‘You jest,’ he said. His eyes locked on to mine. ‘But I’m being serious. Who’s going to be there for you in that city when you wake up with a knife in your back?’
I could hardly make him out now, he’d sunk so far back into the darkness. But I wasn’t liking what I was hearing. I looked away and focused on my food.
‘Do you want to be left alone?’
He had a smile on his face now, but it didn’t go deep. Below the surface, I caught a glimpse of what I’d seen before.
A second of absolute darkness.
‘It’s up to you.’
He continued smiling. The smell of aftershave drifted across to me again. ‘I’ll leave you alone. I’m sure you’d rather be earning commission than listening to me, right?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Nice meeting you, anyway,’ he said, standing. ‘Maybe we’ll see you again.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I think so,’ he said, cryptically.
Then I watched him leave, walking past the locals and out through a door on the far side of the pub, where the evening swallowed him up.
10
That night, I had difficulty sleeping. It had been a long time since I’d slept in a bed. A longer time since I’d been away from the house overnight.
I left the curtains slightly ajar and the window open. Just after one, I finally fell asleep, curled up in a ball at the bottom of the bed. In the dead of night, maybe an hour later, I stirred long enough to feel a faint breeze against my skin. And then a noise outside. Rotting autumn leaves caught beneath someone’s feet. I lay there, too tired to move, and started to drift away again. Then the noise came a second time.
I flipped the duvet back, got up and walked to the window. The night was pitch black. In the distance, along the coastal road, were tiny blocks of light from the next village. Otherwise, it was difficult to make anything out, particularly close to the house.
The wind came again. I could hear leaves being blown across the ground, and waves crashing against the rocky coast — but not the noise that had woken me. I waited for a moment, then headed back to bed.
I got up early and sat at a table with beautiful views across the Atlantic. Tin mines rose up in front of me like brick arms reaching for the clouds. Over breakfast, I spread the contents of the box out in front of me again, and studied the Polaroid of Alex. He was too close to the camera; some of his features weren’t completely defined. His hair was shorter. There were dark areas around the side of his face where stubble was coming through. Behind him, there was a block of light that looked like a window, but it was difficult to see what was through it. Part of a building maybe, or a roof.
I turned it over.
Written on the back was: You were never a mistake.
I decided to call Kathy.
She answered after a couple of rings.
‘Kathy, it’s David Raker.’
‘Oh, hi.’
‘Sorry it’s so early.’
‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I was getting ready for work.’
‘I’ve got the box here.’ I turned the Polaroid over and looked at Alex again. ‘Do you remember what photos you put inside?’
‘Um… I don’t know — I think there’s a couple of us at a barbecue…’
‘Do you remember the one of Alex on his own?’
‘Uh…’ A pause. ‘I’m trying to think…’
You were never a mistake.
‘Tell you what, I’m going to take a picture of it and send it to you, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll send two photos — one of the front and one of the back. Take a look at them when they come through and call me right back.’
I hung up, took a picture of the front of the photograph, then flipped it over and took a shot of the back. I sent them to Kathy’s phone.
While I waited, I looked around. The owner was filling a giant cereal bowl with cornflakes. Outside, in the distance, a fishing trawler chugged into view, waves gliding out from its bow as it followed the coastline.
A couple of minutes later, my phone went.
Silence.
‘Kathy?’
Gradually, fading in, the sound of sobbing.
‘Kathy?’
A long pause. And then I could hear her crying again.
‘Kathy — that’s Alex’s handwriting, isn’t it?’
She sniffed. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you take that photograph?’
‘No.’
‘Any idea who did?’
More crying. Longer, deeper gasps of air.
‘No.’
I looked at the Polaroid again. Turned it over. Traced the handwriting with a finger. Then I picked up the letter Kathy had written Alex.
But, somewhere, there would be a doubt that wasn’t there before, a nagging feeling that, if I got too close to you, if I showed you too much affection, you’d get up one morning and walk away.
I don’t want to feel like a mistake again.
‘Do you know where Alex is in this picture?’
‘No.’ She started to sob again, a long, drawn-out sound that sent static crackling down the line. ‘No,’ she said again — and then hung up.
I placed my phone down.
So, Alex had used the box after all.
11
Alex died on a country road between Bristol’s northern edge and the motorway. I felt I should go there, but first I wanted to see his friend John. Jeff had given me a work address for him the previous day. When I called enquiries to get a telephone number, it turned out to be a police station south-west of Bristol city centre.
John was a police officer.
By the time I got there, it was lunchtime and had been raining: water still ran from guttering, and drains had filled with old crisp packets and beer cans. The street was deserted, except for some kids further down, their cigarettes dying in the cool of the day. I parked on the road and headed into the station.
It was quiet. There was a sergeant behind a sliding glass panel, framed by a huge map of the area. Dots were marked at intervals in a ring around the centre of the city.
The sergeant slid the glass across. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m here to see John Cary.’
He nodded. ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘I want to speak to him about Alex Towne.’
It didn’t mean anything to him. He slid the glass panel back and disappeared out of sight. I sat down next to the front entrance. Outside, huge dark clouds rolled across the sky. Somewhere in the distance was the snow they’d been promising, moving down from Russia, ready to cover every can, needle and bloodstain that had ever been left on the streets.
Something clunked. At the far side of the waiting room a huge man emerged from a code-locked door. He was chiselled but not attractive. His Mediterranean skin was spoiled by acne scarring that ran the lengths of both cheeks. I walked across to him.
‘My name’s David Raker.’
He nodded.
‘I’m looking into the disappearance of Alex Towne.’
He nodded again.
‘Alex’s mum came to me.’
‘She told you he’s dead, right?’ he said, eyeing me.
‘Right. I was hoping I might be able to ask you a couple of questions.’
He glanced at his watch, then looked at me, as if intrigued to see what I might come up with. ‘Yeah, okay. Let’s go for a drive.’
We drove north to where Alex had died. It was a picturesque spot: rolling grassland punctuated by narrow roads, all within sight of the city. Cary parked up and then led me away from the car, across to a field sloping away from the road. I looked down. A sliver of police tape still fluttered in a tree nearby. Apart from that, there was no sign that a car had once come off the road here.