But that, of course, was the challenge.
18
The phone call finally came at half two in the afternoon while I was eating a lunch of fish soup with aioli mayonnaise in a small French place down in the West End on Goodge Street. I hadn't felt like heading back to the hotel after breakfast, and since there was a pause in the rain I'd started walking in the direction of the Thames, taking the opportunity to reacquaint myself with the sights and sounds of the city I'd left behind.
I put down my wine glass and pulled the phone from my pocket, wondering whether it was going to be Blondie, the man who'd claimed to be Les Pope, re-establishing contact. I hadn't heard from him in close to twenty-four hours, so was expecting to receive another of his threats at some point, now that it was obvious I'd missed my plane.
But this time a number was scrolling across the screen, so given his penchant for secrecy, I figured it wasn't him. I was right, too. It was Emma, and I felt a twinge of excitement at the sound of her voice. I think I was getting sad in my old age.
'How was last night?' I asked her.
She made a dismissive noise. 'It was all right. Nothing special. I spent a lot of money and I've got a hangover. Like a lot of Sunday mornings, really.'
'Well, take it easy for the rest of the day. That's what Sundays are for.'
'Do you think I've just been lying in bed, then?'
'No, of course not.'
'Because I haven't. I've been doing work. Work that you requested. You wanted Les Pope's home address.'
Suitably chastened, I asked if she'd got it.
She reeled off the address and phone number of a place in Hampstead, while I scribbled them down.
'He's been there two years,' she added, 'and he lives alone. I can't get hold of his mobile, though. I don't think there's one registered in his name. But you must have his number if you had his phone.'
'I've got it somewhere, don't worry about it. Did your article come out this morning?'
'Front page.'
I could hear the pride in her voice, and resisted the urge to remind her yet again to be careful. 'Well done. And thanks again for your help.'
'I haven't had a chance to look into Pope's background yet, but I will do. How are you planning to get him to talk, by the way?'
'I have my methods,' I answered cryptically, wondering about that myself.
'Don't do anything that's going to get you into trouble.'
'It's very nice of you to be concerned.'
She laughed. 'I don't want anything happening that's going to mess up the story.'
'I'll pretend I didn't hear that,' I said, thinking that that was the first time I'd actually heard her laugh. Maybe it was a good sign.
We said our goodbyes and I hung up and went back to my fish soup, which was tasty enough but curiously devoid of fish. I finished it off, though, then ordered a coffee and a slice of apple tart.
There was no point making my visit to the elusive Mr Pope on an empty stomach.
19
Grantley Court was a pleasant T-shaped cul-de-sac made up of large semi-detached mock-Georgian houses, built on a gentle incline a little way west of North End Road. It was a new development, five years old at most, and open plan in its design, so there were no hedges or walls blocking the view of the buildings or the uniformly turfed front gardens. No trees had been planted on the pavements, either, giving the road something of an exposed look, which didn't bode too well for any long-term observation of Pope's place.
I hadn't hurried there, preferring to arrive in darkness, which at that time of the year in southern England was usually with us by four o'clock. I got there just after four, following a lengthy journey by bus and foot. Pope's place, number twenty-two, was in the middle of the cul-de-sac, directly opposite the entrance and close to where the two strokes of the T joined. A newish silver Lexus was parked on the one-car driveway and a light was on on the ground floor, but I couldn't tell whether or not he was at home. A burglar alarm, complete with flashing blue light, was attached to the second-floor exterior brickwork.
Tomboy had lived round here once when he'd been a snout of mine, but in considerably less opulent circumstances. I didn't have much recent experience of London house prices, but I couldn't see that you'd get much change out of a million for one of these houses, given the central yet quiet location. That meant Pope was making some tidy money from somewhere, a lot more than he'd be paid for defending small-time crims like Jason Khan.
I slipped onto the driveway of a house with no lights on across the road, and stood behind a parked people-carrier. From here I couldn't be seen very easily from the road but still had a decent view of number twenty-two. I pulled out my mobile and called Les Pope's landline.
It rang for more than a minute, but no one picked up.
So he wasn't there.
No matter. Time for plan B. It seemed logical to me that one of the last people Slippery Billy West would have spoken to before his death was Les Pope, since, as far as Billy was aware, Pope was the only man in the world aware of his plight. He was bound to have called him, if for no other reason than to let him know that he'd arrived at his destination. So I rang the last number dialled from Slippery's mobile.
Once again, the phone at the other end rang for a good long while before it was finally picked up. The voice that greeted me was male. An ordinary middle-class London accent, no obvious signs of stress. And also, definitely not the same man with the blond hair I'd met yesterday.
'Ah, the elusive Mr Pope,' I said, hoping it was him. 'You sound different.' There was an audible intake of breath at the other end and I knew that I had the right man. I continued before he had the chance to speak. 'We need to meet again, and this time I want to make sure that it is you. I've seen a photo now so I know who to expect. Don't bother contacting your friends. They didn't get rid of me last time, did they? If you want to stay in one piece and get yourself out of this situation alive, then you're going to need to give me some information, and quickly. We're going to meet in one hour's time. Five fifteen. At a pub called the Cambridge Arms on Charing Cross Road, just down from the Palace Theatre. Come there alone.'
'I'm not in London,' he said hurriedly. 'I'm miles away.'
'Then you'd better find some very rapid means of transport back. One hour's time, and it's non-negotiable.' He tried to protest, but I ignored him. 'And don't try anything to get me off your back either. If you're not there, I'll come looking for you, and since I know that you live at twenty-two Grantley Court – it's a lovely place, by the way – I don't think you'll prove that difficult to find. This is your last chance. I'd take it, if I were you. Understood?'
There was a long pause. 'How do I know you're not going to try and kill me?'
'The Cambridge Arms is slap bang in the heart of the West End. The whole area'll be swarming with people. I won't get the opportunity to do you any harm, and no one'll be able to harm me either. Which is the way I like it. So make sure you're there. Otherwise I'll burn the house down, and that'll just be for starters.'