thirty-one

I cocked one eye open, adjusted my vision to the light, and registered that my mobile was ringing. It was seven minutes to seven in the morning.

“Yes?” Drenched in sleep, my voice sounded faraway and alien.

Monica spoke in what could be described as a peremptory tone. “I’ve moved out of The Battledown.”

“And into the flat?”

“Yes—thank you.”

“Good.” In the annals of stilted conversations, our exchange hovered around the number one spot. Judging from the hour, old people got up early. I pictured her drinking her first cup of tea around six, washing and dressing and eating breakfast all before seven. She’d probably consumed the day’s newspaper, too. Why she’d called at such an ungodly hour, search me.

“About tomorrow,” she said.

“Your visit to the police?” I propped myself up on one elbow.

“I was thinking about what you said, you know, about a lawyer.”

“Right.” Should I explain I’d already taken soundings, or would that vex her?

“I’m not agreeing to it, even if things turn nasty.”

I quelled a stab of alarm. “Are they likely to?”

“The police do seem very focused.”

Beautifully put. “Monica.” I swallowed. “And please don’t take this the wrong way, but is there something you haven’t told me?”

“Like what?”

“Have you any prior convictions?”

“Why would you think that?” She practically screamed it.

“I’m simply asking the question.”

“No.”

“That’s good, very good,” I said, shaky. “And you’ve never brought a complaint against someone else?”

“Never.”

Paris Vellender’s theatrical display the day before streaked through my mind. Was it all for show, a way of getting a message across? “Then I honestly believe the police are simply in evidence-gathering mode,” I said, cribbing a line from Gavin. “They probably need to corroborate certain details and cross-match it with other accounts.”

“Which other accounts? There was only myself and Mrs. Hawkes at the house.”

“Like I told you,” I repeated, feeling that I was talking to a child, going over and over the same ground again and again, “the police will be speaking to all kinds of people, including anyone convicted by the judge, who might bear him a grudge.”

“But that could run into hundreds.”

“Exactly.”

“Then why waste time on me when they should be investigating them?”

I couldn’t answer. Monica niggled with her constant questions. I was tired and I was worn out of with thinking. Making some half-arsed response, I asked her to keep me informed of developments. “I’m not around at the weekend,” I added in haste.

“Oh.”

She sounded miserable and I promised to drop by the following evening after her next interview with the police. “I have to go,” I said, throwing back the duvet. “See you tomorrow.”

Work was work. I spent an hour in a practice meeting then saw Karmel, our resident dietician and all-round magician. She not only devised delicious recipes, nutritious meals that packed a calorific punch when eaten in minute quantities, she also acted as diplomat and trouble-shooter. Mealtimes held the potential for tantrums. With Karmel around, it rarely happened. The girls liked her a lot. With her tattoos and piercings and grungy clothes, she was viewed as one of them.

“Hi,” I said, popping my head around her door. “Got a moment?”

Karmel flashed a smile and jangled her latest piece of ironware. “Hey,” she said, “come in, and before I forget, a cute guy handed me this.”

Puzzled, I took a seat and glanced at the envelope, my name scrawled on it as if written by a three-year-old.

“You’re a dark horse,” she said, as she handed it over.

I forced a smile. “Cute, you said?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well fit.”

“Fat, thin, tall?”

“Keeps himself in shape, shaved head, strong bone structure.”

Troy Martell. “American accent?”

She frowned. “Maybe a twang.”

“You didn’t notice?”

She broke into another wide smile, a glint of gold flashing from a tongue stud. “Too busy admiring to listen.”

I thought about that. Under pressure, did Martell slip up with the phoney accent?

“When was this?”

“This morning. Sweaty and muscled-up, the guy was mid-jog.” She made a big play of staring at the letter. “You’re not going to read it?”

I pushed the envelope into the back pocket of my jeans. “Nah, it will keep.”

I didn’t remember much of the rest of our discussion. I was thinking about Martell. With Paris on his back, I guessed he had good reason not to phone me direct. It still struck me as cloak and dagger.

Back in my office, I tore open the envelope. The message was simple. Need to talk. Meet me tonight at 8 at The Railway Inn.