Chapter 11
His eyes meet mine. They’re only on me for a second, but time turns to treacle, my guts turn to water, and I think my heart … stops?
And then, for whatever reason – different context, different clothes, lack of red rosette?
– he doesn’t recognise me. Maybe he’s preoccupied, or grumpy after that lift journey.
Whatever the reason, I thank the blaggers’ god, stand aside, and watch him sweep into the office.
He’s got a colleague with him, and the lift is so tiny that to see even two people getting out of it looks like a magic trick.
They head in, followed by two uniformed colleagues who took the stairs and consequently got here about a minute before the detectives did.
Just as well I didn’t, for two reasons:
‘Ted?’
I almost keep going until I remember that was the name I used upstairs. I turn, and look at the fish-eye of the camera lens. It crackles again.
‘Wait there.’ I can hear it’s Mrs P from upstairs. ‘I have something for you.’
‘All right.’ She’s already broken the connection.
So I stand as nonchalantly as I can, and get my phone out as if I’ve just had a message.
The police officer isn’t paying me any overt attention, but when I’m not looking at her, I can feel her gaze on the back of my neck, and when she’s looking away, I’m certain she can feel mine on hers, as I try to work out whether she’s taking an interest in me.
After about a minute, I know she’s about to come over and start asking questions.
It’s cold in this courtyard, but I’m still sweating.
Al, calm down. You’re only eyeballing each other because there’s nobody else here.
It’s just good old-fashioned British awkwardness, rather than murder-inquiry-related suspicion.
God. I’m beginning to understand what that guy in Crime and Punishment was on about.
The cop presses a button on her shoulder radio, responds to a squawk from it.
What was it saying? That young man who just left, did you see which way he went?
We need to question him. Pretending to be a friend of the deceased, then a reputation manager.
Detain immediately, Tase if you like. Go on, treat yourself, you’ve done the training.
She doesn’t move yet, but she’s clearly still aware of me.
Oh God. She’s turning. She’s about to come over. Where is that lift? The cop takes a slow step in my direction, then one more, and—
‘Ted! Come in here.’ Mrs P is leaning out of the door. The cop stops, stymied suddenly. I slip into reception. Thank Christ. Mrs P stands in front of me, looking nervous.
‘You said you wanted to find out more about David. I just needed to make sure. You do … you would have his best interests at heart, wouldn’t you?’
Oh, dear. She’s trying to quiz my morals, which is a non-starter.
But she’s looking at me with such pathetic hope in her eyes.
All I say in reply is: ‘Believe me, Mrs P. I never wanted David to come to any harm.’ For once, I’m telling the truth.
Even when he was pointing a gun at me, I just wanted to talk my way out of his house and back into my old solitary life.
‘All right.’ She comes to some conclusion and purses her lips. ‘You might go to his London home.’
Play along, Al. ‘Where was that? Somewhere central, wasn’t it?’
‘There used to be a couple. There was the one he shared with that woman …’
‘That woman?’
‘His former wife. But if I were you, I’d start in his private flat.’ She gets a lime Post-it pad from her pocket, clicks a pen and starts writing. ‘Nobody else knew about it, you see. It was just for him and … well, never mind that now. His neighbours might know something, you see.’
I look at her, and although I never knew Davy as anything other than a red-faced bully who might blow a hole in me, and I’ve only known Mrs P five minutes, suddenly I see the pair of them as they might have been a couple of decades ago, young and besotted and out to make their fortunes.
And I see him through her eyes: a rogue, sure, but a lovely man deep down, and one who loved her in his way.
I take the Post-it from her, and our fingers brush.
‘Thank you, Mrs P. I’ll keep this to myself.’
‘Good. He deserves so much better than he got.’
I suspect Davy may have got exactly what he deserved. But I keep the thought to myself.
‘One last thing, dear. I might not know who you are, but I can assure you nobody up there is to be trusted.’ She jerks her head towards the fifth floor. ‘I got in early the other day and David and Rob were having a screaming row.’
‘Mr Wallace?’ She nods. ‘When was this?’
‘Two weeks ago. I’m the first one in, normally.
Well, I wasn’t that day. And I left again as soon as I realised they needed privacy.
’ Not before overhearing everything you could, I bet.
‘Anyway. I’ll be off. Look after yourself, dear.
Love to Bridling.’ She gets back into the lift, and begins the long climb back to level five.
Out in the square, the cop seems to have decided I’m just an estate agent, because she pays me no further attention. I get back to Em in the café, now doing the Guardian Killer puzzle (in dubious taste, given our current circumstances) and on her third Americano.
‘How did it go?’
‘Quite … busy. Oh, before we do anything else, can you ring Jonny?’
She gets out her phone, dials, and hands it over.
‘Hello?’
‘Jonny? How quickly can you knock up a website for a reputation management firm?’