‘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 theGuardianKiller 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?’
12
Two hours later, we’re late-lunching in Hampstead. I suggested we stay in the house and rest there, because Mr Bowling Ball – aka the thug who’s been searching for us at the pub and at Mr Toad’s Motors – might walk by, but I have been outvoted again. This is why I like working alone, by the way. When it was just me, I was never outvotedonce. The others have taken pity on my nerves, though, and got us a booth where I can cower unseen.
The restaurant/bar/event space we’re in is modelled on a ski chalet. Jonny, a man of unexpected gastronomic depth, has informed us that this is part of a London restaurant microtrend called ‘Alpine Fusion’, where the foods are permitted to come from all round the world provided they originated above an altitude of 4,000 feet. So there’s a cleanpine bar and funky neon signs, but there’s also a Japanese wooden temple in the corner and, towards the loos, a Rocky Mountains shack. The booths are designed to look like ski lifts. I don’t love it. But Jonny’s paying, so that’s something.
Our food is here, and with one hand, Jonny is halfway down a bowl of something calledErdäpfelgulasch; with the other, he’s on his laptop, building the website for Rillette Marx, which is already looking decent. I think there is a reasonable chance Jonny has an IQ of over 200.
From the outside, the four of us probably look like the team at a buzzy new fintech disruptor, rather than four wanted housebreakers trying to simultaneously avoid arrest and murder.
Something else is strange, too. I know that last night I was literally on the verge of leaving these three to their mad plan. And yet I can’t lie, I had a lot of fun in the offices of Harcourt and Wallace, even if the arrival of the police gave me a coronary. It’s been a while since I spent this long with anyone. There are the people I meet through my day job, but they never ring, it’s all done via the photo agency app. And I have a few professional contacts, of course, but they’re mostly glaziers and locksmiths scattered around the country who I can trust to be discreet when I need a window patching up or a deadbolt repairing. I don’t know how many would call me afriend.
But eating lunch with these three feels almost … normal. Nothing about this situation is normal, of course, and it’s probably a good rule of thumb that if being on the run from amurderer and the police in the company of three professional squatters is the first time you’ve felt normal in a few months, maybe it’s time to re-examine the choices that brought you to this point.
Obviously, if I’d known where things were going to go from here, I’d have got up and walked away, but that’s my magical hindsight binoculars talking.
‘So – this is what we have.’ Elle has written everything out neatly on index cards. She has strong ‘pencil case’ energy about her, Elle. The top card readsODD MENTORING SCHEME, one saysSECRET SEX NEST?, one saysBOSSFURYROW?, and one saysWIFE DAUGHTER ESTRANGED?. All these surround a central card withDEAD MAN DAVYwritten on it, accompanied by a pencil sketch and a list of personal attributes:
– Gun owner
– Hair plugs?
– No manners
– Generous lover?
– Wine lover?
– Big hole in chest
‘So clearly Davy’s business partner, this Wallace guy, did it,’ said Jonny. ‘That would be my initial assessment. Or this Mrs P woman, in a jealous rage.’
‘What about Sami, the mentee?’
‘Nah. Not the type.’
‘Well, let’s try and keep an open mind,’ says Em. ‘Maybewe can track down the ex-wife and daughter. What was the ex-wife called, Al?’
