20

It was nearly one in the morning by the time Alex left the restaurant. He was exhausted, barely able to stand by the end of the shift. On the plus side, the restaurant had been more or less full all evening and working flat out had helped take his mind off things. All he could think about was Joe and Paul and the few words he had exchanged with Danny earlier on. The conversation with Tim had been less than satisfying. It was all very well for Tim to tell him not to panic. Had Tim sent the emails? But if so, what was the point? Tim never did anything that wasn’t carefully thought through from start to finish and the rationale wasn’t clear. It was more likely to be Danny and he hoped Tim had been able to get hold of him. In his most paranoid moments that night – on his own in the men’s, accompanied by some vodka that he had stashed away – Alex wondered if either Tim or Danny was capable of murder, deciding to silence the rest of them after all those years. Tim stood to gain the most by getting rid of them all. No more skeletons in the cupboard to rattle at an inconvenient moment while he made his way up the greasy pole. But he’d known Tim for most of his life and the thought was so unpleasant, so unrealistic, he forced it from his mind. Whoever it was, it dawned on him that he wasn’t safe either, possibly none of them were.

Wrapped in the cocoon of his thoughts, the journey home from the restaurant on the tube passed without notice. He almost forgot to get out at Kensal Green. From the station, he cut through the backstreets and turned down Chamberlayne Road towards home. He was about to cross the road, when a car raced around the corner, causing another car to swerve, and skidded to a halt in the middle of the next block of shops. Two men jumped out. One remained by the car, while the other ran up to a door and rang a bell. The car was unmarked, but he was sure it was the police. It also looked like they had gone to Paddy’s flat, which was over a drycleaner’s, recognisable even from a distance by its striped awning. Alex stopped in the shadow of a bus shelter and watched. After banging on Paddy’s door, the man stepped back and stood looking up at the first floor window. Under the orange glow from the street lamp, his face was clearly visible and Alex recognised him. It was Minderedes. The lights upstairs were off. Either Paddy was in bed and refusing to come to the door or, more likely, he was out again for the night. The two men stood craning their heads upwards, as though they didn’t believe the flat was empty. Unless they broke down the door, they were in for a long wait. Paddy wouldn’t be back until morning.

Hunching his shoulders, hands in his pockets, he turned and walked back towards the tube, not daring to look around, any moment expecting to hear the thud of footsteps behind him. He had to find somewhere safe for the night. He didn’t trust using his phone and went back into the tube station where he found a call box in working order. Although it was late, Tim was an insomniac at the best of times, and even more so when he had a big case on the boil. Alex was sure he would still be working, poring over papers in his study.

He dialled Tim’s number, which he knew by heart, and Tim picked up immediately.

‘It’s Alex. We’ve got to talk.’

‘Are you drunk? Do you know what time this is?’

‘I’m not drunk and don’t pretend you were asleep.’

‘I’m working. What is it you want?’

Alex explained what had just happened. ‘Thanks to you telling me not to talk to the police, I now seem to be the chief suspect.’

‘You mustn’t speak to them.’

‘So you keep saying. I need somewhere to stay, at least for tonight, until I work out what to do.’

‘Well, you can’t stay here. Why don’t you go and find a hotel?’

‘I haven’t got any money on me, I obviously can’t go home to get some, and I don’t want to use a credit card. They might trace me.’

Tim sighed. ‘You think you’re bloody Jason Bourne now, do you?’

‘Look, they found me somehow. I just need a bit of time, that’s all, and we’ve got to talk. Did you manage to get hold of Danny?’

‘Yes. He’s coming over here tomorrow morning.’

‘Good. That’s another reason for you to put me up. It’s either that, or I hand myself in.’

‘Are you going to be OK?’ Tartaglia asked, coming back into the room.

‘I’m fine now, thanks,’ Gerachty said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Don’t know what came over me.’

He wasn’t deceived. She looked uncharacteristically shaky and washed out beneath what was left of her make-up. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, even though he could see that his concern wasn’t welcome.

‘Positive, although my head hurts. I think I must have banged it on a chair when I fell.’

They were in Browne’s office in the basement of the Westminster building, Gerachty sitting in Browne’s battered old chair sipping some brandy that the pathologist kept in her drawer for such emergencies. The post mortem on Paul Khan was still going on in a room along the corridor, but Browne had nearly finished and he had thought it safe to leave and see how Gerachty was doing.

He and Gerachty had been watching the proceedings from behind the glass wall, Gerachty sitting beside him ramrod straight, as though at a parade. They could hear Browne’s comments to her assistant over the two-way speaker system, and could make comments of their own if they chose to. Gerachty had said nothing, which he thought a little strange, and the preliminaries had just finished, when he heard a sound and saw Gerachty slip to the floor at his feet. Most people he had come across felt queasy at their first post mortem, some threw up, and some, like Gerachty, fainted. He had seen even the biggest, toughest, ex rugby-playing constable reduced to a mass of jelly on the lino with the first cut or buzz of the saw, and everyone accepted it as par for the course. But Gerachty seemed to mind more than most.

‘I guess you think I’m a right prat now,’ she said bitterly.

He shook his head, wishing that she wouldn’t be so hard on herself. ‘It happens to the best of us, honest.’

‘What, even you?’

‘Yes. Even me.’

‘You’re just saying that.’

‘The first few times, I didn’t faint, but I well and truly puked. Didn’t matter whether I’d had anything to eat or not and you can imagine the jokes that went around. Someone even stuck one of those airline sick bags to my computer with my name written on it. Trust me, it’s ten times worse if you’re a bloke.’

She gave him a hard look, as if she didn’t see the difference. ‘I really thought I was going to be OK, but the smell when we arrived . . . Jesus, it turned my stomach. Then I was sitting there trying not to think about what was going on in front of me and suddenly the room starts to swim. Next thing I know, well, you’re carrying me in here.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I didn’t . . .’

He smiled, wondering what she was worrying about. ‘You didn’t do anything. You were out cold and light as a feather, so don’t worry.’

‘Did anyone—’

‘Nobody saw what happened except me and I promise I won’t tell a soul.’

She looked relieved. ‘Thanks.’ She took a slug of brandy. ‘I suppose you know it’s my first post mortem.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s also my first homicide.’

‘I gathered that too.’

‘I was in vice before.’ She held the glass up to him. ‘Cheers. This brandy’s not at all bad, you know. It’s making me feel a whole lot better.’

‘That’s what it’s for.’ He realised, looking at the bottle sitting on Browne’s desk, that she’d had quite a bit of it since he’d left her on her own, but at least it was softening the edges nicely. ‘Arabella’s just wrapping things up now, so I can see you home, if you like.’

‘I’ll be fine. If we’re done here I’ll go and find a cab.’

‘I’ll come upstairs with you, then.’

As she got to her feet, she was still a little shaky and he supported her with his hand and picked up her bag for her. ‘Thanks. I can take it from here.’ She turned to the little mirror on the wall and smoothed down her hair. ‘Well, now I’ve no secrets any longer, I can honestly say you’re not at all as bad as I was led to believe.’ She caught his eye in the mirror, then rubbed a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth.

‘I’m delighted to hear it. And what exactly were you led to believe?’

She waved him away with her hand. ‘Oh, you really don’t want to know.’

‘Yes I do.’

She smiled and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You won’t hold it against me?’

‘I promise.’

She turned to face him. ‘Well, just that you’re one cocky bastard, that you think you’re God’s gift, that you have DCI Steele in the palm of your hand, that she’s sleeping with the Chief Super and . . .’

‘Is that all? I’m surprised they didn’t tell you I’m sleeping my way to the top too.’

‘They left that bit out, but I can see it now,’ she said, walking a little unsteadily out the door into the corridor.

He followed. ‘You should know not to listen to office gossip. It’s rarely accurate.’

‘You’re right. They’re clearly badly informed and I’ll ditch my source. It’s obviously a case of very sour grapes.’ They were half way up the stairs, when she stopped on the landing and turned to look at him. ‘I’m really bitter to be losing this case, you know.’

‘It hasn’t happened yet. It’s not a done deal.’

‘No, but it will be. The writing’s on the wall. The post mortem’s the clincher, even I can see that, and it’s the most logical thing to do, if logic comes into it, which it should.’ She started slowly up the stairs again. ‘I don’t mind so much, now I’ve met you. I know you’ll do a good job.’

‘Thanks.’

Again she stopped. This time she held out her hand. ‘Truce?’

He shook it and nodded. ‘Truce. Now, let’s go and find you a cab.’