Falls the Shadow

by Mark Timlin

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I need my beauty sleep.’

  ‘You, Nick?’ he said.

  ‘For a bit,’ I said. I knew how he felt.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said to Sophia.

  She nodded. I knew how she felt too. The whole thing was getting too weird.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thanks for coming by. And the ride.’ And he walked off towards the entrance to the flats.

  I looked at Sophia. She looked at me. ‘Do you think I should… ?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’ll look after him.’

  ‘It’s just that…’ She didn’t finish.

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘You’re sure he’ll be all right?’

  ‘Course he will. Listen, I realise that it’s probably totally the wrong time and place, but are you doing anything tomorrow night? Tonight? Saturday night?’

  ‘What would you say if I said that I was seeing my boyfriend?’

  I shrugged. ‘Then I’d say that you were seeing your boyfriend.’

  ‘And if I said I was seeing my husband?’

  ‘You’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

  ‘Fiancé, then.’

  ‘You’re still not wearing a ring. So are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seeing whoever?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘How about a drink? Dinner?’

  She hesitated, then smiled. ‘All right. Why not?’

  ‘Why not indeed? Where do you live?’

  ‘Clapham.’

  ‘I know a good restaurant round there. What’s your address? I’ll call for you.’

  She told me. I thought I knew the street. If I didn’t, what is the A-Z for?

  ‘Seven?’ I said.

  ‘Fine,’ she replied, and put the car into gear.

  I watched as she drove off in a cloud of exhaust smoke, then I followed Peter into his block. He was waiting by the door. ‘Come on up for a drink,’ he said.

  ‘Sure.’

  We went up in the lift and into his flat. There was an old film on the TV. French, complete with subtitles. He poured out two large scotches, we sat in front of the box, and he turned the sound down. I watched as two heavy-looking geezers flapped their lips nineteen to the dozen, and, according to the print at the bottom of the screen, said just, ‘Let’s go.’ I hate subtitles. I always feel I’m missing something.

  ‘What do you think?’ Day asked, interrupting my thoughts. At first I thought he was talking about the film. Then I realised he meant John. I was getting tired. Too many late nights.

  ‘I think that this one could run and run,’ I said. ‘There’s a lunatic out there determined to make his mark.’

  ‘He’s succeeding,’ said Day.

  I nodded agreement, and a fresh wave of exhaustion rolled over me like a black tide. I swallowed my scotch and said, ‘Peter, I’ve got to go. I need my bed.’

  ‘Have another drink.’

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Listen, keep in touch over the weekend. I’ll be about if you need me.’

  I knew he needed me then, but I couldn’t handle it. I made my farewells and left. I went downstairs, got in the Jag and drove home.

  The telephone was ringing when I let myself into the flat. The bell had the tired sound of one that had long ago given up any idea of being answered.

  I lifted up the receiver and said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Nick, at last.’ It was Chas. ‘I’ve been trying to get you for hours. What’s been happening?’

  ‘There’s been another one,’ I said. ‘But then you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure I do. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Am I your sole source of information?’

  ‘No. But you seem to have the knack of always being around when these things arrive.’

  I told him that I hadn’t been. He asked me a slew of questions, and I answered them to the best of my ability although I didn’t know if Lambert and Harper would approve, but by then I was too tired to care.

  When I’d finished my story, Chas said, ‘Thanks, mate. I do appreciate this. I owe you several.’

  ‘I know you do,’ I replied. ‘Now I’ve got to get some sleep, I’m knackered. I’ll see you Sunday.’

  ‘No problem,’ he replied, and hung up.

  I dropped the phone on to its cradle and undressed. I was unconscious as soon as I hit the sheets.

  The phone woke me at just past seven. I’d been asleep maybe three hours. I fumbled the instrument into bed with me. ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Mr Sharman? Nick?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you this early. It’s Sheila Cochran here.’

  I was suddenly awake. ‘Yeah? Hello, Sheila. What’s up?’

  ‘Someone threw a couple of bricks through my windows this morning.’

  ‘Do what?’

  She repeated the statement.

  ‘When?’ I asked.

  ‘About four this morning.’

  ‘Have you phoned the police?’

  ‘Yes. They just left. It took them two hours to get here.’

  ‘Not bad,’ I said.

  ‘Listen, I know it’s not your concern but…’

  ‘Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be there,’ I said. I hung up, got up, dressed, ran my fingers through my hair, grabbed my address book and keys and left the flat. I was at her door in just over fifteen. The two front windows of her house were smashed. She was watching out for me through one and opened the door straight away.

  ‘Nice mess,’ I said. ‘Have you got a cup of tea?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, and went into the kitchen. I looked at the damage, and the two half-bricks that she’d saved for souvenirs.

  I followed her into the kitchen. ‘Eddie?’ I said as she poured me a mug of strong tea.

  ‘Could be,’ she said.

  ‘Almost definitely. I’m sorry I stirred up a hornet’s nest.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Have you been in touch with a glazier?’

  ‘I don’t know any.’

  ‘I do,’ I said and tapped my book. ‘Use your phone?’

  I took my tea to the telephone and called up someone I knew in the window business. The phone rang and rang, and I sipped at the cup that cheers. Eventually someone answered.

  ‘Twenty-four hour glazing service,’ said a voice I recognised.

  ‘Not got you up, I hope, Monty?’ I said.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Nick Sharman.’

  ‘Christ, but it’s been a long time. What do you want?’

  ‘Some glass fixing. A friend of mine had the vandals in.’

  ‘What kind of glass?’

  ‘Ordinary glass. House glass. I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, Nick, it’s a bit difficult…’

  ‘Monty, your card says twenty-four hours a day service. When you answer the phone you say twenty-four hour glazing service. Now don’t force me to go to the Office of Fair Trading. Just get yourself over here.’

  ‘I’m a bit short staffed.’

  ‘Too short to do an old friend a favour?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Herne Hill. Just round the corner.’

  ‘All right, Nick. As it’s you, I’ll come myself.’

  ‘You’re a diamond, Monty. And keep it cheap.’

  ‘What do you want, blood?’

  ‘No. Just a good job.’ I gave him Sheila’s address and hung up.

  ‘He’ll be here soon,’ I said to her when I went back into the kitchen. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  She explained that she’d been woken at about four by a terrible noise, then another. She went downsta
irs and found the broken windows. There was no sign of anyone about. A couple of neighbours roused themselves and checked the street. She called the police and waited for them to arrive, which they did about two hours later. She told me that they didn’t seem too interested in anything except a sit in the warm with a cuppa. When they left she called me. End of story.

  ‘This is my fault,’ I said.

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Yes,’ I disagreed. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence. I jumped on your husband with both my big feet, and a few days later – this. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t necessarily Eddie who did it.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘I was in the papers yesterday. Maybe it had something to do with that.’

  ‘Maybe it did, but I doubt it,’ I said. ‘Did you tell the police about him?’

  ‘I mentioned that we were recently separated.’

  ‘Did you tell them where he lived?’

  She shook her head. ‘Do you think they’ll do anything?’

  ‘What, about Eddie or generally?’

  ‘Both,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not if you won’t push it. They’ll put in a report, and that will be that.’

  ‘So?’ she asked.

  ‘So, when Monty’s been, and I make sure he’s not going to charge you enough to rebuild the Crystal Palace, I’ll take a wander round to Eddie’s myself.’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘I don’t know. But if I find him, and have a word, it might dissuade him from doing it again.’

  ‘Don’t get into trouble on my account.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I assured her, and there was a ring on the doorbell.

  Monty was outside with his son in tow and a Transit van full of glass and tools. He shook my hand, and then his head sorrowfully at the damage, and after the pair of them had been fortified with tea, too, they got down to measuring up for windows.

  I persuaded Monty to give Sheila a good discount, wished them all a good morning and drove over to Kennington.

  I parked the car on the outskirts of the estate again and walked to the block where Cochran had his flat. The place was a bit busier than on my last visit, but no one paid me any attention as I walked into the murky hole of the entrance hall. The lift still wasn’t working, and I took to the stairs once more. I didn’t meet anyone on the climb, but some of the shit on the landings was fresh.

  I rapped on the metal door of the flat at just before nine-thirty. There was no answer. I hammered again, much harder, but still got no reply. I thought there was no point in hanging round so went back downstairs and drove home. What’s another wasted journey in a life so full of them? I’d catch up with him eventually.

  I was back in Tulse Hill just after ten, and the phone was ringing as I let myself in through my front door.

  17

  It was Peter Day. ‘Did I wake you?’ he asked.

  ‘No chance of that,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been out on a couple of house calls already this morning.

  ‘To do with… ?’

  ‘No. Another matter. So what can I do for you?’

  ‘The police want to see me.’

  ‘Not another?’ I said.

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Thank Christ. What then?’

  ‘Harper reckons I might know more about John than I think.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like, I might know him.’

  ‘You might at that.’

  ‘I know a lot of people.’

  ‘Exactly. I don’t think anyone’s suggesting you’re bosom pals. But he picked on you for some reason.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Harper said.’

  ‘Copper mentality.’

  ‘I told him I’d only come down if you could come too.’

  ‘I bet he liked that.’

  ‘He wasn’t bothered.’

  ‘Then I assume Lambert won’t be there.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I told him I didn’t want to go to the police station. He agreed. We’re meeting in a pub, and he’s bringing someone else with him. So will you come?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This lunchtime. The Horns Tavern in Clapham Road. The saloon bar at one.’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘See you there.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Bye.’

  I sat around the house until it was time to leave, and drank coffee and smoked a few cigarettes. I was at the pub dead on time but Peter Day had beaten me to it. He had the remains of a pint in front of him on a table in a quiet corner of the bar. I went over and joined him.

  ‘Want another?’ I asked.

  ‘Lager,’ he replied, and I went to the bar.

  It was a good pub for a meet, The Horns. Not too busy, no jukebox or pub games, just soft jazz on a discreet sound system. Harper was punctual too. He came in before the barman had finished serving me. He was with another bloke. Younger, dressed in a smart suit and a clean shirt. The other bloke’s hair was slicked back like someone who worked in an ad agency. In fact he looked like that kind of geezer altogether, not like a copper at all although I assumed he was. I asked what they wanted to drink. Harper asked for a beer. The other one, whom Harper introduced as Detective Constable Jim Prescott, had an orange juice with ice. I paid for the drinks and we carried them over to the table. I lit a cigarette. Day had one too. Both coppers refused. Charlie Harper got straight into it.

  ‘Jim here has a degree in behavioural psychology,’ he said. ‘He’s one of the brave new breed of coppers you might have been reading about. He’ll be my guv’nor within a couple of years.’

  Prescott looked modest but didn’t argue.

  ‘He’s been building up a profile on our man,’ Harper went on. ‘You know him best, Peter. I thought you might be able to add something. And you’ve been there from the start too, Sharman. You might have some input on this.’ So Day was Peter and I was Sharman. That’s the way it was to go.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘As long as I’m not treading on any corns. Lambert’s, for instance.’

  ‘You just leave him to me,’ said Harper.

  ‘You know everything I know,’ said Day. He was beginning to look sick again.

  Harper looked at him. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Listen to what Jim’s got to say.’

  Jim Prescott cleared his throat. ‘On the surface, not much,’ he said. ‘But every time he sends in a piece of body or speaks to Mr Day here, he gives away more clues about himself.’

  ‘For instance?’ I asked.

  ‘For instance that he exists,’ said Jim Prescott, and appeared serious. I looked at Harper. He didn’t budge. Prescott held up his hands. ‘Don’t laugh,’ he said. ‘If he hadn’t phoned the programme, we wouldn’t have any idea what he was doing. Right?’

  I had to agree with that, so I nodded.

  ‘Second, he’s male,’ Prescott continued. ‘With an ego. He thinks that he’s smarter than us.’

  I couldn’t disagree with that either. Perhaps Jim Prescott could have something.

  He took a notebook from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, opened it and went on, ‘We’ve listened carefully to the tapes of the calls he’s made to the radio station. There’s nothing in the background. Yet. But there’s still time. If he keeps calling you we’ll get something, I’m sure. But he has told us how old he is.’

  ‘Yes?’ I said. ‘When?’

  ‘Last night. If not exactly how old, at least he’s given us an idea. Mr Day played a record by Sam Cooke.’

  I nodded.

  ‘A Change is Gonna Come, to be precise.’

  I nodded again.

  ‘He said that he remembered it. Not knew it, remembered it. I looked it up
. The song was released in nineteen sixty-five, as a B-side to a record called Shake.’ This time it was Peter Day’s turn to nod his head. ‘It wasn’t a big hit,’ said Prescott, who seemed happy to have our undivided attention. ‘Didn’t make the top forty, in fact. So it would be logical to think that he was listening to a lot of music around then. Obscure music. Or fairly obscure. I’ve assumed that he was about twenty at the time, so it’s safe to assume he’s in his mid to late forties now. And there was his comment about Kim Novak. Being in love with her when he was a kid. She was around in the fifties. In fact, that film came out in fifty-six. About the time you’d expect someone in their forties to have had an early adolescent crush on a film star. You see what I mean?’

  I did.

  He went on, ‘And that fits the pattern of serial killers in the States where most research has been done – mainly because they have more than we do. Plus it’s roughly Mr Day’s age. Not that I mean to be personal. You see, it’s safe to assume again that if he wanted to tell someone what he was up to, he’d choose someone of his own ethnic type and age. So we assume he’s white. Also he’s up and about late in the day. We know that because he listens to the show on a regular basis. He told us that the first time he called.

  ‘He’s probably a loner who lives alone. Not in a block of flats or shared dwelling, if he’s doing the killing at home. If he does live in plain sight of a load of neighbours he must have access to somewhere to do the killings. But I favour the fact that he lives alone in a house. I don’t know why, I just do. Once again it fits the sort of pattern we know about. He lives locally, at least within the usual range of the station – even though he was loath to admit it last night. He calls himself John from Stockwell, so we can safely assume his name isn’t John and he doesn’t come from there. Unless, of course, he’s doing a clever double bluff, but I doubt it. He knew what he wanted to say the first time he called you. The way he said it, he was waiting for you not to believe him. It was almost as if he was lying in wait for you.’

  ‘Very good,’ I said, but when I looked over at Day he didn’t look very happy about it. But then, who would be? ‘Anything else?’ I said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Prescott. ‘He used a butcher’s cleaver or similar on his second victim. Now that I like.’ He was really getting into it, and didn’t even realise what he was saying. ‘A butcher with a van would be perfect. Bloodstains on the vehicle and his clothing easily explained. Trouble is, it’s too neat. Still, we’ll go some way down that road before we give up on the theory.’