Having nothing better to do, Radnor had gone to the address and hung around. He was rewarded when Brant and Porter emerged, looking less than happy. A little later, a man came out; tall, with short blond hair, athletic build... and smiling. Radnor muttered,
‘Hello, Mr Weiss.’
His heart rate had increased, the old surge of elation he’d had before he broke into a house. Radnor knew this guy was dirty. After thirty years in prison, he knew that facial expression, had seen it a hundred times in the yard — the smirk of someone who’s put a shiv in a man from behind. What the smirk mostly said was ‘I want you to know what I did and how much I enjoyed it.’
Grade-A psycho.
Radnor decided to follow him, carefully. Barry Weiss was taking no chances, changed direction a number of times as if he suspected a tail. Then hopped on a bus. Radnor barely made it. Each time they stopped, Radnor had to scan the path for Weiss, but he was getting a kick out of it. If the guy was going to this trouble, he was hiding something. Then the thought hit Radnor: Jesus, what if he’s going to kill someone now?
Radnor had no illusions about heroics, no scenario of him tackling a well-built bloke like that. He’d have to make it up as he went along. Caught up in this, he nearly missed Barry getting off at Waterloo, had to scramble and as the bus moved off, the conductor shouted,
‘No alighting when we’re in motion.’
Radnor near twisted his ankle as he hopped from the bus. When he arrived at the station concourse, his heart sank. He’d lost him. Fuck, fuck, fuck. But then Radnor saw him, near the lockers. Radnor moved fast, ignoring the ache in his knee. Barry was opening a locker.
Radnor did a scan of the numbers: 68, okay. Now Barry was taking out a wallet, gazing at it, then putting it in his pocket, shutting the locker. Moving away.
Radnor passed by 68 and saw that the lock wasn’t going to be a problem. He’d broken into houses with a hundred times that security. Saw Barry ordering coffee, chatting with the assistant, Radnor thought: Mr Affability.
Then he saw the assistant’s face register horror and Barry took a seat, a satisfied smirk in place. Confirmed Radnor’s impression of serious derangement. Ten minutes later, Barry was up and moving through the crowds, leaving the station. Radnor headed for the coffee shop, ordered an espresso. The girl still seemed shaken. Radnor, in his best non-threatening accent, asked,
‘Are you all right, dear?’
She looked round, ensuring Barry was gone, said,
‘A customer... showed me a photo of his family, three lovely children and his wife. When I admired them, he said they were all dead.’
‘Oh, you poor girl, what an awful ordeal.’
Then she shook herself as if ridding herself physically of Barry’s presence, said,
‘This will sound terrible but I... I didn’t believe him, isn’t that awful? I mean, I think he deliberately tried to scare me.’
Radnor wondered where they were on that espresso, the aroma from the beans had awoken a passion for a caffeine hit. He said,
‘There are some weird people around, you have to be careful.’
‘I will, you’re very kind. What did you say you wanted, cappuccino?’
‘No, double espresso, if you please.’
She glanced around again, said in a conspiratorial tone,
‘I’ll only charge you for a single, don’t say anything.’
‘My dear, I won’t breathe a word.’
Sipping the coffee, he felt that the omens were good, improving by the minute. He thought: See, Brant. See what good manners and breeding achieve?
He felt as if he actually were from Hampstead.
Returning to Waterloo the next day, he gave the coffee shop a wide berth. He didn’t want to adopt the damn girl. In his pocket, he had his ‘Slim Jim’: state-of-the-art tools that were light, flexible and invaluable. Though he had turned his back on his previous profession, he kept the implements of his trade. Some things were too valuable to relinquish. Approaching locker 68, he kept his face in neutral. CCTV cameras were everywhere and he didn’t want to alert any watcher.
Taking the tools from his pocket, he used his right shoulder as a block to passers-by. After three minutes the door opened. A surge of pride in his abilities coursed through Radnor’s body. He enjoyed the moment, then looked inside the locker. For a second, he didn’t quite grasp what he saw, then exhaled a deep breath, said,
‘Bingo.’
The phone rang and Dunphy grabbed it. He hadn’t heard from ‘The Blitz’ for a few days and hoped he hadn’t retired, just when the story was reaching its zenith. He said,
‘Yes?’
‘Harold Dunphy?
‘Yes?’
‘The Harold Dunphy? The crime reporter.’
Dunphy was well pleased. This was the type of recognition he’d been craving. Maybe he’d won an award, said,
‘One and the same.’
Felt this was a good reply, confident and assertive, the answer of a guy who deserved prizes.
‘Would you like to know who “The Blitz” is?’
Dunphy reached for his cigarettes, got one going, saw a tremor in his fingers, kept his voice low, said,
‘That would be good.’
‘Or, Mr Dunphy... how would you like to be the man who nails the fucker?’
Dunphy, inured to profanity, was taken aback. Until then the voice had been cultivated, modulated, Hampstead even, so the obscenity came as a shock. It confirmed Dunphy’s instinct that it was genuine. When toffs cursed, it was for a good reason. He said,
‘It would be an honour to bring him down.’
A pause and he wondered if he’d given the wrong answer, then:
‘Well, Mr Dunphy, you have a think about how much of an honour it would be. In particular, how much you’d be willing to pay for such a privilege...’
‘Oh.’
‘Come, come, Mr Dunphy, did you think this was a citizen doing his bit?’
‘I guess not.’
Click.
‘That’s sick,’ said Barbara
‘It’s deranged.’
‘It’s psycho.’
‘It’s the... other sex.’
‘Isn’t it just the truth?’ said Barbara.
Falls wore a heavy black coat, buttoned to the chin. She pulled a white cap down over her hair. As she got into the car, Nelson gave her a quizzical look. She snapped,
‘What?’
‘Nothing, the coat... it’s a good choice.’
‘Like you’d know.’
As they pulled away, he asked,
‘You want me to turn on the radio?’
‘Take a wild guess.’
He left the radio off. The silence for the rest of the trip was lethal. Nelson ran through a number of topics he might broach but dismissed them all. Falls stared straight ahead, a red rose clutched in her fingers. All he hoped was she wouldn’t want to cast it in the grave. The only concession she’d given was to forego the church ceremony and just meet the funeral party at the graveyard. Nelson parked at the gates, said,
‘Maybe we should do the next bit on foot.’
For answer, she got out. They walked along a gravel path, their shoes crunching in the air. A large crowd was gathered, British National Party members in heavy attendance. A priest was intoning:
‘Man has but a short time to live and is full of misery.’
Or words to that dire effect.
Nelson wanted to say,
‘Cheerful bugger.’
But Falls’ expression didn’t encourage him.