‘… but I’m afraid I need Mr Wallace’s attention. There’s someone from the police here for you.’
‘Where?’
‘They’re just coming up now.’
This sounds like my cue to leave. I rise from the chair.
‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Wallace, with my details. I’m sure we can work something out.’
And with that, I get out, cross the office – giving Sami a wide berth – and head towards the lift. As I’m approaching it, the grille slides back, the door opens, and I’m face to face with the detective I spoke to yesterday, outside Davy’s house.
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.
I let the procession pass. Once they’ve gone, I slowly walk down the first flight of stairs, then throw myself bodily downthe next four. I’m just about to burst into the courtyard and run back to Pret when I remember my second most important rule. Rule 2:Never run.Not ever. If you’re running, you’ve already lost.
Just as well I didn’t, for two reasons:
1) There’sanotheruniformed officer waiting in the courtyard. Why have they sent so many cops? It’s not like anyone else is going to get murdered.
2) As I walk, cool and calm, into the courtyard, just like a flash young estate agent would, the intercom crackles behind me.
‘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 stillsweating.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 inCrime and Punishmentwas 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.’
