A Good day to die

'I've already said I'll do everything in my power to abide by your wishes.'

'Not good enough. I want your word.'

'It's nice to meet someone who still believes in that. OK, done.'

I paused for a moment, then spoke. 'The guy I'm talking about is called Les Pope.'

Her eyes widened and she sat back in her seat. 'You're joking!'

That caught me. 'What do you mean?'

'You don't know?'

'Obviously not.'

She shook her head, clearly concerned about my lack of detective skills.

'Les Pope is – or more accurately, was – Jason Khan's solicitor.'

15

'Tell me about Pope,' Emma demanded, taking a sip from her beer. 'How did you get onto him in the first place if you didn't know he was Khan's brief?'

I wondered then if I'd overplayed my hand. It's always risky trying to deceive someone whose job it is to sniff out untruths. It's even less of a good idea when you're still a wanted man in the country you're sitting in, and with a telltale suntan as well. Already she was looking at me over the rim of her beer glass with a healthy and fully justified scepticism, although thankfully without any worrying flicker of recognition. Her eyes reminded me of those of a cat – there was something hypnotic about them – and I got the idea that it would be difficult to hide your secrets from her for too long.

'Let's just say that over the years I've built up contacts with a lot of people who'd never voluntarily talk to the police, but who might be tempted to open their mouths with the promise of money. I heard about Mr Pope from one of those people.'

'How good was his information?'

'Good enough to get me a beating.' I gave her the cock-and-bull story I'd concocted in my room earlier, about how I'd been asking around about Pope when two of his thugs had accosted me outside my North London office and kicked me around, warning me to stay out of their boss's business. It was a bit cliched, I suppose, but not a million miles from the truth.

Emma seemed to buy it as well. 'And there's you telling me to be careful,' she said drily.

'I speak from bitter experience,' I told her. 'That means you should listen doubly hard.'

She smiled, showing the dimples again, and pulled another cigarette from the pack. I saw her glance at her watch at the same time, and felt a vague twinge of disappointment. I think I'd been overestimating the excitement of my company.

She asked me where we went from here and I told her I needed an address for Pope.

'And when I get that, I'm going to pay him a visit.' My tone suggested that when I got hold of him, I wasn't going to ask my questions with a high degree of politeness and patience. It was in keeping with the image I wanted to project to her: that of a man who was essentially on the side of the good guys, but who wasn't afraid of trying on the tough stuff. I thought she'd like that because it would mean I was more likely to come up with some answers, which would help with her story.

'And,' I continued, taking a gulp of my beer, 'I want you to look into Mr Pope's background. Find out anything you can about him. Clients he's had, associates he's got, any controversy he's been involved in. Same with Khan.'

She looked at me in the way an old girlfriend of mine used to do when she thought I was taking the piss. Put-out, but in a playful sort of way. 'You don't want much, do you?'

'It'll help with your own investigation.' I pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of my new jacket and put it on the table in front of her. There were five phone numbers on it, taken from the records section of Slippery Billy's mobile. I didn't know if they'd elicit any information, but it was worth a try. 'Do you know anyone who could trace these numbers, and find out whose names they're registered in?'

She asked me whose phone I'd got them from and I told her that it belonged to Les Pope. 'And they're calls that he recently made and received.'

'How did you get hold of his phone?' she asked, taking the piece of paper.

I flashed her my most businesslike expression. 'One of his phones. I believe he's got several. Let's just say, by stealth.'

'Does he know it's gone?'

'It's back with him now.'

'I'll see what I can do. I can't promise anything.'

'If you use any of your police contacts, be very careful. Don't, whatever you do, mention Pope, and don't use the same source for all the numbers.'

She gave me a puzzled look, followed by a suspicious one. 'You've got a very unorthodox way of operating.'

'In a land of conformity, it's always best to be a little different. It boosts business.'

'I bet it does.' She looked at her watch again. 'I'm sorry, I've got to make a dash. But I'll see what I can do with this. I also need a number for you.'

She keyed my number into her mobile, then put everything in her handbag and stood up, stubbing out her cigarette. She put out a hand, but she was no longer smiling. She was more wary of me now. 'It was nice to meet you,' she said as we shook, 'and thanks for the drink. Let me know how you get on with Pope.'

I told her I would, said it was nice to meet her too, and watched as she walked out of the pub. It was, I thought, one of the terrible injustices of life that as a man grows older he still experiences the same sort of desire for attractive young women that he's always had, and yet, at the same time, age makes him become steadily less attractive to them. I'm not a bad-looking bloke, but I look my age, and in ten years' time, if I'm still here, I'm going to look fifty. Eventually, I'm going to get to the point where no one wants me. Already I was too old for Miss Emma Neilson. I could see it in the way she looked at her watch. She was interested in me because I might have some information relevant to her story, but that was all. When she'd heard what I had to say, she'd wanted to get away to see her friends. Even her boyfriend, maybe.

I thought about getting another drink, but decided that this place wasn't for me. It was beginning to fill up now as the evening's revellers arrived in force – mainly a twenties crowd, with a few thirty-somethings sprinkled in – their faces rosy from the cold outside, their laughter echoing through the bar. If I had to drink alone, then at least I was going to do it somewhere where I felt comfortable.

I drained my pint and left.

16

Out on Oxford Street, row upon row of Christmas lights were strung across the road in a riot of festive colour. Shops were still open and the pavements remained dense with the last of the hardened shoppers and the now far more numerous gaggles of boisterous and drunk youths, the girls among them looking worryingly underdressed for the weather conditions. No one caught my eye as they passed, no one took the least bit of notice of me. Given my situation, this should have been something that pleased me, but tonight it didn't. It made me feel even more like an outsider. Someone who'd long ago ceased to belong.

I was at the wrong end of Oxford Street for my hotel, so I started walking in the direction of Oxford Circus, and managed to grab a cab with a driver who thankfully wasn't interested in talking, and who took me back to Paddington without saying a word.

I got him to drop me off in Praed Street, and wandered along it for a few minutes, enjoying the relative quiet, until I found a pub that looked about right. A song by Oasis – I couldn't remember which one – drifted out of a gap in one of the stained-glass windows, accompanied by the buzz of conversation and clinking of glasses that I'll always associate with a proper London boozer, and which up until that moment was a sound I'd forgotten how much I missed.

I stopped at the door and stepped inside, immediately breathing in a lungful of warm, smoky air.