories rose up from out of the deep like the ghosts of the shipwrecked on phantom vessels. One of my former Russian paymasters, now deceased, as Darren had reminded me, once lived in the same area. I told her I’d be there. ‘Should I book a hotel for afterwards?’
‘Leave it to me,’ she said.
‘What’s the dress code?’
‘No masks this time, but the theme colour is purple.’
Purple – the colour for mourning, I thought – dismissing the connection as too maudlin and weird. ‘What time is kick-off?’
‘9.45 p.m. I’ll meet you there.’
By the time I reached the church, I was running late, but it was quiet. The office workers would be at their desks with their first coffee of the day, the shoppers already in the warmer environment of the Beechwood or Regency arcades. The porch was empty and I stepped inside out of the cold. Under the cover of studying the parish notices, I kept lookout for Titus or anyone else. After a few more minutes admiring the fine Victorian woodwork, I tried the heavy door and pushed it open, the noise of the ancient hinges enough to announce my presence. Craning for signs of Titus, I closed the door after me and walked into the main body of the church, my footsteps ticking loud in the dusty silence. Uncomfortable in such a holy place, I soon concluded that Titus was not sitting spy-like in a pew, gaze fixed ahead and towards the altar, waiting to interrogate me.
While I was wondering what to do next, a loud creaking sound shattered the tranquillity and a middle-aged woman stepped inside with a bunch of flowers in her hand. Making eye contact, she smiled. I smiled back, every inch of me on alert, working out what might lurk beneath the flowers and, more importantly, what I was going to do about it, but she soon passed by and the sudden spark of adrenalin inside me died.
Back outside, clapping my gloved hands together to force warmth back into my fingers, I turned left out of the porch, past the magnificent rose window, and walked a circuit of the graveyard. On the second round and thinking I’d return home, I noticed something in the frosted grass. Crouching down, I picked up a discarded pack of opened cigarettes, noted the brand and pushed them into my pocket. Still on my haunches, I took a long look over my shoulder. The sight of iron railings and stone steps reminded me of my last foray with McCallen. Chill crept over my bones.
I stood up, took a lungful of cold air, and crossed the grass. At a glance I saw that the padlocked door to the crypt was broken.
Descending the stone steps on the balls of my feet, I took out my smartphone, switched on the torch facility and entered the void.
I was standing in a stone chamber. Directly ahead were two pillars and an archway of bricks that housed a sarcophagus. Upon the tomb lay two skulls with two sets of sightless eyes that seemed fixed on me. I didn’t approach to find out whether the bones were recent additions, or part of the deathly furniture. I wanted to get the hell out.
To my left, the vault opened up in a dogleg. Shining the torch directly onto the floor revealed that it had been badly scuffed; deep marks were gouged into the stone like lashes across naked skin, a clear sign of human activity. Puzzled, I walked deeper inside the tomb and followed the trail for around another three metres then stopped.
The smell of shit after a hanging is like no other, but this was different. Pain, brutality and fear combined with the primary odour.
Up ahead was a naked body, face down, rope around the neck and pinioning the elbows and around the ankles so that the feet were crossed. Another rope ran from the victim’s neck to the feet. This had Billy Squeeze’s signature written all over it. A buried memory from my previous life when I’d been hogtied, incapacitated, with any sudden movement risking my own slow and painful demise, threatened to knock me off my feet. Another memory surfaced of the woman who’d saved me. McCallen. And here she was, her mid-length red hair revealing that she was another victim of revenge.