She was sitting on the balustrade smoking a cigarette when I got home from work. As I came up the stars to the landing, she stamped it out on the floor.
‘Detective Inspector Savage,’ she held out her hand, ‘I wonder if we might have a word.’ I felt my legs go weak. I faltered on the top step, trying to decide whether to make a bolt for the door.
‘How... how did you find me?’ I blurted.
‘That’s neither here nor there. Look, it’s cold, do you think I could come in for a minute,’ she could see me trembling. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, dear. Just routine.’ She sat down in my sole armchair and opened her briefcase on her lap.
‘Nice place,’ she said in her smoky voice. ‘You could do with a bit more furniture, though, don’t you think?’
‘I had a bit of a clean out,’ I said. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee. Or tea. I don’t think I’ve got any milk.’
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having.’
‘Vodka?’
‘On the rocks. Do you mind if I smoke.’
She was one of those women of indefinable age. She could have been thirty and she could have been fifty. She was dressed in a chocolate suit, trousers and vest, under a camel coat. Expensive looking tan shoes. Her hair was hennaed a glossy chestnut. The index finger of her right hand was chartreuse from nicotine.
‘As I said, this is just a routine enquiry, ‘ she took a gulp from her drink, stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. ‘I’m investigating an operation run by two brothers by the name of Poole. You will have seen it in the media. The Institute of Pain.’ I almost sighed with relief. But what did she want from me? And what did the twins have to do with the body at Fabulina’s place? I was sure that her’s was the same smoky voice I had spoken to on the phone.
‘As you probably know,’ she continued, ‘ the Poole brothers are being held in custody on a number of serious charges. Possibly murder. We are looking for a key witness and have reason to believe that you may be able to help us.’ She reached into her briefcase. ‘It’s not a good photograph, I’m afraid. It was printed from a video tape found in the Pooles’ apartment.’
‘Sykes,’ I gasped. ‘But isn’t he...’
‘Isn’t Sykes what?’ she leaned forward and the colour changed in her eyes. I looked down at the photo. His head was thrown back. He was wearing those silver earrings. He was laughing. Or screaming. My eyes filled up and for some inexplicable reason I felt my prick stir.
Detective Inspector Savage picked up her glass from the floor, took mine and went into the kitchen. I heard the rattle of ice.
‘You think it was Sykes they found at Mr Garland’s house, don’t you dear?’ she said, handing me the drink. ‘Well it wasn’t. It was a transient. A dope dealer by the name of Rose. Now, when did you last see Mr Sykes?’