Severed

I'm having difficulty getting my head round this. 'What information did I want?'

He sounds aghast. 'You really can't remember?'

'No.'

'You wanted an address.'

'But I've already got an address. She's a nanny for a couple in Richmond. I dropped her off there the other week.'

'You said the address was false. That she didn't actually live there.'

His words hit me like hammer blows, and I have to stop walking. So confused do they make me that I even wonder if this could be some kind of wind-up.

'Are you sure about this, Lucas?' I ask cautiously. 'Because if this is-'

'I'm positive, Tyler, and if you really can't remember what we talked about, then I think we'd better get you to a doctor.'

'There's no time for that now. Did you find an address?'

'No, and I've hunted everywhere for her. Her name doesn't appear on any database. She's not on the electoral register, she doesn't own a credit card, and the mobile number you gave for her is a pay-as-you-go not registered to anyone. So I got Snowy to have a look as well. You know what he's like. The guy's a ferret. If there's information there, he'll find it.'

Snowy, the other guy I pulled free from our stricken APC that day in Crossmaglen, has been a junior partner in Martin Lukersson Associates for the past two years, and he's also proved to be an excellent private detective, maybe even better than Lucas himself. It was Snowy who located two of my bad debtors, one of whom had changed his name and moved to Germany, so he knows what he's doing.

'And he didn't find out anything either?' I ask, more in hope than expectation.

'Oh yeah, he found something out all right.'

I feel a small burst of excitement. 'What?'

'He found out that the name's an anagram. Mix the letters up and guess what you come up with?'

'Lucas, I can't even do the Sun crossword.'

'She's not real.'

'What do you mean?'

'Jumble the letters and that's what it spells: she's not real. Leah Torness equals "she's not real",' he adds, just in case I've somehow failed to get the message. 'Someone's fucking you around, Tyler.'

I'm silent for several seconds. I can hear my heart beating in my chest. This has got to be some coincidence, surely. If it isn't, then… Then what? I push the thought to the back of my mind. I don't want to go there.

'So, what the hell's going on?' asks Lucas at last.

I take a deep breath. 'I've got a serious problem,' I tell him, 'and I need your help. Right now.'

'All right,' he answers, and I'm wondering if he's remembering that day back in Crossmaglen. 'What do you need me to do?'

I stop outside the Bangladeshi wholesalers and press the buzzer for Martin Lukersson Associates. 'Let me in and I'll tell you.'

12

It's just turned two o'clock and I'm standing alone with the briefcase in my hand. I'm on the other side of the road from the address I've been given in King's Cross, looking at an empty, three-storey redbrick building dotted with broken windows and graffiti. It's at the end of a street consisting of tired-looking council blocks, many of which also look empty, about half a mile behind the station. A low mesh fence adorned with banners advertising the brand-new two- and three-bedroom apartments that will soon be here surrounds the building, and there's a condemned notice on the unlocked gate.

The area is quiet; only the sounds of construction work from the huge building site that runs north towards Camden Town puncture the silence. It's strange to think that I'm in the middle of a bustling city, yet this street reminds me somehow of the burnt-out, war-ravaged villages we used to pass through during our tour of Bosnia in the 1990s. It's far more intact than they ever were, of course, and without the smell of death and decay, but there is still that dull air of neglect and abandonment, and I'm thinking that, like them, this place would be a perfect location for an ambush. No witnesses, no potential for interruption, and a ready-made resting place for the corpse among the rubble the bulldozers are going to create any day now. It's unlikely that my body'll be found for days, or even weeks.

I watch the place for a couple of seconds. I can't see anyone inside, but then, that's the point. Someone will have slipped in there, quiet and unseen, and he's waiting for me now. If I walk in the door, I know there's little chance of me coming out, and for some reason I feel a sense of betrayal. I've kept my side of the bargain, but the man who in all probability killed Leah doesn't seem to have kept his. Well, fuck him. I don't have to play by his rules any more. I've got what he wants, and he won't dare give me up to the cops until he's got it. So I turn away and start walking, the briefcase in my hand.

I'm thinking about Leah, and what Lucas told me about her name being an anagram. I keep telling myself it must be a coincidence, but if that's the case, why couldn't he track her down, and why did I ask him to look into her in the first place? It's worrying me. If Leah isn't her real name, then it means she lied to me. And if she lied to me about that, it's possible she lied about other things as well. Again, I push the thought from my mind. I don't want to besmirch her memory.

I think back to Wednesday night, to that takeaway meal of squid in black bean sauce. I watched a documentary about the Brazilian rainforest on National Geographic, followed by the news. Then I went to bed. That was it. Nothing exciting at all; a typical weekday evening on my own. Except I don't remember anything else until this morning.

Lucas told me we spoke yesterday afternoon, and that I sounded like I had something on my mind. He asked if I was OK and I replied that I was fine, everything was all right, and he hadn't pursued the matter. The only thing I can think of is that I found out something about Leah that caused me some concern.

The frustration of losing such an important day is intense. It makes me want to bang my head against the nearest wall, as if this might help to jog something. I'm also thinking that if this single patch is indeed going to be permanent, then it begs an important question. If I'm never going to get that memory back, why bother killing me? You see, in my current state, I have absolutely no clue as to the identity of the man behind this, so it's going to be extremely difficult for me to find him. So, either the guy wants to kill me because he's got some kind of personal grudge, or because eventually my memory is going to come back, and when it does, it's going to lead me straight to him. Either way it's a none-too-attractive scenario, because the end result is that someone wants me dead, and that person seems to have the ruthlessness and the resources to ensure it happens.

But I have the briefcase. That, for the moment, is my trump card.

I'm on the Caledonian Road, heading in the direction of Pentonville Road, when I pass a cafe called Rudy's. The door's open and the smell from inside is surprisingly pleasant, with a hint of fresh herbs. Times may be difficult for me, but I haven't eaten for a long time. I go inside and order today's speciaclass="underline" grilled chicken escalope topped with melted mozzarella on toasted ciabatta, with iceberg lettuce and tomato, washed down with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a large mug of black coffee.

The interior of the cafe is empty, and I take a table in the corner as far away from the door as possible. The owner, a smiling Greek guy with very hairy eyebrows and a shiny white apron, brings over the juice and the coffee, and tells me that the chicken will be a few minutes because he likes to cook it fresh. I tell him that's fine, and as I take a long drink of the juice, reeling a little against the sharpness of the taste, the mobile breaks into the sombre strains of the 'Funeral March'. I look at my watch. It's 2.15.

'Where the hell are you?' demands the voice.

The menacing robotic tone no longer unnerves me. 'I didn't like your choice of drop-off point,' I tell him.