‘Is there somebody there?’ I asked.
‘Nobody here but me.’
‘Harold, what do you know about Kramer?’
‘I know nothing about anyone of that name.’
‘What are you playing at, Harold? I can’t believe you’re acting like this. Were you there? Did you …?’
I couldn’t bring myself to ask directly whether Harold had committed a murder. Some ludicrous sense of propriety was still in place.
‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harold replied.
‘I don’t want to believe you did it,’ I said.
‘Nobody’s asking you to,’ Harold said flatly. ‘How could anyone think I killed a man I’ve neither met nor heard of.’
‘What are you saying, Harold?’
‘It might be better if we didn’t talk for a while,’ he said. ‘Not that we’ve had much in common since Catherine stopped seeing you.’
That was when I truly realized that Catherine’s absence meant as much to Harold as it did to me. If Harold had killed Kramer, and I still hoped to God that he hadn’t, he might like to pretend he’d done it as a favour to me, but it appeared now that he had pressing reasons of his own. It seemed to me that Kramer had taken Catherine away from Harold just as surely as he’d taken her away from me.
‘I’ll be going away for a little while,’ Harold continued. ‘Doing a bit of travelling. Going abroad.’
‘That’s as good as admitting that you did it,’ I said.
‘Not quite.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘It’s probably better if you don’t know that.’
‘What if I need to contact you?’
‘You’ll have no reason to contact me.’
‘I should go to the police about this,’ I said.
‘I think that wouldn’t be very clever of you,’ said Harold. ‘What would you tell them? That Harold Wilmer, a sad old shoemaker, got it into his head to kill a man? They’ll ask how you know, and you’ll have to tell them you were there, that the man stole your girlfriend, that you broke into his flat, that you had a fight. Not very clever at all.’
‘Harold, I can’t believe this.’
‘You don’t need to believe anything. All right? Just get on with your life, as I intend to. I’m going now. Goodbye.’
He put the phone down on me and when I immediately called back the line rang without being answered. I ran out of my house, into my car and drove to the shop. It wasn’t a quick drive at the best of times and the traffic was terrible. By the time I got there I wasn’t at all surprised to find that he’d gone. The shop was empty and locked. I pounded on the door until a couple of passers-by stopped and asked me what I wanted. I said nothing. I got in my car, put my foot down and drove. I didn’t know where I was going. Maybe I was heading for Heathrow, maybe I was driving around in the hope of seeing Harold wandering the streets, or in a taxi, making his getaway, leaving the scene of the crime, but it wasn’t long before I abandoned that absurd enterprise. Harold had gone. Harold Wilmer, the mild-mannered, murderous shoemaker, had done a very successful disappearing act.
Over the next couple of weeks I spent a lot of time combing the newspapers, looking for some follow-up piece, a report on the inquest, an announcement that a full-scale murder investigation had started, or alternatively that Kramer’s death had been declared an accident or suicide. But I found nothing. What was I to do? I couldn’t call the police and ask how they were getting on. All I could do was try to get on with my life and hope that no news was good news.
Of course, I tried to phone Catherine. It seemed to me that her command not to phone her meant nothing now that Kramer was dead. Not that it mattered anyway. I phoned but there was only the sound of a disconnected line. I went to her flat and got no reply on her bell, so I pressed a lot of the others, pretending I was the postman. People are very gullible. I eventually spoke through the entryphone to a neighbour, a trusting old lady, who told me that Catherine had moved out. I asked how long ago. Oh, maybe a couple of weeks. Had she left a forwarding address? No, but the neighbour had a feeling she might have gone back to America. Where, I asked. What city? What state? Could she even tell me north, south, east, or west? By now the neighbour had worked out that I wasn’t really the postman and put down her phone.
I was frustrated but I saw how it might be for the best. If Catherine had really left a couple of weeks ago then perhaps she wasn’t even aware that Kramer was dead. I don’t know why that pleased me so much.
I did find it strange that Catherine and Harold should both disappear at the same time, and for the briefest moment it occurred to me that they might possibly have gone away together. But, no, that made no sense at all. It had to be nothing more than coincidence.
Kramer’s death straightened me out a lot. I no longer wallowed in the misery of Catherine’s departure. Neither did I go around visiting prostitutes, picking up women, going to seminars on fetishism. I did my very best to lead a quiet, blameless life. It was dull stuff. It would have been nice to meet up with Mike and Natasha, but I was staying out of that one for the moment. Of course, I still had my archive and that remained a source of occasional pleasure, but whereas it had been a fluid, growing collection it now became fixed and static. I thought it safest not to add to it; no more interviewing in the street, no more snatched photographs, no more stolen shoes. I was trying not to act suspiciously. I was acting like a criminal, albeit a reformed one.
I was still occasionally tempted to go to the police. Yes, I would have had to confess to the break-in and to the fight with Kramer, but wouldn’t the mere fact of making a confession prove that I wasn’t the murderer? Well no, I could see that was a game of double and triple bluff, and would prove nothing. But wouldn’t my sheer innocence stand out? Surely the police would be able to tell I wasn’t the murderous type. But no, I didn’t believe that either. Innocent people are sometimes found guilty. People go to jail on the basis of far skimpier evidence than that against me. The chances of them catching Harold, believing and proving that he was the real killer, seemed slim. If the police were looking for a convenient hook on which to hang this murder I’d do just fine.
Then, one night, a stranger came to my door and I knew straight away he was police. In a curious way I was relieved. I knew it had to happen sooner or later. He was young and big, his blond hair was cropped to a post-harvest stubble and his clothes were too tight round his arms and thighs. The pint had been forced into a grey double-breasted half-pint suit.
‘I wonder if I can waste a couple of minutes of your time,’ he said in a surprisingly easy tone.
‘I am sort of busy,’ I replied, only too willing to put him off if he could be put off that easily.
But then he flashed his badge and looked as though he meant business. I didn’t hear what rank he was, not that it would have meant anything to me, but I caught the name Crawford and it was obvious that he was going to come in, invited or not.
‘This won’t take long,’ he said as he clumsily pushed past me into the hall. ‘Don’t worry. It’s about someone and something you probably don’t know anything about.’
For a moment I thought perhaps this visit had nothing at all to do with Kramer, that perhaps it was about stolen cars or the local neighbourhood watch. We walked into the living room and he sat down on the sofa, sprawled a little and blatantly looked round.
‘You live on your own, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it. You can always tell. It’s something to do with the room lacking a woman’s touch. You ever been married?’
‘No.’
‘But you’ve got a girlfriend?’