I look at my watch. 11:59. I only have one choice left now. I no longer have a decision to make. Again, it has been made for me. I push my hand back inside my pocket. I pull out my red phone. I dial another number, the only number I have on the phone.
"Ah, Jeffrey," he says. "It is so nice of you to make contact again. How can I be of assistance?"
"I need to sort something out with you. Anything. I need to plead with you for mercy," I say.
He pauses. "I really would like to help you, Jeffrey, but we had a deal, remember?"
"Break the deal."
"Unfortunately, you are already too late, my dear old friend."
My words are broken. "But it is not even 12:00 yet," I say. "You said 12:00."
His high-pitched laugh gains momentum, like a runaway train. "You only hear the things you want to hear, Jeffrey. You forgot the intricate details of our arrangement. I said 12:00. You inconveniently forget that I said I have the same time as you, give or take a minute. Well, I have taken a minute, Jeffrey. My sincere apologies about that. If only I had decided to give a minute instead then maybe things could have been rather different. Please don't trouble yourself with telling Reeves now. You need to save all of your energy. He'll find out for himself in due course. You go home and get some rest, Jeffrey..."
The phone goes dead for the second time in just over an hour, give or take a minute.
DAY TWENTY-TWO
22ND JUNE 2018
My arms are in a straight line, my open hands by my side, down by my hips. Normally I'm a side sleeper, with my knees raised high, resembling a step. Now, though, I lie on my back, my upturned head sinking into the depths of my pillow. The sticky bed sheet feels like it will need to be prised from my perspiring body.
It was dark when I went to sleep, which is the norm, even for me. Many hours and countless dreams passed before the sunlight crept through the flimsy fabric of the curtain. Opening my eyes briefly, I absorbed the delicious curve of Erica's backside as she sleepily pulled herself from the bed, commenced the arduous routine of preparing for another working day. Normally, my eyes follow the fluid movements of her naked body as she dresses. Usually, I tell myself I must be the luckiest man alive to be the only one to see her naked that day. Often, my hands drift to my stiffened cock, my movements light, my breathing heavy. This morning, however, I closed my eyes and blacked out the world around me. I sensed her muffled movements as she dressed, and I tasted the sweetness of her kiss as she left, but beyond that I was oblivious to everything outside the world that existed only in my mind.
I think back to that Friday afternoon. The 1st day of June. Spring had blossomed and we had the whole summer to look forward to. I didn't realise it then, but this was perfection. I should have savoured the moment. Ironically, hardly anybody is ever lucky enough to be told that this will be their last day. If they were, then surely they'd embrace life for everything that it offered? I didn't realise it then, and I didn't fully believe it over the days that followed, but now I am certain: the life I lived then ended that Friday afternoon.
My phone rings.
I jerk up in one movement like I've been stabbed through the thigh with a needle. I scramble around amongst the mess on the floor, searching for my phone. Only now, I have two phones, don't I? My jeans lie in a heap. Searching inside the pockets, I pull out the red phone, the only one that matters. I stare at it. I keep staring to make sure my eyes aren't playing tricks. No. It isn't ringing. My hand disappears inside the other pocket. I pull out my other phone. The phone I've had for years, the one I bought. My blue phone. This phone is ringing. I slump back on the bed, with none of the energy or urgency I mustered to sit up. Any calls to my blue phone relate to the life I lived prior to that Friday afternoon on the 1st June. That life is not important. Not really. It is not a matter of life and death.
The ringing is drowned by my duvet until, finally, it stops. Take a deep breath. I start counting, praying for silence, only when I reach the number three, the phone rings again. Stops, then starts again. My mind is aroused by mild curiosity. Somebody in the world really wants to speak to me. And not him. I suffocate my thoughts by pulling my pillow over my face. I know I am leaving a wet trail from my mouth. My breath is rancid.
Throwing the pillow through the air, I thrust open my eyes. It feels like I'm being sucked through a vacuum, as the realisation hits me.
My old life does matter. He has got to somebody from my old life, hasn't he?
My feet stomp down on the floorboard so heavily that I nearly sink into the murky depths of the canal water that lie underneath. I press the redial button. Close my eyes. Hope for the best.
There is a knock on the door. The knock is heavy, and it is urgent. They want to be let in, no questions asked.
He has come for me. He has finally come to finish the job once and for all.
You need to stand up to him. In essence, you need to fight him.
I untangle my jeans and pull them up over my legs, pushing my arms inside my grubby, dishevelled tee-shirt. I tiptoe over to the door, hoping not to make any noise, perhaps to take him unaware. Who knows? I forget the phone that is ringing in my hand. I think about picking up a weapon from the cutlery drawer but I decide against it. My fate is inevitable. Prolonging it will just add to the pain. If I am to fight then I am to fight like a man, with my bare hands. Not like the first time. The only time. I push out my chest, pull open the door.
DCI Reeves stands on my doorstep, his hands nestled inside his navy suit trousers, feet slanted in different directions like a penguin. Gum rotates around his mouth. I am aware he isn't alone. He has brought backup: faceless suits with plenty of attitude. Pulling up the cuff on his shirt, DCI Reeves glances at his watch. The movement is so quick, so urgent, there is no way in this world he actually checked the time. The blazing sun reflects against the silver strap, forces me to shield my bleary eyes with my hand.
"Not waking you up are we, Marcus?" he asks, looking up and down at my dishevelled attire and then sniffing. "Late night, was it?"
"I couldn't sleep," I reply. I had no idea my throat was so dry until I tried to speak; had I been using my tongue as sandpaper? Suddenly, I'm Vito Corleone. I struggle to stop my eyelids from drooping. Just how long have I been sleeping? It feels like I've been living in a cave for the last ten years. What day is it?
"Something playing on your mind, is it?"
"Nothing major. You know I've been worried recently. I came to see you, remember?"
DCI Reeves removes the gum from his mouth with his two middle fingers. He eyes it suspiciously like something he's just dislodged from his nose. This seems like an odd act for somebody who, outwardly, appears so pristine, so clean, so sterile. Reeves flicks the gum onto the floor. I thought you could get fined for littering? Where is a policeman when you need one? Clearly, he has more pressing things on his mind.
"I remember. That's what I'm here about, Marcus. There have been some developments on that score. Myself and my fellow officers would like you to come down to the station for a little informal chat, if that is okay with you...?"
*****
The room is shaped like a shoebox and is just as bland as cardboard. The lack of windows leaves the air stale like a teenager's bedroom. I switch from buttock to buttock on the hard chair. Just a table between us, just as there was the last time we met. Was that really just a few weeks ago? He is not alone this time. Next to him is a stiff in a suit, so mechanical I wonder whether batteries are included. The stiff has laid a pad on the table and he is armed with a pen, ready to get going. Reeves stretches out his arms and rolls up his sleeves, warming up. Even his committed moisturising routine can't hide the astonishing panda eyes. Looks like he had a tough night, too. He is a little jittery. It can't be the coffee. I'm still convinced he is more of a green tea kind of guy.
"This is just a little informal chat," he says, grinning wolfishly."And so, we're not recording the conversation. My colleague here will take some notes if he thinks you p
rovide any information that may be of use to us."
"So I'm free to leave at any time?"
"Yes," he says. "This interview is completely voluntary."
"So it is an interview now? I thought it was a chat? So on what basis am I here? Am I a suspect?"
Reeves glances at his colleague. It is evident they'd discussed beforehand that I'd be an awkward bastard. Probably told him about the crossing of the legs incident. I recall Jenny assuring me how difficult I can be when we were at the bowling complex. Richard's words keep replaying in my mind: I need to fight.
"No, Marcus. I assure you that you're not a suspect. We're investigating a serious crime. You're here as a secondary witness. We've identified you as somebody who might potentially possess information relating to the crime."
I could be in serious shit here. I just need to make sure Reeves doesn't pick up that I'm aware of this. I need to utilise all the know-how from my workshops, finally put it to good use.
"So," I say, leaning back in my chair, "you've finally decided to take me seriously, then?"
Reeves gives me the briefest smile. Perfect dimples form on both cheeks. He'd make January on any calendar. He really is a handsome bastard. I despise him.
"Oh, we're taking you very seriously now, Marcus," he says. The whites of his teeth almost blind me. Where are my sunglasses when I need them?
"You are?"
"Oh, yes..."
"That's good then. Glad the tax I pay hasn't completely gone to waste."
"What aren't you telling us, Marcus?"
I've heard those words before, too; only he didn't call me Marcus, not back then."I thought you weren't suspecting me of anything? Should I call my lawyer?"
This counter appears to work. Reeves leans back and assures me that I am not a suspect. He apologises for ever giving me the impression that I was. The minor victory is enough incentive for me to continue with my approach.
"What makes you think I'm not telling you everything?"
"So you're not?"
"Listen. I was the one who came to you. Remember? Why would I come to you if I had something to hide? You don't piss on a wall and then go and tell a copper. I came to you because I was worried. You didn't appear to share my concern. I told you everything. Now, I'm having a kip today and you come knocking on my door with your sidekicks. Right now, it seems you need me more than I need you. What has changed? It seems, from where I'm sat, that you're the one who isn't telling me everything..."
Reeves' eyes don't move away from me as he pulls open his drawer, ready to throw the first metaphorical punch. There was me thinking he only had a piece of paper and a pen in his armoury. He lays something down on the table and then pushes it forward so that it sits underneath my nose.
"I'd like you to take a look at the photograph please, Marcus, and then tell me whether you recognise the man."
So, it is a man. I don't want to look at the photograph. Reeves is hardly showing me his holiday snaps. Rubbing my swollen eyes, I look to the ceiling, seeking solace. I remember the fan in the interview room thirty years ago that went round and round and round but never, ever got anywhere near to fighting off the sweltering heat. DCI Baldwin brushed the sweat from his forehead so many times it left his cuff stained and discoloured. As the hours passed, the energy appeared to drain from his body and his face turned a jaundiced yellow. But still he persisted, like a boxer that keeps getting back up on his feet.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered in my ear, leaning across the table, clammy hands leaving prints on the table. "I can wait all day for you to tell me what you're keeping quiet..."
My eyes fixed on that fan, going round and round, blowing hot, stale air around the room. I said nothing.
I suck in the fresher air from this room, then look down at the photograph. My throat fills with bile. My mouth feels like I am chewing a battery. I shake my head.
"His name is Ken," I say. "He works at the supermarket close to where I moor my boat. He puts the trolleys away."
"He was a good friend of yours, was he?"
"Was?"
DCI Reeves' voice softens. "I'm very sorry to be the one to tell you this, Marcus, but Kenneth John Hooper was found dead at approximately 14:40 yesterday afternoon. He was bludgeoned to death with a sharp instrument. Mr Hooper was found in a pathway just away from where he worked, by somebody walking their dog."
Of course, I knew he was dead as soon as I saw his mug shot. I just needed to go through the formalities. It must have been where he took his cigarette breaks, where he'd just come from when I brought him a coffee the last time we met. It was off the beaten track. Why him? I barely knew him. In a way, that was a good thing. I already knew he hadn't got to anyone close to me. Of course, I spoke to my dad, Jenny and Emma on the phone straight after I spoke to him. Of course, I broke down in tears as soon as I heard their voices. And Erica was waiting for me when I got back to the boat. It wasn't good that Ken had died, but in a perverse way it was good that it wasn't somebody else. But then...but then he died because of me, didn't he? Why else? That meek, harmless man would still be alive if our lives hadn't crossed.
"Take a few moments, Marcus."
"Sorry," I say, genuinely confused now, "what was it you asked?"
"How did you know Kenneth Hooper?"
"I didn't," I reply. I stare down at Ken's blank eyes. "I mean, we've met. I just wouldn't say I know him. We've spoken a few times, but only in the last couple of weeks. Come to think of it, we met the day after I came to see you. He was getting picked on by a group of young kids. He wasn't the sharpest, to be honest. He was an easy target. I stuck up for him, helped him out. Whenever I passed by after that I stopped for a chat."
"You must be a much more social being than I am," DCI Reeves says. "I don't normally stop and chat with the men who put away the trolleys in supermarkets."
I don't respond.
"So you're telling me he had enemies?"
"Listen, he was a sweet, simple guy. Like I said; he was an easy target. He was a victim. I don't know anybody who would have wanted him dead. Certainly not those kids. They were all bravado and no balls. They virtually ran away when I faced them down."
Reeves slowly nods his head. To all intents and purposes, he appears to have given the green light to what I said. "Mr Hooper was stripped of his shirt and he had Roman numerals engraved in his chest..."
He leaves the words hanging. My jaw hangs open. Reeves studies my face, scrutinises my reaction. "So he is back, then?"
Reeves shakes his head. "Not necessarily. Certainly, that is what whoever is behind this wants us to believe. All we know is that somebody is at least imitating him. We have not yet counted out that he could be a copycat killer. But it is reasonable to assume that whoever called your name in the lift was the same person that committed this murder, or at least an accomplice to the crime."
I start muttering and babbling. "It must be him. You must be able to catch him this time? Things have moved on since he last killed, haven't they? You have CCTV. You must have some DNA. Were there any witnesses?"
Reeves puts his hands up. Things are getting out of control. I'm getting out of control. Just like I did in Richard's office. "I'm not able to disclose the exact details of our investigation, Mr Clancy. But I assure you that all the available evidence was gathered and secured in the hour after the officers were deployed to the scene. We are speaking to everybody who may possibly possess information that will be of use to us..."
His tone is deflated. Nervous. I shake my head. "He is still too clever. He is just older and wiser now, probably even cleverer than he was last time. I bet you have nothing, do you?"
Silence fills the room. Reeves changes the direction of our chat. "That is not the only reason I wanted to speak to you, Marcus. The crime scene investigator reported the likely time of death to be around midday. To be around 12:00..."
He dangles the statement in the air like a banana, making me the monkey he wants to take a bite. I nod my head, rem
ain nonplussed.
"I checked my phone and I have two missed calls from the same number. The last call was at 11:59. I dialled the call return number today, and do you know whose voicemail it went to?"
I make a show of acting innocent and naive. "11:59? Hold on. I would have called you at that time..."
"Is there a reason you were calling me at the same time a victim was murdered? A victim you just happened to know?"
"So you are suspecting me of something? You should arrest me. This should be recorded."
"Like I said; you are free to leave at any time, Mr Clancy."
Silence. I don't move.
"Where were you at the time you called me, Marcus?"
I have a thought. I act quickly. "I was on my way to you. I was calling to let you know."
I reach into my pocket and pull my blue phone out of my pocket. I slide it across the table. "You must be able to track my phone? Whereabouts? Take my phone. You'll see that I was on my way to you..."
Reeves indicates that he doesn't want my phone. "Why were you on the way to me? Why did you need to see me so desperately?"
"I came to see you a few weeks ago didn't I? The feeling has been building and building. Felt that something terrible was going to happen. It was this insane gut feeling..."
"But as far as I'm aware, Marcus, you didn't see me, did you?"
I consider telling him some story about going to the main desk, that I was told he was out or unavailable, but think better of it. This is the police I'm messing with here. Surely they could check this story out? I opt for a version that is less traceable, possibly less believable.
"I reached your building at just gone 12, DCI Reeves. And then the feeling just vanished. I knew it was too late. I stood outside your building and there just seemed no point speaking to you. I had no evidence. I'd just be wasting your time."
"Who are you - Mystic Meg? We could do with you on the force." It was the stiff taking notes. He'd suddenly recharged his batteries. Reeves glances at him as if to say it was probably best he just kept quiet and continued taking notes.
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