11

Alex unlocked the door to his flat, listening for the sound of the TV in the living room above that would indicate that Paddy was home. But the flat was silent and in darkness. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had the flat to himself, thank Christ. Paddy was in the throes of a new infatuation and he hadn’t seen him for days. While Alex was still asleep, he would creep home at crack of dawn to shower and change for the office, the only evidence that he had briefly been back being a wet towel and sopping bathmat dumped on the floor in the bathroom, or a carton of milk left out on the kitchen counter in haste. Long may it last, Alex thought to himself, although from what he knew of Paddy, such things usually ran their course in a few weeks.

He went up to the small living room, turned on the light and opened the window for some air, letting out a bluebottle that was buzzing at the glass. The hum of the traffic below filled the room but it didn’t bother him. He had other things on his mind. He put his phone on to charge, switched on the TV for background noise and went into the kitchen to find something to drink. The small fridge, as usual, was empty of food or anything worth drinking; neither he nor Paddy ever bothered to shop ahead. The cupboards were equally bare and he was on the point of giving up and going to bed when he remembered a bottle of Geneva gin in the freezer that had been there since he moved in. Paddy had been given it by some Dutch client and no doubt forgotten its existence. He poured himself a tumbler full and took it back into the sitting room, where he flopped down onto the sofa in front of an episode of CSI. A forensic scientist with long blonde hair and huge tits was examining the body of a young man. The ‘vic’, as she called him, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, was flopped over a pool table, the cue still in his hands, eyes staring vacantly into the camera. Blood trickled like honey from a bullet wound in the centre of his forehead. Were bullet wounds always so tidy? Alex took a gulp of ice-cold gin, swilling the viscous liquid around his mouth and letting it coat his tongue. It slipped down his throat and he felt an instant cloud of warmth rise in his chest.

He had ended up spending several hours with Maggie. They had downed a good deal of wine and she had cooked him dinner, some sort of stew, he vaguely recalled. He also vaguely recalled thinking that she had wanted him to stay, although maybe he had imagined it. He wished now that he had paid more attention. Even though she was quite a bit older than he was, she was an attractive woman, with a nice way about her and a good sense of humour. But the moment, if it ever had been there, was lost. His mind had been on Joe. She had talked a great deal about him, about conversations they had had, about what sort of person she thought he had been, about what a waste it was that he was dead. He had let it all wash over him like a warm gust of air, only half paying attention. Somewhere in the conversation she had mentioned a journalist called Anna, whom she said Joe had been keen on. If it were true, it was strange that Joe had never mentioned Anna, but then Joe had kept a lot of things to himself. The news that Joe hadn’t been killed in the Brompton Cemetery, that his body had been dumped there later, was still sinking in. He needed to find out more, try to understand exactly what had happened.

He was sweating heavily. He knocked back some more gin and held the frosted glass to his forehead. He closed his eyes, still aware of the flickering light in the room as he pictured the water of the canal, with the moon above it, and Joe’s dark, empty boat. He felt his muscles relax, felt himself slide towards sleep. Joe’s voice burbled in his head, conversational in tone but the words indistinct, little more than the background buzz of a radio. He thought he heard the name Ashleigh. He saw the full moon rise above water, the cool, shimmering blackness beneath, so deep it appeared to have no bottom, and the girl, her hair fanning out through his fingers like silk, her bare skin bleached the colour of chalk in the strange, silver light. He heard the gurgling trill of her laughter, mocking him, enticing him, carrying high above the music. He felt the water treacle-thick between his legs as he kicked out towards her. She disappeared like an otter, bobbing up elsewhere to giggle at him. Then he remembered the touch of cold, dead flesh . . .

With a start, he opened his eyes and shuddered. He could still see her there and he shook his head vigorously, trying to rid himself of the smell and feel of her. The pressure was building in his head again, the clenching pain knotting his gut. It was all mud stirred up from the depths of a river, the stuff of nightmares. The glare of the room, with its dull, workmanlike furnishings, was reassuring. He gazed around unfocusedly, then noticed the red flashing light of Paddy’s landline phone sitting on the shelf unit, indicating voicemail messages. He had been so distracted by everything that had happened, he hadn’t thought to check. He struggled up from the sofa and went over to the handset. The small screen showed four messages. Sleepily, he tabbed through the menu and pressed play. The first two were for Paddy, nothing important, but the next made him pay attention.

‘Hi, this is a message for Alex. My name’s Anna Paget. I’m a journalist and I was interviewing your friend Joe Logan.’ The voice was husky, the tone breezy and a little flat, as though she was in a hurry and just making a routine call. ‘I’m really sorry about what’s happened. I’d so like to talk to you, if it’s at all possible. Can you give me a bell?’ She left a couple of numbers. Alex played the message a second and a third time until he got the numbers down correctly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to her about Joe, but after what Maggie had said about her maybe he might learn something.

He played the last message and heard a breathy, girlish voice that he recognised almost instantly.

‘Alex, sweetheart, are you there? It’s me. It’s Katherine.’ There was a brief pause. ‘If you’re there, Alex, pick up.’ Again another pause. ‘I guess you’re out somewhere. I’ve tried your mobile and then the restaurant, but they said you weren’t working tonight. I need to speak to you. It’s really, really urgent.’ Another pause was followed by a deep sigh. ‘Please call me, Alex. It doesn’t matter what time. I’ve had the police round here. Don’t know how they got this address but they’re looking for you for some reason. They wouldn’t say what it’s about and of course I didn’t tell them where you are, but I hope you haven’t been a naughty boy.’