Keeping Radnor’s head under the water was a bitch and he bucked like a bronco. Barry, on his back, yelled,
‘Ride ’em cowboy.’
Took a while. Eventually Radnor grew still and Barry hauled him out, propped him against the wall, said,
‘You’re full of shit.’
Went through his pockets, found the fat envelope, peeked, went,
‘Oh yes.’
Then Radnor’s wallet, containing his ID, Travelcard and a few quid. Barry straightened, looked at Radnor then walked out of the stall. The toilet was empty but he’d have to hustle. The journalist would be wondering at the delay. He came out of the toilet, he’d reached the door of the bar when the barman caught him, said,
‘These toilets are reserved for our patrons.’
Barry kept his face averted, said,
‘Well, they’re a disgrace, all clogged up.’
He was moving, knowing he should have kept his mouth shut but the rush, ah, the fucking jolt. He went to the locker, aware of time being against him, cleaned it out, stuffing everything into a holdall. Then out to the back of the station, put the bag into a skip and managed to grab a bus to Kennington, using Radnor’s Travelcard.
‘I don’t know about any theory,’ he said, ‘but not everyone would feel this way about someone who left them for dead.’ ‘You think it’s odd?’ ‘Let’s just say, it’s unusual.’
The bar had been closed. Forensics were in the toilet and Radnor had been removed. Dunphy was sitting with his head in his hands, a large brandy on the table. Brant was standing and Porter was sitting, eying the journalist. He said,
‘Tell me again what happened.’
‘Jeez, how many times? Okay, he went to the toilet. When he hadn’t returned after... I don’t know, fifteen minutes, I got concerned, thought maybe he fell in.’
Brant said,
‘He did.’
Dunphy, remembering his last encounter with Brant, automatically massaged his stomach. Porter asked,
‘So then?’
‘So then! So fucking then I went to see if he was all right, but he wasn’t, someone had drowned him... killed the poor bastard in fucking Waterloo Station. How weird is that?’
Porter, making an intuitive leap, said,
‘Ah, but Mr Dunphy, you didn’t exactly come rushing out, did you?’
‘What?’
‘The barman says you were in there for at least five minutes. In fact, he was wondering if you two didn’t have a little something going on.’
Dunphy was outraged, glared at the barman who was polishing glasses, then:
‘I... looked for the money.’
‘Money?’
‘Yes, the bloody paper’s money. What we were paying this man for the exclusive.’
‘And did you find it?’
Dunphy drained the brandy, signalled to the barman who said,
‘No can do, mate. Can’t you see we’re closed?’
He turned back to Porter, his face red from the drink, said,
‘The envelope was gone, I couldn’t even find a wallet, Christ, I don’t even know the poor bastard’s name.’
Brant moved round to Dunphy’s front, said,
‘The poor bastard was Radnor Bowen.’
The brandy hit Dunphy’s bloodstream, he peaked, suddenly remembered, went:
‘The locker! Shit, go and check, you’re not going to believe what’s in there.’
Porter felt a wave of fatigue, said,
‘How about you tell me?’
Dunphy recalled Radnor’s face, the near joy in his eyes and repeated the snitch’s words,
‘It’s a visual.’
‘Not any more, it’s empty.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, he topped Radnor, then casual as you like, cleaned out the locker, while you, Mr Dunphy, you were... what? Sitting here with your thumb up your arse.’
Dunphy was shaking his head, saying,
‘Jeez, this guy is good. Talk about a set of cojones, like coconuts.’
Porter wanted to knock him off the seat, settled for:
‘You might temper your admiration with the thought that he’ll probably be coming for you next.’
Brant turned to the barman, said,
‘You want to hit me with a double of some Irish.’
The barman continued to polish a glass, said,
‘No can do, buddy. Like I told the dickhead, we’re closed.’
Brant shot out his hand, catching the glass, leant half over the counter.
‘Listen up, I’m only going to say this once: I am not your buddy and when I ask you for a drink, you go, “Ice with that, sir?” Now, let’s begin again... a double Irish.’
‘You want ice with that... sir?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, who needs ice?’
The barman placed the drink carefully on the counter, said,
‘That will be five quid, sir.’
Brant smiled
‘Like you said, you’re closed. Now, tell me again about the guy you had words with.’
‘I was busy. Here it’s always busy but I always spot the freeloaders — guys too cheap to pay for the toilet on the station, think they can sneak in, piss for free. I catch them every time.’
‘You’re a hero. Now, about this guy.’
‘Clocked him going in and he was, like, ten minutes. That’s how long the dopers take. You go in and they’re already nodding. This guy comes out, big hurry but I caught him, gave him the speech.’
‘Spare me the speech, what did he look like?’
‘Big, like he worked out, set of shoulders on him.’
‘And he was white?’
‘Yeah, he was white.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’
‘No.’
‘You’re certain?’
Now the barman got to smile, moved out of Brant’s reach, said,
‘I saw what he did to the poor schmuck in the toilet. I definitely wouldn’t recognise him again.’
When they eventually let Dunphy go, he asked,
‘Will I be getting police protection?’
Brant said,
‘We’ll be all over you.’
Porter watched him go and Brant said,
‘The wrong guy got drowned.’
They headed up to the Railtrack office, got hold of a guy named Hawkins who operated the CCTV. Porter said,
‘We’ll need the tapes for the past month.’
Hawkins’ shoulders slumped, he said,
‘I’d love to help but...’
Porter tried to stay calm, said,
‘This is a murder inquiry, we...’
Hawkins hands were up, saying,
‘There’s no tapes.’
‘What?’
‘The cameras haven’t been loaded for six weeks.’
‘You’re bloody joking! Why?’
‘Cutbacks.’
‘I don’t believe it, jeez.’
Hawkins tried to smile, went:
‘The public doesn’t know. I mean, the cameras are still a deterrent, it’s a psychological thing.’
Porter was close to boiling point:
‘It’s a bloody disgrace. A man was drowned in a toilet, the killer is swanning round the station, cameras everywhere and not one single picture. If that’s deterrent, God forbid you ever decide to try encouragement.’
As they stormed out, Hawkins said,
‘Don’t blame me.’
Brant answered:
‘But we do blame you and guess what? We’ll remember you.’
‘Ah, come on, you guys do the same thing.’
‘What?’
‘Con the public. They think the police are there, like the cameras, but it’s bullshit.’
They hadn’t an answer and kept going. TV crews were packed outside the bar. Dunphy, surrounded by reporters, was giving it large.