He lit another cigarette. I wished I still smoked.
‘You were always self obsessed,’ he went on.
‘You sound just like a bleeding psychiatrist,’ I retorted.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And I've had some experience of them. But you know all about that don't you?’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘I went a bit strange after Laura kicked me out. A nervous breakdown the doctors called it. I pulled a few numbers, broke up the house a bit. I'm not proud of it, but it happened.’
‘Are you alright now?’
‘Well I'm not going to stick a bread knife into your wig, if that's what you're worried about.’
He gently touched the top of his head with the palm of his hand.
‘Still a bit touchy about the old barnet,’ I said, and grinned.
He jumped up suddenly and said. ‘Listen I've got a bottle of vodka in the car. Blue label Smirnoff.’
I guessed it was his way of saying we were friends again.
‘Is one of your massive case load an off-licence job by any chance?’ I asked innocently.
‘Could be. If a satisfied customer wants to show a token of appreciation, who am I to argue? Got any mixers?’
‘As a matter of fact there's a couple of cartons of orange juice in the fridge. I've got to get my vitamin C.’
‘Next you'll be telling me you eat up all your veggies too. Still, good enough. I'll go and get the bottle. You polish the glasses.’
He went down to his car and got the vodka. It was our favourite liquor. We'd seen more bottles of it off in our time than I care to remember.
We did not speak about Patsy Bright any more that night. I think we had both temporarily forgotten that she was the reason for us meeting again. We killed the booze instead and listened to Run DMC, 52nd Street and LL Cool J and all the other soul bands being broadcast by the pirate stations on my little FM radio.
We talked about the old days, the people we knew and the things we had done.
I don't remember much of what we said, but I do know at one point John apologised for shooting me. Finally when every drop of alcohol in the place was gone, he drove his car rather unsteadily away in the small hours of the morning.
I stood at the window and watched the red tail lights of his car disappear up the road. When they'd gone it occurred to me through my drunken haze, that if nothing else came of the Bright affair, at least I had regained two friendships during the first few days on the case.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, I felt as if someone had hit me right over the head with a club hammer. Meanwhile, something extremely unpleasant seemed to have crawled into my mouth and died. I lay for a while counting my blessings. When I got as far as one, I decided to get up. My throat was sandpaper dry, and a limited megaton nuclear engagement was taking place inside my skull. I fumbled for my watch on the table beside my bed and knocked a glass onto the floor. It rolled under the bed leaving a sticky trail of last night's vodka and orange. I left it where it lay. My watch showed me that it was past nine o'clock. I didn't even know if it was night or morning.
I crawled out of bed and gently parted the curtains. The sun was high. It was a new morning. I was seeing the world through a filter of fine gauze. It was a half litre hangover. The kind I hadn't had for a long time. I hoped that it would be a long time before I had another.
I made a mental note not to drink with any policemen again. They never know when to stop. Well they do. When the alcohol is gone.
As I walked very slowly to the kitchen to put on the kettle, I collected the rubble left over from last night's reunion. I stacked the glasses in the sink and threw everything else into the garbage bin. When I found Patsy Bright's photo lying face down on the floor, I apologised to her aloud and propped the picture against my mirror as I shaved.
I chatted to her as I scraped the stubble from my face and continued the conversation as I drank a cup of tea.
I was inclined to take John's advice and let the case go. I thought I'd phone George Bright and give him a blank. He could have his money back or not, as he pleased. I'd more than put in half a day's work. I couldn't really have cared less. All I cared about was the army of little men marching around inside my head.
I asked Patsy's advice, but she wasn't forthcoming. There was something about her eyes, though, that told me to continue. Why couldn't I get that damned picture out of my mind?
I found some clean clothes and got dressed. The day was dry and rather cool, so I took a jacket when I left the house. I breakfasted at my favourite cafe in the High Street again. I might even have exchanged witty repartee with the waitress with body odour, but I can't remember.
When I unlocked the office door, I felt a little better for having some food inside me; a little, but not much. My skin still felt as it were peeling off, but that's what strong drink will do. I picked up my mail and slumped into my chair. It seemed as if I was getting lucky again. That morning I could win a trip to Barbados or a free packet of king-size cigarettes.
I consigned the post to the waste paper bin and tried to plan my day.
I wanted to ‘phone George, but first I needed to call a few acquaintances in the legal and financial world to suss out if there was a way I could earn a few shillings and start making an honest living for myself.
I was already on an unofficial retainer from a large law firm based in the city. Of course it was the old pals act again. One of the partners was a guy whom I'd helped on a big case when I first went into plain clothes. He'd lost his star prosecution witness in a long firm case, the illegal profits of which had run into millions. The witness’ family had received some pretty heavy threats from the accused, even from their remand cells. So the witness had dropped out of sight.
Then I'd found him. It was as simple as that. If he'd managed to stay hidden, my lawyer friend would have been relegated to fighting car insurance cases in the small claims court, or something similar. As it was, he went from strength to strength.
I was living from week to week after coming out of hospital, when I got in touch with him again. He welcomed me and fronted the lease on the office and a little spending money. He must have been really grateful, as usually getting money out of lawyers is like getting blood out of a conker.
When we'd met to discuss business, I hardly recognised him. Gone was the nervous young man I remembered from Lambeth Crown Court, to be replaced by a plump, sleek upwardly mobile individual, who had the habit of touching the side of his nose and winking when asked a direct question, like someone out of a Dickens novel.
I didn't like him any more, but fate and cashflow problems make strange bedfellows, so I hitched my wagon to his rising star. Then, just as I was about to open my office, he'd vanished off to his villa in the Algarve with his wife and small son, leaving me hanging around like a chicken drumstick in a vegetarian restaurant.
‘Don't worry,’ he said when I spoke to him just as he was leaving for the airport, ‘there'll be plenty of work for you soon. I'll drop you a postcard. If you need any dibs, get in touch with my secretary. She'll take care of you until I get back.’ So left at a loose end, I finished painting the office, stuck the ad in the paper, and here I was.
After a couple of hours, I'd made some headway using my benefactor's name as an extra lever as well as my own credentials. I must confess, I left out some of the juicier details of my career in the police force. There was nothing definite, but with a bit of luck there would be some work trickling through within a week or two.
At a little after midday, feeling a little better with myself, I tried to get hold of George. There was no answer at his home, so I tried the number on his business card which I had stapled to one of Patsy's photographs. After three rings the answerphone cut in. A voice I did not recognise echoed down the line and told me that Bright Leisure was temporarily out on call and pleaded with me to leave a message after the tone. I hung up without speaking as I always feel strange talking to machines. I had enough problems talking to people.
I checked the time. It was exactly twelve thirty. My mouth was bone dry again, so I sauntered over to the pub for a drop of lunch, which I drank straight from the bottle back at my desk.
I pondered as I drank how soon standards slip when you spend most of your time on your own. Cat strolled in as I was finishing my bottle of beer, but I couldn't tempt him to join me.
At one o'clock, the telephone rang. I mentally chalked up another first and answered it half expecting an order for the defunct coal merchant's. The caller was male with a strong West Indian accent. The kind that can easily drop into street patois if the speaker suspects that he is being spied on. He asked for me by name.
‘Speaking,’ I said.
‘You're looking for a girl,’ the voice said.
It was a statement, not a question.
‘Aren't we all chief,’ I replied.
‘You're looking for a particular girl.’
A statement again.
‘Could be. Who's speaking?’
‘No names, my friend. You're looking for Patsy Bright.’
I was suddenly very interested.
‘Could be,’ I repeated. ‘What's it to you?’
He chuckled. ‘I've got some information for you.’
‘What?’
‘It'll cost you man. Cash.’
‘How much?’ I asked, suddenly wary.
‘Fifty quid,’ he replied.
‘For what?’
‘I'll take you to her.’
‘When?’
‘Right now, if you like.’
I liked.
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Meet me and I'll show you,’ he said.
‘Where?’
This monosyllabic conversation was beginning to get me down.
‘You got some wheels?’
‘Of course I have. Now where?’
‘Park outside Brixton Town Hall, opposite the church.’
‘OK, but don't jerk me around. I'm not in the mood.’
‘It's cool man, don't worry,’ he said. ‘I wouldn't wind you up. What do you drive?’
I described my car and told him I'd be about half an hour as I had to collect it from my house. He agreed to wait. We both hung up and I pulled out all my cash money. I had exactly sixty notes on me. I counted out fifty quid which I put in my shirt pocket. The rest I filed in my address book under ‘C’ for cash, which I then locked in one of my drawers.
I walked back to the house and rescued the Jag which I drove slowly into Brixton, still nursing the recurring hangover, which the bottle of beer had done little to alleviate.
I stopped the car by the Town Hall as instructed and waited with the engine running. A tall black guy in a faded T-shirt, jeans and eighty quid trainers pushed himself away from the wall on which he was leaning and ambled over to the car.
He was built like a heavyweight boxer. He had the kind of body that seemed as if it had more muscles than the skin could cope with. They writhed around under the thin cotton material of his clothes as if looking for a way to escape from his frame. He probably worked out for hours with weights everyday. I can never take that kind of shit seriously. Every time I've been to the gym, all that straining and serious building of the body beautiful only drives me to find the local pub. That's why I'll always be skinny and make people boogie to the nearest loose sand when I hit the beach.
I leaned over and slipped the lock on the passenger door. He opened it and folded his long body into the seat next to mine.
‘Hi, man,’ he said, looking around the interior of the car. ‘Nice ride you've got here. You must be loaded.’
‘You'd be surprised,’ I answered.
‘Have you got some wedge for me?’
‘COD, son,’ I said. ‘And how do you know I'm looking for the girl?’
‘Word gets round, man. Old face in town checking around makes waves.’
He rippled his fingers and grinned.
‘Where is she?’ I asked.
‘Not far, man. You drive. I'll show you.’
I indicated and pulled the car into the traffic flow. I drove down through the traffic lights by the Town Hall.
‘Not too fast,’ he said. ‘You've got to turn left by the record shop.’
I did as I was told and we drove into the back streets.
‘Now hang a right here and stop by the telephone box.’
I knew the area well. I used to walk the beat on these self same streets. They were packed claustrophobically tight with terraces of houses. Mostly in bad states of repair. Here and there some bright young couple would try and gentrify a corner of old Brixton. You could always tell. Sold signs appeared and skips were dumped in the streets outside. It was a bit like trying to tame a mad dog.
Generally though, the houses were split into flats and multi-occupied. If they were left empty for any length of time, squatters moved in and and out like squirrels.
‘Give me my cash,’ demanded the heavyweight.
‘Leave it out, pal,’ I said.
He hadn't volunteered his name and I hadn't asked for one.
‘I want to see the girl and then you get your fifty.’
‘She's in there.’
He pointed through the windscreen to the most disreputable looking house on the block.
I turned off the engine and got out of the car. The street was quiet, just the distant rumble of traffic from the main road and from somewhere the bass beat of a reggae record rumbled across the silence.
A chilly wind blew between the houses and filled my eyes with dust. It smelled tired and acrid. I brushed my eyelids with the back of my hand to clear my vision.
‘The door's open, man. Just go in,’ said the heavyweight leaning on top of my car.
‘After you.’
‘Sure,’ he shrugged.
We walked together across the pavement into the tiny garbage strewn garden of the terraced house.
The front door was closed, but when he pushed it, it swung open. There were three bell pushes by the door, but only one sported a name plate. It was written on a card tucked in to the top bell. In faded ink it read SMITH. That was about par for the course around here when the bailiffs came knocking.
I followed the black man into the hall which was dark and smelled of damp, old cooking and just faintly of urine. I've never liked that smell. It reminded me too much of my time in the force, going round to houses like this after burglars had been in and ripped apart someone's pathetic belongings. Or with a warrant to pull some hopeless villain. I'd managed to forget most of that time and didn't want to remember it now. I suddenly wished I wasn't there. That George Bright hadn't come looking for me. I knew instinctively that the house contained secrets I didn't want to know, things I didn't want to see and people I didn't want to meet.
Only the thought of the look in the eyes of the girl in the photograph kept me there.
I'll admit I was scared.
Suddenly I longed to be back in hospital. Safe and warm and cared for by nurses in their crisp uniforms.
I remembered one in particular, a pretty redhead who hardly spoke to me whilst I was there. When I was discharged, she brought me a book as a leaving present. It was a collection of Elmore Leonard short stories. She knew that he was my favourite author. She kissed me briefly on the lips, then turned and fled back into the hospital corridors. When I plucked up courage to ‘phone her, three weeks later, she'd left and gone to work in Australia of all places.
So much for my effect on the opposite sex. ‘Are you coming or not?’
The heavyweight interrupted my reverie. He was standing on the staircase looking down at me. ‘I'm coming,’ I said.
The floorboards in the house were bare. Our footsteps echoed as I followed him up the stairs. I peered through the gloom. The front door had swung shut behind us, and no-one appeared at any of the doors as we went past.
The house felt cold and abandoned. At the top of the stairs, three short storeys up was a door painted purple with anarchy signs spray painted on it in black. The paint was chipped and scuffed. The door handle was grimy white plastic.
The heavyweight banged at the door with the side of his fist so hard that it rattled on its hinges.
‘Anyone at home?’ he shouted, then turned the handle and threw the door open.
I was right behind him on the narrow landing as he did so. He turned suddenly and caught me by the upper arm. Half pulling and half pushing, he propelled me past him and into the room.
The first thing I noticed was a terrible smell, much stronger than that of the house itself. I stopped just inside the door. The heavyweight was now behind me and pushed me further into the room with a powerful shove. Then he slammed the door behind him.