I let myself into the flat like it was some sort of sanctuary. Well, they say an Englishman's home is his castle. Yeah, said a little voice in my head, tell that to Terry, lying slaughtered behind his own front door . . .
Fifteen
I slammed the door behind me and spent a few moments leaning back against it, eyes closed. It was only then that the full force of reaction hit me. I made a dash for the bathroom and spent the next few minutes heaving fruitlessly into the toilet bowl.
I needn't have bothered. I'd completely emptied my stomach in Terry's hallway. All I succeeded in doing was make my eyes and nose stream, and leave a vile taste in my mouth. My ribs felt as though the Scouser had been back for a rematch.
Suddenly I remembered again the words I'd half-overheard while I was lying on my lounge floor. The smoker had said, “If you've killed her the shit's really going to hit the fan after last time . . .” I'd initially thought they somehow referred to Susie's death. Now they made chilling sense.
I sat down on the toilet floor, resting my head on the seat. My skin felt cold and clammy and my hands were shaking. I knew I had to pull myself together, but it was a real case of easier said than done.
Finally, I staggered to my feet, blowing my nose on reams of loo paper. I splashed cold water on to my face, and cleaned my teeth. After that I felt almost human again.
I was going to have to call the police, but I made up my mind to do it from the anonymity of a public call box. I know you can dial 141 to stop your telephone number being registered by the person you're calling, but I'd never tried it. I didn't think this was the time to find out the police could override the system anyway.
I searched round for my voice changer device, but I hadn't yet found it among the flotsam that covered the lounge floor. I dithered over searching for it, then decided no. A good old-fashioned scarf would have to do the job of disguising my voice.
I had a complete brain dump about where the nearest phone box was. The marketplace. There were three or four phone boxes in the marketplace, near to the fountain. No, they were too public.
I racked my brains before I remembered the one on Caton Road. Not perfect, but it would do. At least you weren't likely to get loads of people hanging round it while you were trying to cryptically explain the discovery of a dead body to the desk sergeant.
By the time I'd ridden the short distance and parked up at the kerb next to the phone box, I was annoyed to find my hands were shaking again, so much I could hardly get my helmet off. I spent a few minutes just sitting there, trying to relax enough to work out exactly what I was going to say.
Finally, I couldn't put it off any longer. I left my gloves on just in case and fumbled dialling the Lancaster cop-shop, wrapping my scarf firmly round the receiver as I did so. A rather bored-sounding woman answered the phone.
“Listen up,” I said, my voice echoing gruffly in my ear. “You got a pen? Then write this down.”
“Hang on – yep, go ahead,” the woman said. She sounded suddenly more interested.
“There's a body of a guy in a house on Wilmington Avenue, the one with the big van outside.”
“A body? What do you mean?”
I didn't think I could have been much clearer. “What do you mean, ‘What do I mean?’? A dead guy, he's been knifed. Just get there.”
“OK son, don't worry, we're on our way. What's your name?”
On cue, I put the phone down. I hurried outside, cracked the bike up and struggled into my helmet. I expected a squad car to come screeching up at any minute and haul me inside, but there were only the usual few cars and trucks ambling past. I waited for a gap in the traffic and did another of my wobbly U-turns, then rode sedately back towards the middle of town.
In my mind I was going over it, trying to work out if there was any way I could be linked to Terry's place. It was only then that I remembered Terry's business partner, Paul. Shit. I didn't know if he was aware that Terry had given me the lap-top, but he was certainly the first person the police were likely to contact. If he mentioned me, and if any of the neighbours remembered seeing the bike . . .
With rather more urgency than before I dived through the traffic round the town centre and headed out towards Abraham Heights. On my way I passed the police station, lit up like late-night shopping.
There were no signs of undue activity and I wondered briefly if they'd taken my message seriously. I don't know what I expected to see – dozens of cars screaming out with lights and sirens blazing, I expect.
I got lucky with the traffic lights, and it was only a few minutes later that I pulled up on the pavement outside the video shop owned by Terry's partner. Or should that be ex-partner.
When I walked in Paul was lounging on the counter reading a sci-fi novel with an infeasibly well-endowed blonde in a sprayed-on jumpsuit on the cover. It must have been captivating, because he looked up with that slightly irritated expression of someone who really didn't want to be disturbed right at that moment.
Still, when he saw it was me he broke into a smile which did nothing to improve his looks. He and Terry had always made an odd couple. Where Terry had been fat, Paul was thin to the point of gauntness, his hunched shoulders emphasised by the bagginess of his jumper. Where Terry's features were spread across his face like he'd had a hard impact with a fast-moving object, Paul was sharp-looking, almost feral.
He had a small compressed line of a mouth, and a long narrow pointed nose. His chin was a good match for his nose, with a cleft. That would have been all right on Michael Douglas, but regrettably on Paul it looked like he had a small pair of buttocks hanging off the bottom of his face. I'd vaguely wondered once if the two men had been initially drawn together because each thought the other made him look more attractive.
“Er, hi Charlie,” he said. “What's up? You look like you've seen a ghost.”
I made sure the shop was empty before I launched straight in. “I've just been round to Terry's place.”
“Oh, right. I've been meaning to go round there myself. He's been off the last couple of days and I've had people from his normal round phoning up because he hasn't shown up. Did you find him?”
“Yeah,” I said grimly, “I found him all right.” I paused awkwardly. “Look, there isn't an easy way to say this, but Terry's dead.”
Paul took the shock well, but his skin actually turned slightly grey. In that moment I believed completely that he had nothing to do with his partner's death. Not that I had Paul pinned as much of a suspect, in any case. I don't know anyone who can change colour at will without the aid of a bottle. It had to be a genuine reaction.
“Poor bastard, what happened? Did he have a heart attack? I mean, is he in hospital? Are you sure he's dead?”
I nodded to the last bit. “I saw him and I'm quite sure,” I said. “And he didn't have a heart attack, he was stabbed.”
His head snapped up at that. “Shitfire, when did this happen?”
I shrugged, leaning on the counter and suddenly feeling unutterably tired. “I don't know,” I said wearily. “It must have been at least a day or so ago.”
He blanched at the implications. “Hang on.” He moved round the counter towards the door, turning the open sign to closed and flicking the catch. “Come on,” he said. “You look as though you could do with a drink.”
He led me through to the back of the shop where they had a small, untidy kitchen. There was an odd assortment of cracked but neatly washed up mugs on the scarred stainless steel draining board next to the sink. Paul cleared a load of scrap posters off a rickety, paint-splattered chair and motioned me into it.
He mentioned that he still had a bottle of leftover Christmas brandy about somewhere, and set about making coffee with generous slugs of the spirit in it for us both.