Emma answered on the fifth ring and I could hear the TV in the background. It sounded like the Antiques Roadshow.
'Hello.'
'Emma, it's Mick. Mick Kane, the private detective from last night.'
'Are you all right? You sound a bit stressed.'
'I'm fine, but I've had some trouble.'
'What kind of trouble?'
'The kind that involves our Mr Pope. I need to see you urgently. Look, I wouldn't ordinarily ask, but can I come over to your place? I've got information. Stuff I think you'll want to hear.'
She was silent for what felt like a long time, although anything feels like a long time when you're standing out on a cold night street with the rain tumbling down on your head and half of central London's cops after your blood.
'I don't know you at all,' she said eventually, her tone uncertain. 'You could be anyone. This could be a trap. You said yourself that people weren't going to take kindly to the articles I've been writing. What if you're one of them? Or you're working on their behalf?'
I could see her point. I'd have had the same suspicions in her position. Unfortunately, this wasn't much help to me now. 'I'm not, I promise you.'
'But I don't know that.'
'No, you don't, so all I'm going to say is this: Pope's dead, and someone's just tried to kill me.'
'Oh, God.'
'I think the people who killed him work for the man you suspect is involved in the murders of Malik and Khan. Is his name Tyndall?'
'I'm sorry, but this is all getting too heavy for me. I may be a journalist but I don't want to get involved in murder. I think you're going to have to call the police.'
'I can't.'
'Why not?'
'Just take my word for it, I can't. I'm sorry to have bothered you. I've got to go.'
'Wait a minute. Where are you?'
I told her the name of the street and the approximate location.
'That's only about five minutes from me.'
'By foot or by car?' I asked, hoping that didn't mean she lived round Soho.
'Car. I'm in South Kensington, near Gloucester Road Tube.' She sighed, and I knew that she was trying to come to a decision as to what to do. It didn't take her long. 'Stay where you are and I'll be there in a few minutes. I'll be driving a navy blue Volkswagen Golf.'
'Thanks,' I said, but she'd already rung off.
I stepped back into the doorway of a dilapidated-looking stonemasons' offices, reached into my pocket and found the wallet I'd taken from the dead gunman. I didn't much want to open it, since I didn't think I'd find anything of any use. The two men who'd come into that cinema to kill Pope were professionals and weren't likely to be carrying anything that identified themselves, which would leave me at something of a dead end, as well as being wanted on suspicion of a new murder. But you've always got to try to look at the positive side of things, so I offered up a silent prayer and opened it up.
Whoever was paying him was paying him well, that was for sure. There was at least five hundred in cash, probably more; but as I suspected, not a lot else. A cheap-looking, dog-eared business card was sticking out of one of the credit-card slots and I tugged it free. Something else – another card – came out from behind it. It was impossible to read either in the dim light, so I put them in the back pocket of my jeans and kept on searching, finding nothing else bar a used dry-cleaning ticket, which I pocketed as well, along with the cash (the latter on the basis that he was no longer going to need it, and I might).
A car – a Toyota, by the look of it – turned into the street and I sank back into the shadows as it passed, the tyres slicking over the wet surface of the road. When it was gone I stepped out again and walked over to a three-quarters-full skip about twenty yards down the street, parked outside a house that looked like it was in the early stages of renovation. The skip was full of all kinds of junk, from pieces of interior wall to a rusting pushchair, and I buried the empty wallet and the black 'I love London' cap under a pile of cement chippings. These days, if you're a criminal, you really can't be too careful. I'd bought the cap earlier that day near the Embankment, paying cash to an Eastern European stall-holder who didn't even bother to catch my eye, so I didn't think it would provide any of the officers examining the CCTV footage of the shooting with much in the way of clues. But I didn't want it to still be in my possession if they released any details into the public domain, particularly if I was going to be spending any time round Emma.
Three minutes later, a blue Golf pulled into the street and slowed down.
When it was no more than ten yards away I stepped out into the road and waved at her. The Golf came to a halt and I strode round to the passenger door and jumped inside. Something by Coldplay was playing on the CD.
'Thanks,' I said with a weak smile, immediately pushing myself right down in the seat so that my head was level with the top of the dashboard.
'Oh, God,' repeated Emma Neilson, staring at me wide-eyed. 'I can't believe I'm doing this. What is it you've done? Oh shit, forget that. Don't tell me.'
Even from my cramped position and after the drama that had unfolded over the last couple of hours, I couldn't help noticing how nice she looked. She was wearing the same suede jacket she'd had on the previous night, but underneath it was a pink or lilac halter-neck top that showed just enough pale midriff to be tasteful. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, accentuating her girlish appearance, and the nervous expression on her face made me want to put a reassuring arm around her and tell her not to worry, everything would be all right. Not that it was looking too promising at the moment.
'I'll explain everything when we get back to your place,' I told her.
'I'm not sure I want you to. I think I'd rather not know.'
'It's not as bad as it looks,' I continued, which was one of the bigger lies I've told in my adult life.
She fixed me with a suspicious expression, then turned away to concentrate on the road ahead while I continued to push myself even further down the seat and counted the seconds to our destination.
22
Five minutes later, Emma pulled into a parking space. 'It's just round the corner from here,' she explained, 'but I'm afraid you're going to have to walk.'
I managed to squeeze myself out of the seat and onto the road, putting on my glasses at the same time. Having also lost the cap, I was now looking significantly different than I'd been during the shootout. It always amazes me what a couple of props can do.
We were on a typical Kensington street. Wide, grand and very well lit, with immaculately kept, five-storey whitewashed Georgian townhouses on either side. London for the millionaires and the tourists.
'You don't live in one of these, do you?' I asked, following her through the rain.
'Not quite,' she answered, without turning round.
I pulled out the business cards I'd retrieved from the wallet and examined them in the light of the street lamps. I raised my eyebrows. A clue. It wasn't a lot, but it might be something.
I put the cards back in my pocket.
After a minute or so, Emma turned into a narrow, cobbled cul-de-sac of pretty, painted mews houses. She walked up to the second one on the left (it was painted a deep red colour) and unlocked the front door. Feeling sheepish and more than a little unwelcome, I followed her in.
The front door opened straight into the living room. It was a striking place, like something out of an MTV video. The walls were a soothing pale orange; the furniture (the sofa, two chairs and a footrest) a brighter orange; and the carpet, along with the dining table and chairs on the far side of the room, were a matt black. It sounds awful, particularly when the fact that it was a mess was taken into account (there were books, CDs and two fullish ashtrays hanging about, none of which were orange or black), but somehow it worked. I liked it, in spite of my better judgement. Maybe it was because it demanded attention. A flight of well-polished wooden stairs at the far end of the room led up to the top floor.