by Mark Timlin
I went back to my car and drove the short distance to Sunset. I was outside Hillerman’s office by one-fifteen. Harper was with him. They were both drinking coffee when I walked in.
‘Is she here?’ I demanded, although I knew that she wasn’t.
Hillerman shook his head.
I turned to Harper. ‘What are you doing about it?’
‘We’ve circulated her description to every officer in the area.’
‘A fat fucking lot of good that’s going to do!’ I said, then I hesitated. I didn’t want to articulate my fears, but I knew that I’d have to sooner or later. ‘You know what I think, don’t you?’
The pair of them looked at me.
‘Jesus!’ I exploded. ‘What the fuck is the matter with you? He’s got her.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Harper, although he obviously knew who I meant.
‘And we don’t know he hasn’t,’ I said. ‘And you’re sitting around here on your fat arses drinking coffee.’
‘Listen, Sharman,’ said Harper, ‘we don’t know that anything’s happened to her. She could be anywhere.’
‘But she’s not anywhere, is she? She was on her way here when she left me.’
‘Just calm down and tell what you know.’
I stood in the room and told them what had happened that morning. I told them about finding her car, and their expressions got more gloomy. I gave Harper a description of what Sophia had been wearing. As I told him, I could see her getting dressed in front of me, and the pain in my stomach turned like the blade of a knife. When I’d finished he got on the phone to Brixton police station to pass on the information.
Whilst he was talking, Hillerman tried to tell me that Sophia would turn up soon, none the worse, with some story about taking the morning off.
That really pissed me off, and I told him so in no uncertain terms. He half rose from his chair and I told him to sit down again or I’d knock him down. It was that sort of conversation.
Harper hurriedly wrapped up his phone call and tried to calm the situation. I wasn’t having any of it. My stomach was knotted into lumps and I wanted to hit someone. Anyone. And Tony Hillerman seemed as good a person to hit as any. But there was no point. It would have been a waste of energy.
‘Has anyone spoken to Peter Day lately?’ I asked.
‘I’ve been leaving messages for him all morning,’ said Hillerman. ‘His answerphone’s permanently on.’
‘I’m going round there,’ I said. ‘She just might have gone to see him. I know she was worried about him last night.’
‘She hasn’t been there,’ said Harper. ‘I checked with the officers who’ve been on duty outside.’
‘I’m going anyway,’ I said. ‘He might know something. I’ll check back with you.’
And with that, I left.
My stomach was churning and I could feel the muscles in my arms and legs shaking as I drove to Day’s block of flats. I parked the car just round the corner and walked through the small crowd of newsmen. Piers was there, but I only acknowledged him briefly before going up to the front door. There was a uniformed man on duty. He stepped forward and I told him who I was, and he let me through. Maybe Harper had told him I was coming. Maybe not. If he had tried to stop me, the mood I was in, I would have knocked him out.
The front door was open, and I went up in the lift and rang Day’s flat bell. At first there was no answer, but I persevered and eventually he answered. He was looking even worse than when I’d last seen him, if that were possible. I didn’t care how bad he looked. I was past caring.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, blocking the doorway with his hip.
‘I need to see you.’
‘What about?’
‘Can I come in?’ I asked. I was amazed at my patience.
Reluctantly he allowed me to pass, and I went straight into the living room. It was quiet in there, and I turned to face him as he followed me in.
‘Have you seen Sophia today?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No. Why?’
‘She’s disappeared.’
‘What?’ His face registered amazement. ‘What do you mean, disappeared?’
‘Exactly what I say. She hasn’t been to work today.’
‘Maybe she’s ill. Gone off somewhere…’
‘No. You know I was at her place last night. She told you on the phone. She left for work this morning at eight-fifteen, and never got there.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that she left her flat and vanished. Her car’s still parked outside. No one’s seen her since. You know what I’m saying?’
‘John?’ That one word summed it all up. His face crumpled and he sat down in an armchair, hard. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘You don’t think… ?’
‘I think that he said the best was yet to come last night. I say he knows us, but we don’t know him. I say that he’s got her.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’
‘Oh Jesus is right. You know what it means if he’s got her, don’t you?’
He didn’t answer, just put his face into his hands and started to sob.
I didn’t have time for all that.
‘If he took her because of what you said to him last night…’ I didn’t finish the sentence, just turned on my heel and left.
I went back past the policeman and the reporters and got into my car. I drove to Sophia’s place and phoned Sunset. Harper was still there. He’d heard nothing. I promised to keep in touch.
I stayed in her flat for hours, walking round, smoking cigarette after cigarette and drinking coffee. Every hour or so I got in touch with Harper. Still nothing.
When it got dark I got into the car and drove round the streets of south London looking for her, although I knew that I’d never find her. I knew where she was, but I also knew that it was pointless going home, the state I was in. As I drove I kept the car radio tuned into Sunset, where Tim was once again doing the midnight to three in the morning show.
As the night got older I kept checking in with the police and at her place, but she was nowhere to be found.
John didn’t call the radio station that night.
31
A Jiffy bag containing the little, ring and middle finger of Sophia’s right hand was mailed to Sunset Radio, first class, special delivery from Brixton main post office sometime on Wednesday afternoon.
The parcel was routinely intercepted by the police when it was delivered on Thursday morning. The first I knew about it was when Charlie Harper phoned my place at nine-thirty that morning.
I’d fallen asleep on the sofa fully dressed sometime around 7 am. I came awake with a start as the telephone rang. I was stiff, my eyes felt grainy and my mouth tasted of the remains of fifty cigarettes.
I felt around for the phone and said, ‘Yes?’
‘Nick, Charlie Harper here.’ It was the first time he’d ever used my Christian name. It should have warned me.
‘What?’
‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’
I was suddenly wide awake.
‘Tell me,’ I said, but I knew.
He told me what had happened. I sat and listened and felt my whole body go cold.
‘Where is it now?’ I asked when he’d finished.
‘At the lab.’
‘I want to see it.’
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’
‘I don’t care what you think.’
He was silent. Then he relented. ‘You know where to go, don’t you?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll meet you there in half an hour.’
‘I’ll be there. And you’d better tell them, no jokes. No pathologist’s humour, or there’ll be trouble.’
‘No jokes, Nick.’
‘And, Charlie…’ I
think that was the first time I’d used his Christian name to him too. I couldn’t remember.
‘Yes.’
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
He didn’t answer right away.
‘Isn’t she?’ I repeated.
‘They’re not sure.’
‘She is,’ I said. ‘And, Charlie?’
‘What?’
‘You’d better get him before I do.’
He made no reply, and I put down the phone.
I closed my eyes and a black cloak of grief covered me. I fumbled for the first cigarette of the day, lit it, then stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray.
I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t like what I saw. My eyes were rimmed with red and I needed a shave. My face had a greyish tinge and my hair was sticking up from my head.
I splashed water on to my face and pulled wet fingers through my hair to tidy it. Why, I don’t know. I wasn’t going out on a date. Or maybe I was.
I went back into the kitchen, opened the fridge and found some juice that was just past its sell-by date. I took a mouthful, but I knew if I drank any more I’d throw up.
I took my jacket, left the flat, got into my car and drove to Lambeth mortuary. Attached was the path lab. Harper was waiting in the little room they laughingly called reception when I arrived.
He took me through to a room that smelled of death. On a stainless steel counter was the Jiffy bag. Next to it was a polystyrene cold box. A young bloke in a white coat that hadn’t been properly laundered, so that the front was dotted with old blood and chemical stains, was standing by the counter. He looked at me, and I looked at Harper, and Harper looked at the bloke who lifted the lid of the cold box. Inside, it was packed with dry ice that steamed as it was exposed to the warmer outside air. Not that it was much warmer, but warm enough. He brushed the steam aside with his hand. A silver-coloured specimen tray was embedded in the ice. Resting on the tray were the contents of the Jiffy bag.
I couldn’t look at first, but I plucked up courage and walked over.
Lying neatly on the tray were the three fingers, still attached to each other by a web of skin. The finger nails were scuffed and broken, the deep red varnish peeled back in places. On the middle finger of the three was the distinctive ring with the black stone in a gold surround. The skin was grey, and where the cut had been made the flesh was black and puffy with a thick scab of dried blood, and I could see splinters of white bone that had been crushed by the blow that had severed her fingers from her hand.
I remembered the short time that I had spent with her, and how I’d kissed those very fingers, and what it had felt like when they touched me. I bit down hard on my lip until I tasted blood.
I looked away. I wanted to cry, but nothing came. I looked over at Harper. He seemed embarrassed. So did the bloke in the white coat.
I turned my back on the remains of Sophia. The smell of chemicals was getting to me. I tasted the juice in the back of my throat and went to one of the three sinks that were mounted on one wall and puked up a thin bile that lay on the bottom of the sink until I rinsed it away.
I took a mouthful of water from the tap and spat it down the plug hole.
I felt Harper’s presence behind me.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
Stupid question really. It was going to be a long time until I was all right. A long time, and a long bitter road to travel.
‘I’ll survive,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get out of here.’
The bloke in the white coat closed the cold box, and the three of us left the room. In the corridor I touched the pathologist’s sleeve.
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ I asked.
He looked from me to Harper and back again. ‘We can’t be sure. Not one hundred per cent.’
‘What per cent can you be sure?’
He looked uncomfortable as he answered. I don’t know why. It was all part of a day’s work to him. ‘Ninety. Ninety-five,’ he said.
‘That’ll do,’ I replied.
Harper and I left the bloke and we walked together out of the building, and I leaned on the wing of a car parked in one of the bays next to the mortuary and lit a cigarette. It tasted like shit, and I dropped it on to the ground and crushed the hot coal with the toe of my shoe.
‘You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?’ he asked me.
I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk to him any more. What was the use?
32
I got back home, unplugged the phone, and made a pot of tea. The old standby. When in doubt get the tea bags out. I drank maybe half a dozen cups as I paced the short distance between the walls of my flat. One, two, three, four steps. Turn. One, two, three, four steps. Turn. Over and over again. The walk only punctuated by the lighting of cigarettes and the stubbing out of same after a few puffs.
I thought about Sophia as I walked. No one else. And the sense of loss washed over me like dirty water. I wanted to break everything in the room. To cry out at the unfairness of it. To cry at all. But no tears came. Although it was bright daylight outside, to me the sky was dark. The world had taken on a knife edge of sadness, and I doubted I would ever shake it off.
As I walked, I cursed the world.
At noon I plugged the phone back into its socket and rang Chas. He’d heard. I knew by his tone that he’d also heard I was involved in more than a business sense with Sophia.
I told him what I’d seen. I wanted it to be in the next day’s paper. I don’t know why really. I just wanted to talk, and Chas was enough of a friend but also distant enough from me for him to be the ideal person to talk to.
‘Do you want me to come round?’ he asked when I’d finished.
‘No thanks,’ I said.
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be on your own?’
‘I’ve had plenty of practice,’ I said.
‘How about tomorrow? I’m not working.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Call me. And make sure that bastard knows that some people will never stop looking for him.’
‘I will,’ he said, and we hung up.
I looked at the kettle, and then at the vodka bottle a quarter full sitting on the sideboard, and mentally flipped a coin. The vodka won.
I poured a drink, using more of the dodgy juice from the fridge, and was sitting down on the sofa with yet another cigarette when the phone rang. Wishing I’d unplugged it after talking to Chas, I picked it up.
It was Peter Day. I’d almost forgotten about him.
‘I just heard about Sophia,’ he said. His voice seemed to come from another, unhappier place. If that were possible.
I didn’t know what to say in reply, so I said nothing.
‘Can you come over?’ he asked.
I wasn’t up to more grief, and said so.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s something here you should know about.’
‘What?’ I asked, mystified.
‘I can’t tell you on the phone. Nick, please come over.’
I looked at the vodka, then around the room I was sitting in, and decided maybe going out would be the best thing I could do. I feared that ghosts would walk the carpet with me if I stayed. Too many ghosts.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll be with you in a little while.’
‘You’d better come in the back way. The press are here in force again.’
‘I’ll do that little thing, Peter,’ I said, and hung up the phone.
I finished the vodka and orange in one swallow and left.
I got to his place and parked in the back alley. There was a Panda car across the back door of the flats. As I walked up to it a policewoman got out. When I told her who I was, she leaned into the car and used the radio. When she re-emerged, she said, ‘You can go in.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied, and di
d. I went through the door and up the back stairs to the top floor. I rang the bell and Day answered. As soon as I saw him I knew something serious was up.
‘Come in,’ he said.
‘What?’ I asked, when he’d shut the door behind me.
He took me into the living room and picked up a bunch of cassettes off the table.
‘I want you to listen to these,’ he said.
‘What are they?’
‘Just listen and you’ll find out. I’ll be in the kitchen.’
He walked out and left me alone. The stereo was switched on.
There were five tapes in all. C30s. Answer machine tapes manufactured by Panasonic. Each one was neatly numbered on a white strip, with the day and date next to the number. Except the last one, which just had a number.
The first one was dated the previous Friday. I put it into the jaws of the machine and pressed the button. There was a faint hiss from the speakers, and I adjusted the volume. When the message began I recognised the voice immediately, and felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
The voice belonged to John.
33
‘Peter, you know who this is, don’t you?’ said John’s voice, low and insinuating. ‘I hope you’re alone. But then you usually are, aren’t you? I am too. That’s one of the reasons why I chose you. Are you surprised I know your telephone number at home? Don’t be. I know a lot about you. More than you can imagine. I know where you live. Perhaps I’ve even been inside your flat.’
I wondered if he had, and what effect it must have had on Peter Day to hear him say it.