A short, sharp knock jolted James back to reality. He looked up over his computer screen to find Josh from Layout at his office door.
I must have dozed off.
James stretched out the tight muscles at the back of his neck. A digital typewriter sound shrieked out of his phone. He grimaced. It was a ringtone reserved for one person, Owen Swift, a friend from his days at All Saints College. And his timing was eerily poetic. What now? Against his better judgement, James reached out and tapped the screen. Owen had sent a picture. On the surface, it seemed like a normal gesture. But this was Owen—nothing was ever normal with him. As the image loaded on the screen, the façade of the New York Public Library came into view. James rolled his eyes as the caption appeared. It read: Wish you were here.
Work commitments stood in the way of James attending the boy’s extra-long weekend away. So naturally, Owen was punishing him with images of events he missed out on—this morning, it was a series of pictures from five different pubs. Tonight, it was a library he dreamed of visiting. James turned his smartphone over. He was not texting Owen back. For weeks, he had meant to text his best friend, Liam, but work had gotten in the way again. It was taking over his life.
‘It’s ready. I made the changes. I tried to get it done as fast as possible,’ Josh said as he approached James’s desk.
James double-clicked on InDesign and started searching for the edition of the story he had looked over an hour earlier.
‘I should be a few minutes.’ James fixed his eyes on the screen, reached towards his top desk drawer, pulled out his glasses, and put them on. There was no use denying it. The closer he got to thirty, the more he needed to wear them.
James scrolled through the file, pausing every now and then. It was finally perfect. ‘Go for it. Get it ready for Impression. We’re already behind schedule.’ James closed the programme on his screen.
‘It’s cool. We can still make midnight.’ Josh backed away and scurried down the hall.
‘I want to see the first copy,’ James said as his eyes wandered over to the tiny digital clock at the top right-hand corner of his screen. It read 11:15 p.m. and, in two more hours, he could return home. He couldn’t let himself leave if his journalists were still working past a deadline. And tonight was one of those nights.
This is why she left me.
Ten minutes earlier, James passed the Queens Head pub on the way home. Perhaps out of a need to drown his sorrows at the dumpster fire that resembled his life, he ambled through its front door. A group of locals leaned against the dark-brown wooden bar and craned their necks to look up at the results from the Hull vs Arsenal game from earlier that day while keeping one eye on the bartender. James rolled his eyes. He could never understand their obsession with football. Rugby, he could understand, but football was boring. He looked at the empty pint in his hands as he contemplated another.
He glanced at the antique clock above the bar, and a familiar short Malaysian man leaned over and pointed at something behind the bartender. James smiled.
One more drink.
James arose from his stool, walked towards the bar, and pushed through a small group of people who were staring at the specials on the chalkboard above. He placed his hand on Chan’s shoulder. Chan jumped, then swayed a little from side to side. The off-duty police constable reached over, grabbed the bar, and steadied himself.
‘Having a good night, David?’ James asked with a hint of a chuckle in his voice.
‘Call me Chan. Everyone else does,’ Chan slurred as he pointed towards James. ‘I shouldn’t be talking to you.’
‘You need to ask Anwar’s permission to do that?’
‘He reminded me that you have a nose for trouble and a front page to fill.’
‘Ouch.’ James raised his glass at the bartender. ‘I’m paying,’ he said as he tilted his head towards Chan.
Chan looked up at James as if he was contemplating his next move, then raised his finger. He smirked. ‘Forgot what I was going to say.’
‘When did you and Anwar get married?’
‘Very funny.’
‘He sounds more like an overbearing wife than a boss. You know, checking in at home before you do things, constantly asking for permission.’
‘That’s Anwar.’
‘He used to be a lot of fun.’
‘Really?’ Chan leaned in towards James and took a sip of his beer.
‘That was before his big promotion, marriage, and the little one on the way.’
‘Yeah, he’s no barrel of laughs at work either.’
James handed his credit card over to the bartender and smiled.
‘No.’ Chan hunched over the bar and shook his head.
‘Let’s just take a table and chat for a few minutes. Five at the most.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You need Anwar’s permission to do the right thing? We both know that you and Anwar arrested the wrong person today. It was convenient,’ James said as he observed Chan’s reaction.
The PC sighed and looked at the floor.
He knows.
‘You’re just after information.’ Chan picked his pint off the bar and walked towards a pair of stools perched against a tall wooden table adjacent to the bar.
James raised his eyebrows as Chan staggered towards the first chair.
Someone’s a bit of a lightweight.
‘The sword is missing from the NMA, and Elizabeth has confessed to me that she took it home the night of the murder,’ James said as Chan sat down on the first stool.
‘She never mentioned that during the interview.’
‘I wonder what else she didn’t mention during your interview.’ James sipped his beer and took a seat next to the PC.
‘I can’t do this. If Anwar finds out about this conversation, I’m toast.’ Chan stared at his glass.
‘All I’m asking is to share what we know. This is clearly more than a murder. That sword was the real reason the suspect was in her apartment that night, and the murder was just something that happened.’
‘And Pippa just happened to be in Elizabeth’s apartment that night?’ Chan put his beer on the table.
‘Maybe she was in her apartment for the sword or was working late at night in Elizabeth’s office. It’s hard to say.’
‘I can’t do this.’ Chan got up off his stool. ‘Thanks for the beer.’
Chan drank the rest of his pint, slammed it down on the table, and turned to walk away.
‘I found a custom-made plaid jacket in Pippa’s apartment today.’ James took a sip of his beer and continued to stare straight ahead.
Chan sighed, reached over, and grabbed the empty beer off the table. ‘Expensive.’
‘It belongs to a large-framed individual. It’s at least a 3XL.’ James turned around and raised his eyebrows at Chan.
‘Your point?’
‘Maximilian’s a big guy. How much do you think he weighs? At least two hundred pounds?’
Chan released his grip on the beer and pointed his index finger at James. ‘Talking to you was a mistake.’
‘But that’s not all I found.’ James sipped his beer.
Chan sighed. ‘You found nothing of consequence in that flat. My team and I combed that placed over.’
James shrugged. ‘Well, you either missed Pippa’s laptop hidden under her bed, or someone returned to the flat after you were done and left it to be discovered later.’
‘No, I’m not falling for this.’ Chan shook his finger.
‘Imagine how it would look if a PC solved a crime that a DCI missed?’
Chan paused for a moment. He shook his head and turned around.
‘You could check Pippa’s and Maximilian’s phone records or email. And have a chat with her neighbour, Pearl Whitehall.’ James shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t hurt.’
Chan turned around and glared at James. ‘What’s in this for you?’
‘There’s a story here. A great one. One worthy of a front page.’ James stood up and walked towards Chan. ‘My question for you is, which headline would you prefer? Wrongful arrest, or the one where you’re named as the arresting officer? Or you can do what Anwar says, knowing deep down it’s the wrong thing,’ James said in a hushed tone.
Chan sighed and stared at the empty glass on the table. He grabbed the glass and looked up at James.
‘The next one is on me.’