Kids ran across in front of me, their muddy footprints a reminder of where they’d been and how often. Their parents watched from the side: chatting, laughing, their breath drifting away. It made me ache with loneliness. I remembered the times Derryn and I had talked about wanting a family, about what it would be like to hold our baby for the first time, or walk, hand in hand, with our son or daughter to school. We’d been trying for fifteen months when she got cancer, and — after that — we never got to try again.
Sometimes I remembered the sense of finality as I watched her coffin being lowered into the ground. The feeling that there was no doubt any more; she was gone and she wasn’t coming back. I knew, deep down, there was no way Alex could have died in that car crash and still be alive, in the same way I knew there was no way Derryn could be. Yet, when I looked in Mary’s eyes, I only saw conviction there, so lucid, as if she had no doubt in what she was telling me. And I knew a small part of me wanted her to be right. I wanted Alex to be alive, however impossible it seemed. And the need to find out was driving me on, and, at least temporarily, helping me forget the loneliness.
After days of heavy skies and biting winds, snow finally started falling as I got back to the car. I climbed in, put the heaters on full blast and started scrolling through the numbers on my mobile. When I got to the one I wanted, I hit ‘Call’.
‘Citizens Advice Bureau.’
I smiled. ‘Oh, come on.’
‘Who’s that?’ the voice said.
‘Citizens Advice?’
‘David?’
‘Yeah. How you doing, Spike?’
‘Man, it’s been ages.’
We chatted for a while, catching up. Spike lived in Camden Town and was the dictionary definition of illegaclass="underline" a Russian hacker on an expired student visa running a cash-only information service out of his flat. During my days on the newspaper, when I still cared about naming and shaming politicians, I used him a lot.
‘So, what can I do you for you, man?’
He spoke that form of American-influenced English that a lot of Europeans used, picked up by watching hours of music videos and TV shows.
‘I need you to fire up the super computer.’
‘Course I can. What you got?’
‘A mobile phone — I want to find out who it belongs to. It’s got no numbers on it, no address book. If I gave you the serial number and the SIM, could you find out where the phone was bought — maybe who it’s registered to?’
‘Yeah, no problem. You’ll have to give me a couple of hours, though.’
‘Sure.’
I gave him all the details and then my phone number.
‘Oh, and my fee’s gone up a bit,’ he said.
‘Whatever it takes, Spike.’
I hung up — and, within seconds, the phone was buzzing again. I looked down at the display. john cary. I’d forgotten to chase him up again.
‘John,’ I said, answering. ‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you.’
No response.
‘I left a couple of messages.’
‘I can’t talk for long,’ he replied.
‘Okay.’
‘You still want that photograph looked at?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Send it to me at home. I know a couple of people at the Forensic Science Service, and one of them owes me a favour from a while back. I can ask him to take a look at it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No.’ The line drifted. ‘But make the most of it.’
‘Look, I really appreci—’
‘I’m probably making the biggest mistake of my life.’
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I said nothing. But I knew my instincts had been right: what had happened to Alex still ate at him, and a part of him longed for closure.
I killed the call and watched the snow slide down the windscreen, my thoughts turning back to Angel’s. The last time I’d ever been inside, the winter had been the same as this one: long and cold, stretching from the beginning of November all the way through to the end of February. Two different times, both connected — like a small part of my past was now merging with the present.
16
Angel’s was a thin building, west of Charing Cross Road. Snow was already piling up against the door when I arrived. Next to it, barred like a cell, was a small window. I peered inside. It was dark; a square of white light at the back was all I could make out. Above me were a pair of neon angel’s wings, and next to the doorway a sign that said it wasn’t open until midday. I looked at my watch. 11.40.
‘You’re early.’
I turned. ‘Woah! Where did you come from?’
A woman was standing behind me, looking me up and down. She was in her mid-forties, pale and boyish, her blonde hair from a bottle, her eyes grey and small. I smiled at her, but she just shook her head. She glanced from the door of the pub to the sky, then pulled her long, fake fur coat tighter around her.
‘Come back in twenty minutes.’ She started unlocking the door.
‘I’m not here to drink.’
She turned to me, disgusted. ‘You wanna strip joint, you’ve come to the wrong place.’
‘I’m not here for that either.’
She pushed the door open and stepped into the open doorway. ‘You wanna chat?’
‘Kind of.’
‘This ain’t the Samaritans.’ She went to push the door closed, but I shoved a foot in next to it and took a step up to the doorway. She didn’t look surprised — as if it happened a lot.
‘There ain’t no money here.’
Her accent was strong. East End.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m not here to rob you.’
She stared at me, then rolled her eyes. ‘The Old Bill. Shit, this must be my lucky day.’
‘I’m not a police officer either.’
She tossed her coat inside, across one of the tables near the door. ‘What do you want?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘No.’
I rubbed my hands together. ‘We’ll just freeze to death out here, then.’
She glanced up and down the street as snow settled around us, then looked at me and rolled her eyes. ‘Whatever,’ she said, sighing, and gestured for me to follow her in.
It had hardly changed since the last time I’d been in. They’d replaced the wallpaper — but nothing else. The room was long and narrow, with a five-pointed cove at the back big enough for a couple of tables, and a jukebox wired up to the far wall.
‘So, what’s going down, Magnum?’ she said.
I turned back to her. She was smiling at her joke. I removed my pad and a pen and set it down on the bar, sliding in at one of the stools. ‘What’s your name?’
‘What’s it to you?’
I got out my driver’s licence and held it up to her. ‘My name’s David Raker. I used to be a journalist.’
She frowned, leaned in towards the licence. ‘Journalist?’
‘Used to be.’
She glanced at me. ‘Jade.’
‘That’s your name?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Pretty name.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You’re not used to compliments?’
‘From good-looking boys like you?’ She shook her head. ‘No. Last time I had a man tell me my name was pretty, he was twenty stone and had a comb-over that went all the way to his chin.’