Lola’s belongings were scattered across every room when I hauled myself out of bed the next morning. Her purple scarf was draped over a chair in the hall, a pair of leopard-skin boots by the settee, cartons of Chinese takeaway littering the kitchen counter. Already she was more at home in the flat than I was. Comfortable enough to leave a trail of glamorous jewellery in the bathroom, and finish my most expensive face cream. But somehow when she emerged from the spare room it was impossible to stay annoyed. She was so delighted to see me.
‘Al! Where’ve you been?’ She looked gorgeous and dishevelled, a sea of dark red curls flowing across her shoulders.
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘I do, actually.’ Lola curled herself into a kitchen chair, clutching her knees.
‘Wasting my time talking to vicious psychopaths.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Unfortunately not. I had to interview Marie Benson last night.’
‘God, how creepy.’
‘Creepy’s an understatement.’ I put a cup of coffee in front of her. ‘She’s like an alien species. What have you been up to anyway?’
‘Not much.’ She rested her head on her hand, as if it was a burden to carry. ‘I had an audition, for a dance job in Covent Garden.’
‘Any luck?’
‘The director liked me, I think. But I haven’t heard a dicky-bird.’
I sipped my coffee. ‘You will, today, I bet you.’
‘This came for you, by the way.’ Lola rooted through a pile of junk mail that had accumulated on the kitchen table, then dropped a white envelope beside my cup. ‘I meant to put it under your bedroom door.’
‘Shit. It’s from him.’
‘Who?’
‘The weirdo who sent me the death threats.’
‘God, Al, why didn’t you tell me?’ Lola grabbed the envelope from my hand and peered at it. ‘Funny handwriting for a bloke. My aunt writes like that. She’s so uptight, every word has to be perfect, or she rips it up and starts again.’
Lola used a long, scarlet fingernail to slice open the letter. Her expression changed from curiosity to horror as she scanned the page.
‘Jesus, Al. The sick bastard.’
‘Go on, read it out for me, please. I had to deal with the first one on my own.’
‘If I must.’ She took a deep breath and began to read.
Dear Alice,
Do you really think you can mend the great cracks running through your patients’ minds? How can you, when you’re a fraud? You’re weaker than they are, just a little girl, tottering on high heels you can’t even walk in. You want to hurt me, Alice, and you’ll pay for that. You don’t know what real pain feels like yet. Soon you’ll understand.
Lola’s hand shook as she put the sheet of paper back on the counter.
‘Who would send you something like that, for fuck’s sake?’
‘God alone knows.’
‘He’s stalking you, Al.’ Lola’s green eyes were round with panic. ‘He’s got your address, and he says he wants to hurt you. Promise me you’ll tell the police.’
I held my hands up. ‘All right, all right.’
‘Today. Promise me.’
After a dramatic pause Lola refilled her coffee cup and headed to her room before I had time to tell her about my flirtation with Alvarez.
Someone knocked on the front door just as I was dialling the police station. The face that appeared in the spy-hole made me do a double-take. I stepped away then looked again, to reassure myself before letting him in. My brother looked like a different person. He was wearing clean black trousers and a smart jacket I hadn’t seen before. Even his face looked different. His dark blond hair had been cut short and he was clean-shaven. His eyes still looked spooked and bloodshot, but if someone met him for the first time, they would never guess he lived in a van.
‘My God, you look great, Will! Ten years younger.’
‘Thanks,’ he said quietly. His mouth twitched into an anxious smile.
‘Where did you get the clothes?’
‘Oxfam. Lola took me yesterday.’ He ran his hand across his forehead self-consciously. ‘And her friend cut my hair.’
‘She’s transformed you.’ I touched his shoulder for a second, felt his collarbone under my thumb, only a thin layer of skin covering it.
Will fished in his pocket and brought out matches and a pouch of tobacco. I had given up the fight about smoking
indoors, it was always a losing battle. His hands trembled as he dropped a trail of brown leaves on to the cigarette paper.
‘I’m going to start again, Al.’ He said the words tentatively, trying them on for size. ‘It’s not too late. I’m only thirty-five.’
‘That’s brilliant, Will. Where are you off to?’
‘I’m seeing this therapist Lola’s friend told me about.’ His foot tapped out a rhythm on the wooden floor, as if he was listening to dance music no one else could hear.
‘So that’s why you look so smart.’
‘Partly,’ he agreed, then took a long drag on his roll-up. ‘I want to show her I mean business.’
‘She’ll know that as soon as she talks to you. What time’s your appointment?’
‘Ten o’clock, in Clapham.’
‘What kind of therapy is it?’
Will shrugged. ‘She uses crystals and stuff. She’s amazing, apparently.’
My optimism evaporated. There were so many charlatans in the phone book, promising expensive cures to the desperate, with nothing to offer except hot oils, vitamin pills and incantations. God knows what kind of therapist thought she could cure bipolar disorder by balancing rocks on someone’s skin. I bit my lip.
‘I hope it helps, Will. Maybe it’ll relax you.’
He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘The thing is, I need to borrow some cash.’
‘How much do you need?’
I was breaking all my own rules. Normally I bought him things; filled his van with diesel every few weeks and encouraged him to eat my food, but I never gave him money. The idea of him using it to buy drugs that might kill him was more than I could bear.
‘Eighty quid. Forty for the assessment, then forty for the first session.’
‘I’ll make out a cheque if you tell me her name.’
‘Can’t remember.’ He scrabbled in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a scrap of paper. ‘I’ve only got her address.’
‘Okay, let’s go to the cashpoint then. Give me a minute to get ready.’
I went into my room and pulled on my running things, packing my work clothes into my rucksack.
‘Ready?’
Will was sitting exactly where I’d left him, perched on an uncomfortable stool. When he followed me to the door I noticed that even his walk had changed. In the old days he strode along so fast that I couldn’t keep up. Now even his pace was unreliable. He seemed to have forgotten how to measure his steps.
‘Maybe they’ll give me my old job back,’ he mumbled as we crossed Providence Square.
I smiled at him. ‘Or you could try something completely new.’
He shook his head vehemently. ‘There’s no time, Al.
Carpe diem
, Lola says.’
Carpe diem
had been Lola’s motto ever since we saw
Dead Poets Society
at an impressionable age. Maybe she hadn’t worked out that it didn’t apply to Will – he would have to bring himself back under control before anything stayed in his hands. We walked along Tower Bridge Road together, until we came to the cashpoint. Will tucked the twenty-pound notes carefully into the pocket of his new jacket. His eyes were brimming.
‘Thanks, Al,’ he muttered. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘I know.’ I touched his cheek for a moment. ‘Where are you going now? It’s a long time till your appointment.’
‘Back to yours. I’m making breakfast for Lola.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got a new best friend.’
‘She’s brilliant, Al.’ His face lit up. ‘I never realised.’
I gave him a brief hug, then watched him hurry away with his odd, unsteady gait. He looked as if the first strong breeze could bring him down.
Tower Bridge Road was already solid with traffic, Mercedes and Audis spitting out fumes as they piled into the City, in search of even bigger bonuses. I jogged left, into the heart of the old leather industry. The street names in Southwark had taught me more local history than visiting a museum could ever have done. Mason Close, Tanner Street, Leathermarket Street. I pictured the leather workers as I ran, in their long aprons, up to their elbows in grease, skin stained with a hundred different dyes. The city’s idea of industry had changed completely in a hundred years. Factories had become designer flats, people flooding out of them every morning, heading for the Square Mile and another day behind their computers, then the tube home, without once raising a sweat. No wonder everyone was depressed. Cutting through the back streets behind London Bridge Station, I saw a man sleeping in a doorway, a border collie standing guard at his feet. At Borough High Street I slowed down. There was no choice. The pavements teemed with people, waiting for buses and collecting takeaway coffee from the Greek and Turkish cafés the area specialised in.
The receptionist at the police station was prim but officious, her grey hair permed into hundreds of rigid curls that a force nine gale wouldn’t have disturbed. She spent a long time explaining that members of the public couldn’t just walk in and demand to see the station’s most senior officer.
Her manner softened when Alvarez appeared; suddenly she became everyone’s favourite granny.
‘It’s okay, Sheila,’ he explained. ‘Alice works with us. She’s a psychologist.’
The woman looked at my shabby running gear in horror, proof positive that the medical profession was in terminal decline.
Alvarez led me down the corridor, walking even faster than normal, as if he would have been more comfortable sprinting. When we reached his office, I dropped the two letters on his desk before he could say anything.
‘Some light reading for you.’
Alvarez stood beside me, and his shoulder brushed mine as he scanned them.
‘Charming,’ he muttered. ‘And you got the second one today, did you?’
‘Yesterday. My friend forgot to give it to me.’
Alvarez raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve received two death threats, but you didn’t bother to bring them in?’
‘I told Burns, but I didn’t want to give the bastard the reaction he was after.’ I crossed my arms. ‘He wanted me to be afraid. In fact, he wanted me to shit myself. Why give him the pleasure?’
Alvarez observed me, as if I was one of life’s great mysteries, before stepping out into the corridor. It gave me the chance to snoop around his office. A poster of a lush green landscape filled the space behind his desk, the sun hovering over mountains, a haze of blue water in the distance. It was positioned to greet him each morning, like he was stepping into Shangri-la. His desk was covered with files, stacked in separate heaps, keeping chaos at bay. There were two photographs of the same woman on top of his filing cabinet, in plain silver frames. For some reason my breath caught in my throat.
She was standing on a beach in a red dress, dark hair flowing in the breeze, beaming at the person behind the lens. The second was a wedding photo, on the steps of a church. She was almost as tall as Alvarez, her long-fingered hand resting on his chest, a flutter of confetti falling around them. Before I could get a closer look the door swung open.
‘It’s sorted,’ Alvarez said. ‘Someone’s checking them out right now.’
‘And there’s one more thing,’ I said. ‘The evidence from the Benson investigation.’
‘What about it?’
‘I need to see it,’ I snapped. ‘Burns asked me to help, remember?’
‘We’re not talking about a couple of files, Alice. There’s enough paper to fill a room.’
Alvarez stood in front of the seaside landscape, like he was advertising the virtues of Spain as a holiday destination.
‘Those pictures of your wife are gorgeous, by the way.’ I kept my voice expressionless. His gaze shifted away from my face. It was clear that he had no intention of defending himself. ‘Just arrange access to the Benson archive for me, please. I’ll come back when I have time.’
I closed the door harder than was strictly necessary on my way out. Not hard enough to shatter the glass, but with enough force to demonstrate that I didn’t appreciate men who cheated on their wives.