I stopped on the way to stick another few gallons of juice into the Suzuki. The tank on the RGV is pretty small, and if you're giving it some serious beans you go onto reserve after less than a hundred miles.
I was just squeezing the last few drops into the filler when there was the roar of a Norton pulling in alongside. I looked up to see Sam's big brown eyes crinkling at me through his open visor.
“Hi, Charlie. I thought it was you,” he said, pulling off his helmet and stuffing his scarf into it. “Didn't you get my message?”
“Yeah.” I vaguely remembered Sam's voice on the answering machine. It seemed like years ago. I hung the nozzle back into the pump and locked the filler cap back down. “Sorry, I've had a bit on my plate.”
“What could be more important than talking to me?” he demanded with an irritatingly cheeky grin.
“A friend of mine was murdered,” I dropped on him, just to watch his smile fade. I knew I wasn't being fair, but what the hell? Life's like that, and I wasn't feeling very fair right now.
He made all the usual noises of shock and commiseration, but his eyes had that twitchy look of someone searching wildly for a suitable change of subject. He opened his mouth, but only succeeded in changing feet. “So, what happened to that lap-top, then?”
As he spoke it suddenly occurred to me that it was probably only Terry’s ignorance of Sam’s full name and home location that had prevented my unwanted visitors from paying him a nocturnal visit as well. No doubt they would have got round to forcibly extracting that information from me, if I’d given them the chance. “The computer was nicked when my place was turned over at the weekend.” I said flatly.
He looked stricken. I was almost beginning to feel sorry for him. “Jeez, Charlie, I’m sorry. And about your friend. What happened?”
I gave him a brief précis of how Joy had met her death as he filled up the Norton’s tank. He took it in pale silence, and we went in to pay together. There were a couple of people in front of us, dithering with chequebooks. The girl behind the counter looked hard-faced and bored.
As I stood there in the queue, I knew I still hadn’t really taken it in that Tris, my friend, was a cold-blooded murderer. That he was responsible for three vicious crimes. I couldn’t begin to understand what had driven him to do it.
I idly watched another car pull up to the pumps, catching the monochrome echo of it on the security monitor behind the cashier’s head. Sam must have been following my gaze.
“It’s a shame there weren’t any closed circuit cameras at that Shelseley place where you teach,” he said. “They might have spotted who did it.”
“Oh, we know who did it, and they’ve got him,” I said automatically as I stepped forwards to pay.
I waited while Sam handed over the money for his own fill-up, then we walked back to the bikes.
When I’d said the words, it all sounded so cut and dried, but somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain there was a stirring of unease, of apprehension.
There was still a connection with the lap-top Terry had given me that I hadn’t figured out yet. Otherwise, how had my voice changer got from the flat on the night of the burglary, and into Tris’s hands? And where did Angelo fit in to all this?
Something wasn’t finished, wasn’t over, but I was damned if I could put my finger on exactly what it was.
***
I pottered the rest of the way through the dark and busy city streets and down onto the quay. I was surprised when I got back to the flat to find Marc's sleek BMW waiting outside. I don't know how long he'd been there, but he was still sitting in the driver's seat when I arrived.
As I parked the bike up, he climbed out, leisurely, pulling on a superb long wool overcoat against the bitter wind.
“Hi,” he said. “Are you OK?”
I found myself smiling as I took off my helmet. “Yeah,” I replied, unsettled to find how pleased I was to see him. He was slipping under my skin. I wasn't sure if that was really where I wanted him.
Heedless of the dirty weather, he stood waiting for me to pull the cover over the Suzuki, then followed me up the stairs.
I bunged the coffee machine on, and went to change into some dry clothes. Waterproofs over the top of leathers make you look like the Michelin man and rustle so alarmingly when you walk that you have to resist the tendency to raise your voice to be heard over the noise.
When I came back, having hastily thrown on some clean jeans and a shirt, Marc was standing by one of the windows, staring out across the river. Everyone seems to be fascinated by the view. I must admit it was one of the things I most liked about the flat when I moved in.
He offered to take me out for dinner, but I passed on that one. I didn't feel much like eating out. In the end I rang one of the local Indian takeaways and they brought round chunky lamb tikka and chicken dupiaza with sweet moist peshwari naan bread and crisp poppadums.
I'd only seen Marc on his terms, as lord of the New Adelphi, and in his up-market hotel suite. It was a nice surprise to find that he could still slum it. He lost the overcoat and his suit jacket in short order and we sat on cushions on the floor to demolish the food, mopping up with bits of naan bread and fingers.
“I like watching you eat,” he said at last. “You don't order the most expensive thing on the menu and then make a pretence of picking at it.”
I eyed him over the last piece of poppadum. He didn't get to it fast enough. “You've been going out with the wrong women,” I said, grinning as I used it to scoop up the last of the mint raita.
He smiled at me for a moment, then his expression sobered. “You're looking better than I expected,” he remarked, leaning back against the arm of the sofa with his head tilted to one side, considering. “It's not every girl who could go through what you've had to over the last few days and come out of it looking so unruffled.”
I shrugged. “You either cope or you give in. I don't like to lose.”
“I don't see you as the losing type,” he said, smiling wryly. “You're quite a fighter, Charlie Fox.”
“I wasn't always,” I said suddenly, needing to tell him. “I was a victim once. I swore nobody would ever make me feel that way again.”
He frowned. “But you were still attacked.”
I gave him a level stare, told him, “It's a state of mind.”
I left him to ponder that one while I fetched us both a coffee. When I came back he'd cleared the debris of the meal into the cardboard box they'd delivered it in, and put it by the door to take out. Not bad – house-trained as well.
He smiled lazily at me from the sofa and motioned for me to sit in front of him, with my back to his legs. When I complied he began to knead the knots out of my shoulders. Those long, agile fingers were merciless, but the results felt wonderful. I was aware of the tension slowly loosening up, like ice defrosting from a long-neglected freezer.
Then, in the midst of it, I had a vision of Tris again, rubbing scented oil into my skin with hands that had robbed two women of their lives, and raped and beaten a third.
I smelled Joy's blood again, snapping upright and jerking away from Marc's hands.
“Calm down, Charlie,” he said. “What do you think I'm going to do to you?”
I gave him an apologetic smile as I twisted to face him. “Sorry. I'm still a bit jumpy.”
He smiled also. “Well, at least you didn't punch me this time.” He smoothed a strand of my hair away from my face. “You need to relax more.”
“I can't afford to,” I said. I couldn't afford to let my guard down, even for a moment. It seemed that I'd dipped out of getting my father's medical assistance, but I still needed to find that link between Terry's murder and the attacks on the women. And then between those and the New Adelphi Club . . .