He found the address with some difficulty, in a maze of dirty side turnings on a council estate where the grimy buildings were all identical, with peeling paintwork on the windows and doors and brickwork in need of repointing, interspersed with ugly concrete blocks whose walls were already showing cracks. Weeds grew along the pavement and in the tiny front yards, as though seeking to fill the vacuum created by the absence of nature. The few scrubby wild plants were a poor substitute for trees and grass. Ian rang the bell to number sixty-three but no one answered. He tried the next bell by the front door and a crackly intercom buzzed.
‘What?’ a muffled voice fizzed in response.
‘I’m looking for the tenant at number sixty-three,’ Ian shouted back.
‘This is sixty-four,’ the voice replied and the intercom fell silent.
Ian tried again but this time no one answered. Cursing, Ian pressed the next bell and went through the same charade.
‘This is number sixty-five,’ the next voice said.
‘Yes, I know,’ Ian replied quickly, before the woman could end his call. ‘Do you know where your neighbour from number sixty-three is?’
‘Number sixty-three? How the fuck should I know?’
He heard a man’s voice in the background calling out, ‘Who is it?’
‘Who are you anyway?’ the woman asked.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Ian decided not to pursue his search any further that day. It wouldn’t do for Jammie to hear that someone had come looking for him. Ian would have to return and hope for better luck the following day.
23
Ten days had passed since Thomas had received the message warning him that he had been seen. He knew as well as the writer of the note what it signified, but without knowing who had written it, he was powerless to respond. All he could do was wait. He no longer thought of the writer of the note as a witness to his guilt. He – or she – was The Enemy now. Thomas had never intended to kill anyone. All he had been after was a bit of fun. But now he found his mind drifting into violent thoughts. There was really nothing he could do to prevent his enemy from exposing him. They could hardly sign a contract: ‘I pay you however many thousands of pounds and you promise to tell no one that you witnessed me dispose of a dead body.’
It might be better if Thomas simply removed the blackmailer from his life altogether, rather than handing over money he couldn’t afford to lose. While he didn’t begrudge what Emily had spent on putting her mother into a private care home for the last year of her life, he had been secretly relieved when his mother-in-law had died. She had been little more than a vegetable towards the end of her life anyway. And now there were Sam’s university expenses to fund. His job was reasonably well paid, but money was still tight.
Thomas was no murderer, but there was no knowing what any man might do if he was desperate enough, even one who had never set out to hurt anyone. The truth was clear in his mind. Thomas’s crime had been inadvertent. He hadn’t even killed the stupid whore, for goodness sake. She was the one who had attacked him, fatally injuring herself in the process. That was hardly Thomas’s fault. But the police would never see it like that, especially not now he had dumped the body in the woods. They wouldn’t understand that he had been determined to prevent his wife finding out he had brought a prostitute back to their house. Not for the first time, he regretted not having buried the body. That way, if his blackmailer went to the police, Thomas would at least have had a chance to deny all knowledge of the accusation. There would have been no reason for the police to search his house for evidence that an unknown woman had ever been there because, without a body, the whole accusation would fall by the wayside. He could say he had been seen throwing out an old carpet. But it was too late for that now.
With hindsight, he realised that he ought to have called the emergency services as soon as the woman had collapsed, and claimed that the tart had knocked on his door uninvited. He could have said she had told him she was being pursued by an assailant, and he had stupidly let her in out of concern for her safety. If he had gone straight to the police, without going anywhere near the body, the police might have believed that he was innocent, and he might have convinced his wife that he had not been involved with a sex worker, but had simply tried to help a woman in need. Calling the police himself would have confirmed his innocence.
At the time the woman had died, getting rid of the body had seemed the safest course of action. Now that he risked exposure, he realised he had been a fool to have gone anywhere near the body. Having behaved like a guilty man, there was no way he could plead ignorance. The stupid part of it all was that he hadn’t actually been guilty of a crime until he had taken steps to conceal his behaviour from his wife. On the other hand, the police could have found evidence that the dead woman had been a passenger in his car, which would have disproved any claim he made that she had turned up unannounced on his doorstep. The truth was he should never have brought a prostitute back to his house. He had done so more than once, and had always known he was asking for trouble. Well, now trouble had found him, and he had only himself to blame for the awkward situation he found himself in. But he hadn’t killed the woman. That had been sheer bad luck. All he could do now was keep his head down, avoid trouble, and make sure he gave the police no reason to take a sample of his DNA.
With every passing day, he grew more apprehensive, until it became difficult to conceal his agitation from his wife. He barely slept at night, and struggled to keep his temper under control during the day. He never became violently angry. That wasn’t in his make-up. But he grew increasingly irritable, both at work and at home until he barely recognised himself any more. He used to be an easy-going sort of bloke. Now he was a nervous wreck, jumping every time the phone rang, and scouring the newspapers every day for any report about a murder in York.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Emily asked him on more than one occasion.
He mumbled vaguely about being under pressure at work. He realised this was his enemy’s plan, to make him suffer unbearable anxiety, to the point that he would be prepared to agree to almost anything, just to make it stop. But there was nothing he could do about it. His sense of helplessness was the worst aspect of his situation. Instead of being reassured as the days passed without a word from the witness, he grew more and more stressed, not knowing when his enemy might contact him again. He realised no one had reported him to the police or they would have been knocking on his door by now. That meant his enemy must be planning to blackmail him. He wished he or she would get on with it, and put an end to this unbearable suspense.
By the time ten days had passed since he had received the note, he began to dare to hope it might have been a stupid hoax. For all he knew, the writer had not seen him with the body at all. ‘I saw what you did’ could refer to just about anything. He might have dropped some litter, or parked badly. Perhaps the writer had forgotten all about it, or was already dead, having suffered a stroke or a heart attack, or been knocked down by a car, leaving Thomas worrying for nothing. He was not a religious man, but he found himself praying that the witness had met with a fatal accident.
He was on his way to his car at the end of a working day when his phone rang. He answered without thinking, not bothering to check to see who was calling him. Expecting to hear his wife’s voice, he was caught off guard by an unfamiliar one.
‘Hello,’ the stranger said.
Thomas waited, wondering if it was a scam.
‘I know you’re there.’
The sound was curiously husky, as though the caller was trying to disguise his voice.
‘You must have the wrong number,’ Thomas said.
‘I don’t think so,’ the caller replied, his voice deeper than before.
‘Who are you?’ Thomas asked, with a growing suspicion that he was talking to the writer of the menacing note.
‘You don’t ne
ed to know who I am. What’s important is that I know who you are, Thomas. Thomas Hill.’
There was a pause after the speaker recited Thomas’s address, as though he expected a response. Thomas didn’t answer. He couldn’t trust himself to speak without betraying his terror.
‘You know why I’m calling you,’ the voice resumed.
Thomas remained silent.
‘It’s about the money you’re going to pay me. Five thousand pounds.’
‘And what if I don’t agree to your ridiculous demand?’ Thomas blurted out, shocked into responding.
‘The police put out an appeal on TV,’ the voice went on. ‘I expect you saw it? They’re looking for a grey van with your registration number. It would be very easy for me to come forward in response to their appeal, and inform them that I’d seen that same van in your drive. No doubt they’ll come knocking on your door to ask you a few questions. And once they start, they won’t leave you alone. They’ll have a search team around, looking for evidence of a dead body in your house. They can find a single drop of blood, and they have dogs that can sniff things like that out, long after the body’s gone. You don’t want your wife finding out what you did, do you? All I have to do is describe how I was cycling past and saw you carrying a large heavy bundle out to the van, the night after a sex worker was killed. Of course, I’ll tell them, it never occurred to me at the time to question what you were doing. Who would suspect someone of disposing of a dead body at night? The police are bound to take it seriously. They’ll drag you off for questioning, and they’ll probably want to question your wife, too. And who knows what evidence they might find in your house?’
Thomas thought of the grey van, still in his garage. He had been waiting for the fuss to die down before cleaning every surface he might have touched with bleach and dumping it. He knew he really ought to have disposed of it straight away, but the fear of being seen had held him back. At least in his garage it was safely out of sight – unless the police came calling.
‘Think about it, Thomas. Five thousand pounds and this will all go away, as though it never happened. Leave it in a bag below the tallest tree on the waste ground by the railway at seven o’clock on Saturday morning. I’ll be there to collect it. You won’t see me. If the money’s not there, you know what will happen. Five thousand pounds is a small sum to ask for in exchange for your freedom, don’t you think?’
Thomas had expected to be asked for more, but he was still shocked. In his wildest imaginings he had been afraid he might have to sell his house, but now that the blackmail had become a reality, he balked at the amount demanded.
‘If you think I can get hold of that kind of money, you’re out of your mind,’ he blustered. ‘There’s no way I can find anything like that. And I’m not going to pay you a penny. Do your worst!’
He could hear his voice trembling, rising to a shrill crescendo as he finished speaking. The blackmailer must have noticed how he lost control of himself.
‘Do you think I care how you get it? Rob a bank, if you must. You’re a fool if you think you can haggle with me. You don’t have any say in this. I set the amount and the terms. You simply do as you’re told. Otherwise, your wife’s going to know all about you and your dirty secret. Everyone will know.’
‘What guarantee do I have after I pay you that you won’t come back and ask for more?’
The caller laughed and hung up.
24
Ian sat hunched miserably on the train, wondering if he was misguided in hoping to negotiate with Jammie all by himself. There was only a slim chance that a junkie could ever be persuaded of anything. To start with, Ian revealing that he was a detective inspector would be risky. Convincing Jammie that Helena had special police protection was going to be even more difficult. He had probably been fed a story that she was dead to stop him ferreting around looking for her. Jammie was unlikely to believe a word Ian said and, even if he did, there was no reason why he would accommodate a request from a police officer. A lot was at stake for Ian, so it was with a dry mouth and slightly sweating brow that he walked along the street on trembling legs and approached Jammie’s front door again. A steady sleet was falling, making the scene look even more miserable and grey than on the previous day.
This time, as soon as he knocked the door was opened by a bleary-eyed tousled-haired man in scruffy jeans and a grey T-shirt. He stared blankly at Ian, his lips moving wordlessly.
‘Who sent you?’ the man asked at last, his eyes seeming to focus with difficulty.
‘No one sent me,’ Ian replied.
It was the wrong answer.
The man’s face twisted in temper. ‘Fuck off then. You’re not welcome here. I don’t give a damn who you are.’
The door slammed.
Ian knocked again, repeatedly. Finally the door opened a fraction, barely sufficient for a sudden shove to allow Ian to get his foot through the gap. The man inside resisted but was not strong enough to withstand the force of Ian’s shoulder pushing against him.
‘Fuck off!’ he yelled. ‘Whoever you are, fuck off!’
After a few moments, the door shifted and Ian stepped across the threshold to be hit by a heady aroma of incense and weed, mingled with tobacco and other pungent smells. Someone had recently been eating curry. Ian sniffed and struggled to maintain an impassive expression.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the householder demanded, his voice shrill with alarm.
Shivering with agitation and briefly pumped with indignation, he was clearly too stoned to sustain his anger for long. After a few seconds his rage subsided and he stood helplessly staring and mumbling under his breath, his skinny arms hanging loosely at his sides.
‘Is your name Jammie?’ Ian asked, kicking the front door shut behind him. ‘Don’t fuck with me. Is your name Jammie?’
The man nodded without speaking. All at once, he seemed to wake up and fumbled to take a switchblade from his pocket.
Ian reached out and calmly twisted the other man’s wrist until the knife fell from his grasp. Ian kicked it away and placed his foot on it.
‘I wouldn’t try anything else if I were you,’ he said quietly, without releasing the other man’s arm. ‘I’m not here to bust you. I just want to make an arrangement with you.’
Jammie scowled. ‘Fuck off,’ he snarled. ‘I don’t have no truck with filth.’
‘You’re right, I’m a police officer. One of my colleagues knows where I am and she’s ready to send a truck load of drug enforcement officers along, in the unlikely event of anything happening to me. But I don’t think you want that sort of trouble, do you? Do you?’
Ian twisted Jammie’s arm slightly, and the dealer shook his head, wincing and mumbling about ‘police brutality’.
‘Good,’ Ian said, still gripping Jammie’s arm. ‘Then I suggest you pay very careful attention to what I’m saying.’
Jammie’s fists clenched and he glared around wildly.
‘On the other hand,’ Ian continued in an even tone of voice, ‘if you’re stupid enough to change your mind and decide to attack a police officer, you’re never going to walk out of a prison cell alive – if I don’t break your neck myself first. Because if any harm comes to me, you’ll never be free again. Never. And that’s a promise. Now, wouldn’t you like to listen to me?’
What Ian had said was a lie. None of his colleagues had any idea where he was, nor did they care about Jammie, who was one of a host of unimportant runners who kept their heads below the radar, delivering smack for dealers. He wouldn’t be much of a catch for Ian’s colleagues on the drug squad. If they took Jammie off the streets, in no time at all there would be a clutch of other runners eager to take his place and pocket their cut. The drug squad were after the big dealers, the ones who brought consignments of heroin and cocaine across the border into the country, and flooded the cities with them. In the meantime, all that interested Ian w
as that Jammie be stopped so that Helena could come out of hiding and see Geraldine again.
Jammie hesitated before nodding at Ian. ‘Go on then,’ he muttered. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Shrewd move,’ Ian said, smiling to conceal his relief. ‘You’re doing the right thing. Being sensible. This way, no one gets hurt and no one ends up in trouble. Now, let’s talk. I want to cut you a deal just between us.’
‘What you after?’ Jammie asked, his eyes sharp, his manner suddenly slick. ‘You name it I can get it. I’m not shitting you. Crack, crystal, poppers, ganja, angel dust, whatever you want.’
Listening to the list of drugs Jammie supplied, Ian wondered if he should reconsider his plans and see the dealer put behind bars after all.
‘Charlie, smack, acid, skunk, uppers, downers, whatever you want, dude,’ Jammie went on, growing affable in the belief that he had found a lucrative new source of income, as well as a potentially useful ally. ‘Anything. All pure, no crap. I got good sources. Come on, dude,’ he went on, wheedling, ‘we can cut a deal, just like you said, just between us. And seeing as who you are, I’ll give you a special price. Trust me, cheap as chips for you.’
‘Not that sort of deal,’ Ian snapped. ‘Shut up and listen.’
Jammie’s eyes widened in surprise as Ian outlined his demands, in exchange for which he undertook to protect Jammie from his colleagues. That wasn’t true, but Ian was fairly confident Jammie swallowed it. He had no compunction about lying to someone like Jammie, who made a living from causing untold misery and suffering.
‘You want this bitch left alone?’ Jammie repeated, frowning. ‘What the fuck? What the fuck?’
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