It was almost midnight. Dan lay in the dark on the narrow camp bed in the back office, listening to music on his phone. He had finally been allowed to leave the police station a few hours earlier. From what he could gather, the police seemed to think Mickey’s death must have been related to his personal life, which was reassuring. Although they hadn’t explicitly said so, he got the impression that they thought it unlikely to be related to any of the cases Mickey had been working on, let alone the Sean Farrell investigation. Their assumption was that the man who had called Dan was some sort of sexual contact, who had tried to extort money from Mickey and, possibly helped by others, killed him, then tried to make it look like a robbery. They made much of the fact that Dan said the men both spoke with foreign accents. The police also still seemed to think that Dan might be tied up with it all too, and their new ludicrous theory was that maybe he, too, had had some sort of a sexual relationship with Mickey. At that point, Dan’s solicitor had stepped in and halted proceedings. They had no proof of anything. They were trying to weave a story out of thin air.
Dan had no idea what had happened to Hassan, although the police still seemed certain that he did. However, the older man, Nasser, who he had met in Covent Garden, and whom the police had chased, was definitely dead. They had shown Dan a photo of him, eyes closed, presumably lying in a mortuary fridge somewhere. They said he had been hit by a car and killed outright. An unfortunate accident, apparently. They had no idea who he was but Dan identified him as the man who had approached him outside the Apple Store. He had to repeat several times, for the benefit of the recording, that he had never met the man before and had no idea who he was. Somehow, he still had the feeling that what had happened was all down to him, even though logically he knew it wasn’t. He was so tired, so totally wrung out, he couldn’t see straight. On top of everything, Kristen had called while he was still at the police station and had left a message saying that she had heard that the CCRC were going to decide on Farrell’s case the following week. She had also heard from her source that, based on the evidence that they had so far reviewed, they were unlikely to refer the case back to the appeal court. He had tried many times to get hold of Eve, but she wasn’t answering her phone and, after leaving several messages, he gave up.
The track on his phone changed to Bon Jovi’s ‘Always’. How ironic, he thought. Would his heart always bleed for Kristen? He listened for a few bars, then switched it off. It wasn’t good to play that sort of sentimental stuff, particularly after the day he’d had. Kristen’s message had been crisp and businesslike, as though she were talking to a work colleague rather than a former lover. Maybe to her, it was just another day-to-day failure for the charity, part of the nature of the beast. The odds were always poor when battling the monolith of the justice system, although 4Justice was as much her charity as his and he was surprised at her lack of emotion. She had once cared passionately about each case. It was one of the main things he had loved about her and it had cemented their relationship in the face of all sorts of differences. She had also felt passionately about him, or so she had once said. It suddenly struck him that she was trying to distance herself from him, not the charity, as though any tenderness or compassion might encourage him. He had never loved anybody with the intensity that he had loved Kristen, but he knew in his heart it was over.
He reached down for the bottle of vodka, but there was nothing much left in it. He stared at it for a moment, trying to work out how many nights it had lasted. He was drinking too much but, unlike the true alcoholics he had known, his father being one, it wasn’t yet unthinking and automatic. He had a choice. He didn’t need an eye opener in the morning and he could wait until the evening, most days, depending on how stressful things had been. He still took pleasure in each mouthful, as well as enjoying the dulling of the edges and the quick buzz and sense of lightness it brought. It was no different to taking painkillers or other forms of temporary medication, he kept telling himself. It was just for now and he was OK with that. He drained the last mouthful and was debating whether or not he could be bothered to go downstairs to the shop on the corner for another bottle, when he heard a sound outside in the main office. He listened more closely. At first he thought it was Zofia, having problems with her key, but she rarely came into the office at night and just an hour before, he’d bumped into her in the hall as he was coming in. She was on her way out in full Goth makeup, looking like she was going to make a night of it. He felt like quipping that Halloween had been and gone, but she was out the door too quickly. Apart from Kristen, the only other person who had a key was the cleaning lady, but she only came in on a Saturday morning. However, somebody was definitely fiddling with the lock.
He got out of bed, grabbed the bottle by the neck and tiptoed barefoot to the door of his room. He had left it ajar and he could see through the gap. The light from the street outside cast a yellow glow into the office and he watched as, after more rattling of the lock, the door slowly opened and a man entered. He was small and very skinny, dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans. He carried a torch in one of his gloved hands, which he shone quickly around the room and over the block of desks, then turned his attention to the bank of filing cabinets beside the window. Dan held his breath, wondering what to do. The image of Mickey’s flat, and Mickey’s dead body, flashed through his mind. Should he call the police? He dismissed the idea. By the time they arrived, the man would be long gone. He was a lot taller and bigger than the man, if it came to a fight, although he might not be a match for a knife, if the man knew how to use it, let alone a gun. Better to wait and see what the intruder wanted. The man took a scrap of paper from his jeans pocket, shone the torch on it, then scanned the filing cabinets. They were ranked alphabetically, everything clearly marked, thanks to a friend of Zofia’s who had come in for a couple of days recently to sort everything out. Yet the man hesitated, as though he wasn’t sure where to find what he wanted. He pulled one open, shone the torch along the row of tabs, then shut it again. He tried another, two above, and then another. This time it looked like he had found what he wanted, as he pulled out a thick manila folder from one of the hanging files.
Dan took a step forwards, trying to see which file it was and a floorboard creaked under his weight. The man started, turned and shone the torch at Dan.
‘Hey,’ Dan shouted, blinded by the light as he threw open the door. The man dropped the file and the torch, ran out the door and thudded down the stairs. Dan rushed out after him into the busy street, but he had disappeared.
Upstairs in the office, Dan switched on the lights and picked up the file. ‘Sean Farrell Appeal’ was written on the outside. The creased piece of paper the man had pulled out of his pocket was lying on the floor. SEAN FARRELL was written in capitals in ink on the inside. Also beneath it the name MICKEY FRASER. Using the edge of his sleeve, he picked up the slip of paper and put it in an envelope. The man had been wearing gloves in the office, but someone might have touched it with bare fingers at some point. Eve would know where to have it tested. Even if the CCRC had lost interest, the case was still very much alive for somebody.