I waited until Clay had calmed down. I watched him sink the rest of my cold tea, nearly swallowing the mug. His throat shook as the liquid went down, and his body rippled with tremors as he shifted on his tiny chair. Clay looked soft. If you were a kid you’d want to bounce up and down on him. But he wasn’t soft. He was the brick inside the snow football, the perfect plan to hurt you. His laughter focused me, set me hard.
‘A tape recorder,’ I said again.
I was kept at the station for twenty-four hours, during which time I told first Ken Clay, then Andy Gold, and then another two officers, almost exactly what I had been doing over the last four days. I told them everything, from originally seeing Lucy Bradley in Camden, to being run into by the boy just before finding Lucy’s body. I did not, however, tell them what the boy had said to me, or anything about the look on his face. That look was surprise, and horror; I didn’t think it was murder. I didn’t tell them about the kettle or the tea bag either; facts that would maybe show he’d been just as surprised as I was. I was happy for the police to think that the boy had killed Lucy, at least for the moment. It might stop them wasting their time on me.
I told them about being followed by the murdered girl’s sister, and seeing her outside the tube. I told them about seeing the boy at Camden Lock, and what happened at York’s, and after with the cab driver and his friends. But one of the things I didn’t give them was Donna-Natalie. At least not her name. As I’d moled down into those bin bags I’d actually thought it was her I was going to find down there, not Lucy. I didn’t tell them about seeing her at York’s because I wanted to have something of my own, a card to play if I needed it. Also, I couldn’t believe she’d killed Lucy, and I knew that somehow her parents would find her if I gave her to the police. The police would want to know everything about her. Donna didn’t need that. I could still see the look on her face when she’d told me about the life she’d led before she’d come to London.
As it was, I could tell that the two DCs who tried to pound me with logic were pretty certain I was the man they were after. Clay left them to it, probably telling them to take as long as was legal so he’d have something to tell the press. A man is helping the police with their inquiries. He could have just let me stew on my own, but probably just sicked the other two on me to give them a little practice. They certainly needed it.
As it stood, however, I could understand the officers’ enthusiasm. Everything they came up with I had an explanation for, but the fact that my explanation was the truth did not alter the fact that their explanation, that I had killed the girl, also seemed to fit. I’d been seen following her for three days. I’d been seen following her on the night she died. Furthermore, my blood had been found, some of it on Lucy’s body, some on three of the bags surrounding her. It was a can, I said, for the fifth time, check for a can with bloodstains on it. As for the state of my leg, the bruising on my head and neck, that could have been due to a struggle with the murdered girl, or with other parties involved. What witnesses did I have to the fight I’d had? None. What about getting in the cab? A guy with a clipboard. They’d most certainly check it out, they told me.
I didn’t bother arguing with them or pointing out that they hadn’t come up with any kind of motive for me to kill Lucy, or that I was hardly likely to report a murder I had myself committed. I knew it wouldn’t make any difference to them. I just sat there trying to remain calm, to sit it out. I was now very tired, not having slept, mainly because I knew that if I did, Clay would have me woken after an hour or so to get at me while I was in REM haze. He didn’t care what hour of the day or night he conducted his interviews. I spent the time tapping mental fingers, holding all the events in my head frozen still, waiting for the space in which to let them all move together. That space was not a police station.
At about ten a.m. the next morning Clay met me in the interview room, and didn’t take long to get to the point.
‘You’ve been placed at the scene,’ he said. ‘You sure you told me everything?’
I sighed. ‘Placed at the scene by myself,’ I replied. ‘Remember? I called it in?’
‘By a boy who saw you on the street outside. Says you were sniffing around after the Bradley girl for days.’
‘You know that. I told you about him. Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I also placed him there?’
‘Maybe. But maybe you only mentioned him because you knew we’d find out anyway.’
‘Whatever. What does it change? Where’s the boy? Have you got him?’
‘It was a phone call. But we’ll find him. That might be enough on its own you know. How’s your hand?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Find the can yet?’
‘Maybe,’ Clay admitted.
Clay looked thoughtful for a second, wistful even. He let his guard drop a fraction.
‘You know what I hate?’ he said after a second.
‘As far as I can remember? Most things.’
‘But particularly?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s these DNA fucking tests everyone’s so frigging in love with. They really, really bug me sometimes.’
‘Like when they make life difficult for you?’
‘Exactly.’ He leant forward on the table. I wasn’t sure it could take it. ‘When they cloud the picture so to speak, with information I could happily have done without.’
I left a second, watching while Clay tried to fold his arms over his chest. ‘In this case referring to what?’
‘Someone had tried to give her one,’ Clay said flatly. ‘Tried to but failed, so the report states. Ever had that problem?’
I shrugged. He looked like he had.
‘Some laddie turned on the hose before he’d managed to get it into the garden so to speak. We thought it might have been you.’
‘Not me,’ I said.
‘No. And thanks to DNA sodding testing I’ve got to believe you. Some other fucker. Or, rather, would-be fucker. Just like a mosque in Golder’s Green apparently; no sign of entry. Just an offering outside. Sperm, Billy, in layman’s terms. We’ve got a sample of his nasty nature and the boffins, bless ’em, tell me it didn’t come from you.’
‘I could have told you that.’
‘Aye, but I wouldn’t have had to believe you, would I? Even if I did.’
‘What a shame. Things were much easier in the good old days, eh?’
‘Too fucking right, mate,’ Clay said. ‘But as it is, Billy, sad as it makes me, for the second time recently, thanks to the damn scientists I’m going to have to let you go.’
Clay’s hands spread wide like he wanted to hug me. Hearing him say what he had didn’t make me consciously relax, but almost immediately a yawn fought its way from within me and I didn’t bother stifling it. It seemed to annoy Clay. He was pretending to be very calm about the whole thing but I could tell that it irked him to see me walk away so easily, without giving him anything. Clay could tell that I knew stuff, I was closer to it than him. And he hated being in the dark, feeling excluded from the story. It was why he made such a good copper, because of his almost psychotic need: to know. He didn’t want to bring people to justice, to put them away, he just needed to pry his way into things, to show them that he could get to the centre. I could almost picture him in the playground; the fat kid with a packed lunch on a bench, all the other kids with their backs to him without even realizing it.
I guessed that was why he was letting me go. He really didn’t have to. Just because I hadn’t tried to sleep with her didn’t mean I hadn’t killed the girl, and I wouldn’t have been the first person to report a murder I’d committed myself. Clay had enough to keep me even if he knew I was clean. He just knew that I might be able to help him, something I wouldn’t be able to do sitting there. And if I didn’t, and if the whole thing stalled and he started getting flack about it, well he knew where I lived. He could easily give a little yank on the string.
Clay said, ‘Keep me informed, Billy. Before I have to ask.’
And then he was gone.
* * *
James Bradley didn’t think I’d killed his daughter. He knew that the main suspect for the killing was a young boy who had been seen with Lucy over the last couple of days and may even have been living with her. Bradley knew that I had seen him fleeing from the scene of the crime. So what he wanted from me was very simple. He wanted me to find the boy.
I shook my head and asked him why he wanted to waste money on me when my former colleagues were already onto it.
‘You found Lucy,’ he explained. ‘You may have been too late but that wasn’t your fault, you found her. Nobody else could, not the first people we’d tried, not the police.’
‘They weren’t looking,’ I said.
‘No, but even if they had been I’m not sure they would have found her any sooner. Tell me, how did you do it so quickly?’
I didn’t think it ethical business practice to misrepresent my services so I told him the truth.
‘It was a fluke,’ I said. ‘I saw her before I was looking for her, so I knew she hung around Camden. Then I went to the club she was fliering for.’
‘But still, you found her. You specialize in young people?’
‘I do.’
‘And this boy is young. We’d like you to make some enquiries, see what you can find out. I know you’ve probably had enough of us, what with getting beaten up and everything, and I don’t have much of a right, but I’m asking you, please, to help us again.’
I looked down at my coffee cup and thought about it. I touched my leg, which had just about healed. I’d gone along to meet Bradley with the intention of simply filling him in on Lucy’s last hours, giving him information which, however meaningless, I would want to have known if my daughter had been killed. But I had to admit I was kidding myself. I needed to know myself, I needed to sort it out. I remembered the feeling I’d had about Lucy, how I’d thought of her as a selfish, spoilt little girl, when I hadn’t known the first thing about her. It made me feel guilty, the way I’d dismissed her. I knew I couldn’t dismiss her again.
I looked up and nodded. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘But that’s all I’ll do.’
‘Of course.’
‘Anything I find out I’ll take straight to the police. That’s as far as I go.’
‘Of course,’ Mr Bradley said.
‘And if I think things might get even the slightest bit hairy I’m going to back off immediately.’
‘Of course,’ Mr Bradley said, for the third time.
I took a sip of my espresso and Mr Bradley tentatively asked me how much I would charge him. I knew I could have taken him for a fortune but I didn’t. Honest. After we had agreed a fee Mr Bradley wrote me a cheque, which I took without any fuss. This wasn’t a usual case for me, and I wasn’t going to feel pressured by this man the way I had been by his wife. I’d need to lay out some cash if I was going to get anywhere. I slid the cheque into the top pocket of my suit.
‘Does your wife know you’re hiring me?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Good. I’ll probably need to speak to her. And to Emma. If that’s OK.’
‘I’ll talk to her. I’m sure she’ll agree. She’s been very helpful to the police who’ve been round.’
‘I’m sure she has.’ I bit my lip. ‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Yes, I mean as much as I can. It’s her mother really who she’s closer to. I know they’ve been speaking.’
‘It’s just that Emma told me she blamed herself for Lucy running away. An argument over exam results. I just thought I’d mention it because she probably feels it even more now.’
‘Oh,’ Mr Bradley said, very simply. ‘Oh. I didn’t know.’ He was shocked, like I’d just woken him from a nap, and then he looked completely defeated. I couldn’t tell whether it was at the thought of his daughter’s feelings or at the fact that she had told them to me, a stranger, and not to him. He looked beyond me.
‘Thank you…’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to her. I didn’t know she felt that way. No wonder she’s withdrawn. It wasn’t her fault, of course not, not hers at all. No. How could it be? It’s just that Lucy…Lucy never…’
And then he sat back and his words dissolved into the smoke-filled air. I thought he’d finished but a look of horror came over his face. His mouth opened, as if searching on its own for the words it wanted to say.
‘I haven’t given Emma a thought,’ he said finally. He shook his head in confused wonder, like he was watching a fireworks display. ‘Not until you just asked me about her. Not really, not like I should have.’ He paused again but I thought he had more to say so I waited. A bitter smile split his lips. ‘Lucy…Lucy was my favourite, you see. It’s a horrible thing to finally admit, even to a stranger, but she was. I’ve always known it really. Emma’s always seemed to get everything she wants, she’s never caused us any trouble, but there was just something about Lucy. Ever since she was a little girl. I always thought she needed more love somehow. And now I’m neglecting my other daughter, and do you know why? Because all I can think about is that boy. Just him and nothing else. I used to watch the news and wonder why parents of victims cared so much about bringing the killer to justice. It would never bring their children back, would it, no matter what happened? How could it? So why did they care?’ He stopped again and then his eyes searched out mine for the first time, setting on me, fixed and hard. A bubble of outrage rose up through him, pushing its way into his voice. ‘But now all I can think of, the only thing, is the bastard, the fucking, fucking bastard who killed my daughter.’
Mr Bradley had raised his voice, and just as he did so the conversation between the three women beside us suddenly died the way it sometimes can, and his words cut into the air between our table and theirs. The women all froze, the atmosphere between them turning to ice, but the man in front of me didn’t notice. He sank back into his seat and his gaze transferred itself from me to the window, and through that into the street. The three women remained motionless for a second, and then they all turned back to their salads like a toy machine that’s been wound up again.
Bradley was still staring out of the window. I watched his eyes narrow and left him there.
Chapter Eleven
Sleep. Beautiful, empty, drawn out sleep. It was all I’d wanted, but I didn’t get it. I kept waking, seeing dark shapes coming towards me, a smile of gold. Seeing Lucy’s body. I ripped myself out of one dream in which it wasn’t bin bags I was pulling off her but the dark suited shapes of police officers, all slithering on top of her, all trying desperately to get to her. Try as I might I couldn’t ever get them off her.
In the week or so prior to meeting James Bradley I’d tried to turn my mind away from it and take it easy. Once Clay had dismissed me, I’d gone straight home from the station and only made one call. I reached Sharon at work and apologized for not having returned her message about dinner. She was cancelling anyway so it wasn’t a problem. She said I sounded tired.
‘Just work,’ I said. I hesitated. It didn’t feel right to tell her about what had happened over the phone. I said I’d call her later.
I slept and woke and slept and woke. When I was fed up with the process I got up and made coffee, which made me feel hungry for the first time in days. I ate an English breakfast outside Fred’s, eventually satisfying a sudden and violent need for fat and grease. The food made me feel slightly less stretched out and raw. Alberto served me, and when he’d finished filling me in on his weekend he raised his eyebrows and asked me where my new friend was today. It took a second or so before I realized he meant Emma.
‘At home I expect,’ I told him. ‘Very probably feeling more miserable than she’s ever done before.’
‘Oh, Billy,’ he said. ‘What a heartbreaker you are.’
I asked Alberto for some extra toast and some more coffee but he must have thought I’d eaten too much already and that my caffeine levels were advanced enough as it was because I never saw either.
* * *
Cats don’t like water. For some reason they’re suspicious of it, even though were you to chuck one in a lake it would swim OK. I had a similar irrational feeling, and that week I made a conscious, if largely unsuccessful effort not to think about the Bradleys. The newspapers didn’t help, although they could have made a lot more of it if they’d chosen. I read them without wanting to and did my best to ignore my own curiosity. I’d decided not to act as Ken Clay’s little helper if I could help it, let him do what he liked. As for what had happened to me, I wrote it off to experience, telling myself that what I would gain from looking into it would be, at the very best, precisely nothing. At worst, another load of trouble to add to my collection. I told myself this as sternly as I could and did my best to ignore the cold anger that gnawed my stomach when my mind went back to that wide, golden smile.
Instead of wondering about it I got my leg stitched and my hand looked at, receiving a tetanus shot that covered both wounds. I also went to pick up my car. It was still playing dead when I tried the ignition so I popped the bonnet and peered into the engine, just like I knew what the fuck I was doing. I didn’t, but even someone as mechanically challenged as myself could see what the trouble was. A problem with my spark plugs. Actually, a rather obvious problem. There were no spark plugs.
Still, I wasn’t going to go into it. It really wouldn’t do me any good; I couldn’t prove anything and I’d seen enough Shakespeare, a lot of it with my brother in, to know that revenge was a pretty pointless pursuit. That water feeling again; don’t dive in. What I did do, however, was get the car fixed and drive it straight round to the photo lab, where I bought my old camera back off Carl. Luckily he hadn’t sold it yet. I also put in an insurance claim for the Leica. On the form I stated that the camera had been irreparably damaged in the course of a mugging, and that I had reported the matter to the police. I didn’t think it necessary to state that it had been irreparably damaged by myself.
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