Zofia’s bath was on the short side for someone of Dan’s height – or anyone over average height – and it was as narrow as a coffin. The bath water wasn’t as hot as he would have liked either, and there wasn’t much of it. But it was all that was on offer, short of going to the local swimming pool and taking a shower there. Convenience was everything, after the day he’d had.
He had spent the morning with a group of law students at UCL, who were setting up an innocence project that might provide 4Justice with additional free research support. It was through the law faculty that Kristen had originally come across Zofia. In Kristen’s absence, he was developing a good rapport with one of the female lecturers, who seemed interested in working together. Even though the students would need a great deal of supervision and he had the strong suspicion that the woman fancied him, which wasn’t reciprocated, he badly needed help with sifting through all the potential new cases that were coming in. It was a laborious process. Many were hopeless from the start, not meeting the basic criteria that the charity had set out for applications. These could be thrown out straight away. But others required more work – often a great deal of work – before it was possible to assess whether or not it was worth spending further time and resources looking into them in greater depth. If a case passed this hurdle, the charity’s advisory panel of experts would then review it, looking for the holes in the prosecution case and usually the holes in the defence that might be filled by proper research and expert input. If they agreed that a case had merit, it would then be taken on. This all took manpower and time – neither of which he had.
That afternoon he had been hunched over his desk back in his office, reviewing two cases that had been shortlisted from the latest bunch of no-hopers. Neither looked particularly compelling at first glance, but he still had to go through the motions and put together a considered response to the men’s solicitors. He had already told himself that, with Kristen gone, he would have to cut right back on the number of cases he took on. He had a few journalistic contacts who were prepared to lend a hand from time to time, but without Kristen, it wasn’t enough. Whilst he still believed, with all his heart, in the importance of the work 4Justice did, he had run through most of his savings and he couldn’t carry the weight of it much longer on his own. They either needed a serious cash injection, or they would be forced to fold.
His shoulders and back were stiff and aching from the worry of it all and his head was spinning. Zofia was out somewhere, supposedly checking on how things were going with the attempt to hack into Mickey’s memory stick, so at least he wouldn’t be disturbed. He slid down in the bath until the water was lapping his chin, knees uncomfortably out in the cold, feet jammed under the taps. The light bulb that hung from the centre of the ceiling was covered in a pink gingham shade that was turning brown at the edges. The towels were also pink and fluffy, and bottles of bath oil and candles were dotted around the room on every available surface. He found it difficult to imagine Zofia lying in the bath, surrounded by a sea of scent and candlelight, let alone choosing anything pink. Maybe there was a hidden, soft, girlie side to her that he had missed, deeply repressed beneath the usually humourless, no-nonsense attitude and uniform of black. Thinking about it, it was almost kinky, like finding bondage gear beneath a nurse’s starched uniform, except the other way around. A tumbler of ice-cold vodka, still viscous and sweet, sat reassuringly on the little wooden stool next to the bath, along with his phone. He closed his eyes, let his mind zone out. For a moment, he was back in the bathroom in Kristen’s flat. Her bath was big enough for two and he imagined her coming in, peeling off her clothes and slipping in with him.
The ring of his phone brought him back to the present. He peered over the edge of the bath, glanced down at the screen and saw Mickey’s name. He sat up, sending a wave of water splashing onto the old lino. Mickey Fraser, in stark white letters. It really was Mickey’s number. Was it a joke? Then he remembered that Mickey’s phone was missing, apparently stolen by the killer from his flat. He grabbed a towel off the rail above, hurriedly wiped his fingers and reached for the phone. But as he answered, the call was cut. For a moment, he wondered if he had been hallucinating. But the glass of vodka was still half full and it was his first that day. He checked the recent call log. Mickey’s name was definitely there. For a brief, unreal moment, he thought again that he’d gone mad and that Mickey wasn’t actually dead. Then he refocussed. He grabbed the vodka and took a large swig. Who has Mickey’s phone and why were they trying to contact him? Was it the police, or Mickey’s killer, or someone else? He took another gulp and emptied the glass, wondering if whoever it was would call back, but the phone stayed silent. Maybe his number had been dialled by mistake, but it meant that Mickey’s phone was switched on somewhere. He opened his call log and pressed Mickey’s name.
He expected the phone to be switched off, but it rang several times. Then a man answered.
‘Yes?’ The voice was deep and gruff. From the intonation, Dan could tell he was foreign.
He heard music in the background, something electronic, with a thudding beat.
‘You called my phone just now. From Mickey Fraser’s phone.’
There was breathing at the other end, then the man said, ‘Wait.’
Muffled sounds followed, like a pocket call, with distant, inaudible voices. Then silence.
‘Hello. HELLO. My name’s Dan Cooper. You called my number.’
There was crackling at the other end, men talking in a language he didn’t recognize. He heard the music again, then another voice.
‘You Dan? You friend of Mickey?’ It was very different in tone to the previous man’s, younger and higher in pitch, but with a similar, thick accent.
‘Yes. My name’s Dan Cooper. I was a friend of Mickey’s.’
‘He tell me your name. I am Mickey’s friend too. My name is Hassan.’
‘Why do you have Mickey’s phone? Why are you calling me?’
Silence.
‘Mickey’s dead.’
There was another long pause, then the man said, ‘I know. I am very sad. I need to talk with you.’