"Did you stay until the police arrived?" Pedro asked.
"No."
This instantly got John thinking: What was Pedro trying to say? He thought about his clothes. They had a little blood on them, which he must have picked up from the corner of the cupboard as he stared at the spot where Mr O’Brian was lying. Did something bump against his back? He must have banged his head on the cupboard. Wait, he thought. My handkerchief. I used it to try to wipe some of the blood off my jacket. Did I leave my handkerchief at Sue's flat?
His stomach churned as he realised he couldn’t actually remember.
* * *
It was the following morning, and John had barely got up when the door bell rang.
He opened the door, hiding half of his body behind it as he was still pretty dishevelled; his spiky hair and creased boxers told their own story.
A D.C. Nolan was at the door, who had been waiting to interview him at the local police station: John had overslept. Nolan pointed at his watch and, when John attempted to apologise, raised his index finger and made the “uhp-uhp” sound that grown-ups make when children try to interrupt. Slowly, his index finger lowered, then landed on the watch face.
Sonia had overheard the conversation – if you could call it that – and came rushing down the stairs. “What the hell?” she asked, trying to figure out what had happened. “Oh boy.” She rolled her eyes at her husband, then looked angrily up at the ceiling.
"Mr Scott, we could do this down the station, if you prefer?"
"No, please come in, take a seat."
"Just a few questions. The night of Friday, 27th April 1997, you and Miss Sue West found Henry O’Brian’s body on the floor of his flat. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Did you notice anything strange?"
"No."
Nolan raised his eyebrows before jotting something down in his notepad. John desperately wanted to lean over and see what he’d written, but he restrained himself. He had to keep calm.
The interview carried on, and after half an hour of questioning, D.C. Nolan was coming to the end of his questions. John got the impression there were no suspects and nothing for him to be concerned about.
“Just one more question: is there anything you want to tell us or add?” asked Nolan, staring at John.
After thinking about the question for a moment, John thought he should have mentioned that there was a stool lying on the floor but he decided that this could lead to a different line of questioning, and he was far too tired of all this rubbish as it was.
"No," he replied.
Chapter 25
Pedro swung his legs out of bed, shaking his head and letting out a loud, deep yawn. He wasn't feeling as bad as he should have been, but there were a few cobwebs to shake loose. More than a few, perhaps.
An hour later he was on the treadmill at the gym, and after the workout, he took it easy for a while, relaxing before he left for the office.
Last week, Pedro had read in the papers that the Argentinian Latin Dance Studio was coming to town, something that very much interested him. Saying he was keen to show him something, Pedro called John into his office and asked him to join him at the opening the following Thursday. He arranged to pick him up at 6.30 p.m.
John had never seen Pedro this excited before. "Why do you want to go to a dance studio?"
"It's a long story,” was the reply. “And we haven't got time."
John nodded, knowing when to leave things well alone. "I've got a couple of things to take care of tomorrow; do you want me to do anything else?" he asked Pedro. It was getting late.
"Yeah, John. I got a Mrs Low, she wants to hire me to find her husband. He took large amounts of money from their business account and joint credit card and has left his wife to face the music. I talked to her last week and she said she’d told the police everything, but they didn’t take her seriously. Something about her story doesn’t add up, though. I smell a rat."
"What did you say to her? Are you going to help her?"
"To be honest, I just stood there with my hands in my pockets and gave her a funny look. Then she turned on the water works: ‘I’m deeply ashamed it’s all come to this. I truly believed he loved me.’”
“You didn’t fall for all that, did you?”
“No.” Pedro shrugged. “But the money is good.”
She’d pulled out her notes and bank statements, fanning them in front of his face like a card trick. She’d then begun to sweat while he read them. "Okay, I'll look at these later." He had taken some more details from her and explained that if he helped her, he'd need to know everything. For starters, which bank accounts and credit cards did she share with her husband? Did she know that the money her husband had taken from their company account was clients’ money? She’d just shrugged. Useful.
John looked at his watch. "Well look, if it is okay, I'll go now and see you tomorrow."
Pedro just nodded, his thoughts elsewhere.
The next day was normally a paperwork day, unless there was something big on, and the only assignment they had on the books was Mrs Low: Pedro had decided to take on the case. He wanted John to follow her husband, but he knew it could be a long stake-out.
"I guess a little cash would just make me feel more comfortable. Should something happen. Should I need to get out of there quickly," John suggested.
Pedro opened his wallet and pulled out two twenty-pound notes, pressing them gently into his hand. "There you are," he said indulgently. He scrambled around for a pen before writing the address on his notepad. He then ripped the page out, folded it over, and handed it to John.
When asked about her husband’s normal daily routine, Mrs Low said that he often had lunch at the Institute of Directors in Pall Mall. On the off chance, John sat in the car outside the IoD, watching the building all day. After an hour or so, to seem less stalkerish, he got out of the car and made his way to one of the empty tables outside the shop from where he could see the front door of the club.
Mr Low never showed, but his assistant did: John recognised her from the extensive file Pedro had already compiled. He followed her to a hotel in Croydon, his car bumping along the narrow lane of the hotel grounds before he steered it on to a secluded verge in the car park and shut down the engine.
He leaned back in his seat, crossed his fingers behind his head, and sighed. He had not touched the flask of coffee he had made for staking-out purposes; these days he wanted to piss all the time, but nonetheless at some point he would need to relieve himself behind the boot of the car. Getting out of the car, he looked up at the hotel, an attractive building dating all the way back to the eighteenth century. Heavy clouds had settled, which made him sigh – he thought the day was supposed to clear up, not get worse.
He tucked in his chin, shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and mumbled to himself, "it’s freezing." He patted his pocket; his flashlight was there. Good – the sky was darkening rapidly. As he unlatched the gate to walk across the mini golf lawn, he quickly checked the car park again. There was no one there. Spotting the hotel entrance, he decided to go inside and wait.
After a couple of hours of sitting in the bar – and much to his surprise – he saw Mr Low enter and sit down in the hotel’s restaurant. He ducked his head slightly, trying to be discreet as he watched him. Strange. John folded his hands and sat up straight, before jotting down some notes in his pad. Time: 12 to midnight. Tall woman, believed to be his assistant, waiting to meet Mr Low. John couldn't really write any more than that, and in any case, he felt that he'd seen enough. He did a lot of pacing up and down before he slipped outside, got into his car, and drove back to the office.
After writing his report, John looked up from his desk and glanced at the clock on the wall; it wasn't quite straight, but at least it was correct. It was clean and still new-looking, but something about it was slightly off – just like his desk, a smart modern curved wood chip veneer with a box shelf on one side. The computer screen was just too big, s
o that the edge ended up being hidden by the box shelf. And the arms on the chair prevented him from getting close enough to the desk, so instead he had to lean forward to use the keyboard. Still, he shouldn't complain: it was a vast improvement on the last office.
He opened the bar cabinet, took out a tumbler, and poured himself a large Vodka. After a couple of hours he felt a headache coming on, and deciding to call it a night, he shuffled outside and down the cement steps into the car park. Opening the car door, he slid into the leather seat, before driving slowly back home.
Pedro arrived in the office just after 3 p.m., as always smelling of some expensive lunch, this time devoured with one of the directors of a new security company. On his way back he’d gone to the hotel in the hope of interviewing Mr Low. After a successful meeting, Pedro was satisfied that Mr Low was telling the truth. When Pedro called John with the news, he answered in his usual way, sounding like he'd been drinking all night.
"Hello, who is it?"
"It's me," Pedro replied.
John pushed himself up against the headboard of his bed and flipped on the light. "What is it?" He asked, rubbing his hand over his face to cover his yawn. "What did he say?"
"Her husband thinks she's behind it. She’s trying to frame him for fraud in revenge for his affair with his assistant.”
Pedro thought back to their meeting. “Fuck,” Mr Low had said. “That's why she changed the alarm code at our house – she forced me to leave her. Not only did she dupe me into believing she still loved me, she actually wanted to put me behind bars.” He almost laughed. “Good Lord, I hate her, but you have to admire the bitch. She set me up.’"
"Excuse me, Mr Low, but I think a lot of people will find it hard to believe you just said that," noted Pedro.
"It's the most awful, horrible feeling in the world to have to say something like that to someone you shared your life with for over twenty years. I still love her, I just can't live with her.” He shrugged. “All I’m saying is that it’s been the most brutal eye opener for me. How can you love someone who only cares for money? I've tried all my life to be a decent guy, a man who loves and respects women. And there I was, thinking nasty thoughts about my wife. And let me say it, let me say it right now: I cheated. I disrespected my wife. I didn't want to be the man that I had become. But what else could I do?”
Pedro pulled a card out of his wallet and passed it over. "If you think of anything that might help, call me. Thanks again for taking the time to meet with me."
Mr Low looked almost delighted to end the interview and took the card with a smile.
When Pedro confronted Mrs Low, she replied, "Shit, what's new? Anything bad happens, I'm responsible. That's bullshit." Then she shouted, “What are you talking about? That's crazy. You hear me!" She was extremely agitated and nervous, as if her husband was in the next room.
"It would have taken, what, six months to set all this up. You must have hated him a lot," Pedro said, thinking that she was obviously hiding the money. "Why not just divorce him? You could have taken him for everything he had."
"Not so simple," she replied.
"Yeah, you got greedy and stole the clients’ money, didn't you?"
"No."
"We have it in your husband’s own words: ‘I think she is trying to set me up.’ Seems you knew he was having an affair, so you wanted him to suffer."
She asked in a quiet, measured voice filled with disappointment, "So what are you going to do?"
"You look very, very calm," Pedro said. "All along, you’ve been acting inappropriately. You’ve been unemotional, flippant, and you've tried to play me."
"That's just how I am, don't you see? I'm stoic. He cheated on me, not once, not twice, but three times. I've had enough.”
Pedro knew she’d had a hard tome, but his voice was stern as he asked her, "So where's the money?"
She just stared at him, thinking – she could tell that she'd been found out. It took a second, but she finally decided that the sooner she answered, the sooner she could leave.
"Okay, look, I really want to go back to my old life. Or my old life with him. I've had a lot of time to think and daydream, and what I've been daydreaming about is him, in those early days. I thought I would daydream more about him getting what's due to him in a tiny prison cell, but I haven't so much, lately. I think about those early days, when we were so good together, and it feels nice."
Sounding more patient than he felt, Pedro replied, "I don't think the two of you have anything left to say to each other."
She stayed quiet for a moment, then wiped a hand nervously over her mouth as she sat up straighter. She let out a sigh, stood up, and wrung her hands. "I think I should go now." She felt a wave of nausea coming on. "I can't do this anymore. Waiting to be arrested, I can't stand it."
"She doesn't sound like an angry woman, Pedro,” John said when Pedro told him the details outside the office later that day. “Seems like she desperately tried to explain her actions to you. She's worried." He gave a tut. "Jesus Christ, Pedro, aren't you tired of all this? Just let it go."
"John, I don't like to be used. You might have a different perspective on people, but where I come from we don't."
John leaned against the railings at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the office, looking thoughtful. "You can't tell the police everything you learned; without Mr Low’s statement, it's just an accusation. The evidence you have is circumstantial, if that. You couldn't very well tell the police assigned to her case that she admitted taking the money. The fact is, we don't know where she put the money."
"I know, I know." Pedro thought for a moment, then said that he'd give her one day. That was it – if she hadn't returned the money by the same time tomorrow, he would drop everything and pay the police station a visit.
When he hadn’t heard anything the following afternoon, he informed DC Evans of the whereabouts of Mrs Low.
* * *
The next morning, John wheeled his chair away from his desk and grabbed the protein milkshake he’d left in the tiny refrigerator in the office, tapping his foot in time to the beat. Pedro was constantly playing Latin American music these days, and while sometimes it got too much, John quite enjoyed the sound today.
Just then, there was a knock on the door, a loud, furious bang that made them both look over. Annoyed at the interruption, John flung it wide open, greeting fury with fury. It turned out that Pedro had employed a new office boy: a young, overweight, spotty-faced fellow called Edward. He was breathing heavily and sweating, his shirtsleeve torn and his hair wild. He pushed past John and marched straight through into the back office without a word.
As far as John was concerned, Edward was “just a tea maker.” The boy didn't appreciate the humour in that remark, and he turned to look at John, giving him that arrogant, pug-like stare. John just stared back at him. He thought Edward was a bit strange, but Pedro liked him – he said he was just a daydreamer.
"Let's not worry too much about that; the boy’s just going through a growing-up period. I'm keen to train him," he said.
John wasn't so sure, but he was curious to see where this was headed. Here's where things get a little dicey, he thought. Not quite sure how to take the next step. Still, he decided to play along.
Unbeknown to John, Edward's father was the head of some major security firm, and his appointment was no coincidence...
Much to John’s surprise, Pedro walked over and gathered the two of them in a giant hug, John's face ending up scrunched on Edward’s neck. He really didn’t want to deal with Edward’s armpit, and he tried his best to wriggle away.
"Come on, you two," Pedro said.
"Okay, Pedro, I wish I could say more but I can't. I think you’re crazy to keep him on. I think there’s something disturbing about him," said John, after Edward had wandered off.
"You're just going to have to trust me on this,” said Pedro. “Can you do that?"
John nodded, watching as Edward started inching towards t
he door, "Thanks, but I have to go now, I’m meeting my father." Pedro was about to say something when John piped up and asked, "Is he here to work or not?"
Pedro nodded. John took two box files from one of the shelves by the door and dumped them in front of Edward. "Read these, and cross-reference them on the computer," he commanded. "It will give you an idea what of we do here." John checked his watch. "Give me a brief on these names. I’ll give you an hour," he added.
He could almost feel the heat from Edward’s anger rising, the tips of his ears now a bright red – a sure sign he was on unsteady footing. Crap just started to pour out of his mouth, completely unstoppable, while John was still shooting questioning glances his way. When Edward noticed he was being observed, he flicked his head and gave them a sideways glance. The hint of a grin spread across his lips, but he was clearly very nervous.
With his eyes looking down at the well-worn tile floor, he mumbled, "What’s the problem?"
Edward was really fucking John off – he could feel him looking over his shoulder all day, smirking. It was just the way he sat there, dull as shit. What annoyed him most, however, was the way he talked, all softly and gently, as though he'd been on a course to deal with retards. John clenched his jaw even more tightly, thinking that his skin must be bubbling as it seemed to be the only thing holding back his rage. This was really bad. With so little distance between them, John had to call on patience in order to keep from dragging him across the table top and tying the boy in knots.
He finally made it home after an extremely long day, too exhausted to do more than brush his teeth and flop down on his bed. Once his eyes closed, however, it was as though his brain awakened from his stupor, taking the opportunity to curl around for a depressing walk down memory lane.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 26
The Assassin's Keeper Page 21