One thought follows another, and by half past eight – that’s a decent hour to start ringing round, isn’t it? – I have three calls to make.
Call One is to Mrs P. She’s at her desk already, the good woman, and she’s not totally surprised to hear from me again. In an amused tone of voice she promises to send over a photo I’ve asked for.
Call Two is to the local council in Bridling, to their planning department. I need to wait until nine for this lot, but they answer eventually, and although they’re a bit cautious at first, they’re willing to help a nephew of poor dead David Harcourt who is doing his best for his uncle’s surviving relatives. They, too, agree to send an image over to me.
Call Three is to Ben Westcott, the president of the Balham Brats, chief Fantasy Football wrangler and Davy’s sometime best man. This call requires more tact than the first two, and I get through several cups of tea in the hut just thinking about how I’ll approach. Eventually, I decide on the most dangerous option: the truth.
At the end of my calls, I look at what I’ve assembled, and it stands up from every angle. I have a decision to make.
If I call the person I think was Davy’s co-conspirator, the one with whom he shared access to the bank account in the UAE, I think I could persuade them to split the money with me. Even if it was 80–20 in their favour, it would be enough to set me up for life.
I genuinely could go back to the Caribbean then. Or just to Europe. I could buy a chalet somewhere, get a bit of security … it could work. I can’t see all the way across the Channel from the beach hut, but I know the continent is somewhere over there, and it’s bloody tempting. I’d never have to interlope again. I could become a completely different person, this time for good.
The only problem is that it would involve leaving the killer at large, with Elle and Em either at their mercy or facing arrest, and Jonny too, assuming he survived the night.
Ugh. This is why I don’t like working with people. They lead you to make stupid, silly, weak decisions.
I do look up the price of ferry tickets, then a few property portals to see how much the average mountain chalet sets youback these days (alot, it turns out; these ski people must be made of money and still they choose to go somewhere cold? Insane), but my heart isn’t in it.
Oh, God, it’s no choice at all. The laws of self-preservation and sanity are telling me to flee, and yet I’m not listening. I’m not even listening tomyselfany more. That’s how screwed up those three have got me.
My fourth call is to Em.
She lets the phone ring for a while, which I don’t begrudge her. There’s also a good chance she’s been arrested. But eventually she picks up, with a typically Em opening offer.
‘What?’
‘Hi. How’s Jonny?’
‘He’s going to be fine.’ I release a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. ‘No arteries hit. No vital organs either. The gunman was either very unlucky or very good. A few days of bed and he can start being up and about. But he’s on his back for the moment.’
‘Is he awake?’
‘Awake and typing. He’s already had a stand delivered to balance his computer on. Built a 3D model of the hospital to direct the delivery guy to his bed. He keeps saying he’s “fully operational”.’
‘What happened with the police?’
‘We said we didn’t know Jonny, that we were at a bus stop and someone drove by and shot him, and we were the ones who got him to hospital. It was late, there won’t be other witnesses from Balfour Villas, and we claimed we got a blackcab instead of an Uber so they won’t be able to track the driver. The police have false names and numbers for each of us.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Still at the hospital. Feeling pretty horrible.’
‘You’re amazing.’
‘Sure. What do you want?’ She sounds unhappy, as you might imagine. She listens as I tell her I know who killed Davy, how they can be lured in. But that I can’t do it alone, for a couple of reasons. If I’m being honest, Icoulddo it alone, but I don’t want her to know that. She’s exactly the sort of person to back out if she thought I was doing anything to save her neck. At the end of my pitch, there’s a long pause as she relays the idea to Elle, then she comes back on the line.
‘I’m sorry, Al. We don’t want any more trouble.’
‘Em – Elle, if you’re there – we left all our shit on the street outside a house with an open front door and a dead spy inside. We have twenty-four hours maximum before we’re done for. We may as well get someone else arrested at the same time.’ I can still hear the reluctance down the line. ‘What could I say to change your mind?’
‘You could tell us who you really are.’
‘Would that help? Really?’
‘It would.’
I take a deep breath, and Em speaks again.
