by P. T. Reade
I was still thirsty, still feeling the smoke at the fringes, still haunted by the need for a drink that had struck me while I sat in my car in the rain, waiting for Anthony’s wife to show up and bang some random dude in a hotel.
I took the cash out, folded it, and placed it in my front pants pocket. I locked up the place – glad to be heading out for the day because the office was depressing the hell out of me – and headed back out to the tight London streets where the rain had turned from speckled patches to steady stream.
***
As it turned out, the thought of Anthony Taylor’s despair wouldn’t leave me alone. It hovered over me while I downed a beer at the old-fashioned pub on the corner near my apartment. The idea of what Anthony might be feeling curbed my need for another. Well, in truth, it was partly that and partly the fact that I was missing my wife and son. And Anthony’s whole situation was making it all that much worse.
So after a single drink, I paid my tab and walked down the windings streets and cobbled alleyways back to my apartment. It was a shabby two-room deal situated above a Middle-Eastern restaurant in Central Hackney. The apartment always smelled like bread and some sort of spice, coriander, maybe, or some kind of clove. I kept my office at the front of the apartment, separated from the rest of the place by a slim room divider that was really nothing more than a stiff curtain standing in the center of the living room.
I sat in my tattered recliner, sipping on a tumbler of whiskey that I had no taste for but seemed fitting, nonetheless. The glass was a comforting sensation in my hand.
I thought of Sarah and Tommy. I thought of how they had been taken from me and how that had set the course for the rest of my life. I was a different man now, living a different life in a different world. And men like Taylor affected me in a way I was not used to.
I thought about Anthony and his cheating wife a lot that night. I almost reconsidered Anthony’s follow-up offer. I felt like I owed him something, and if that something was finding out more about the man who had been sleeping with his wife, then so be it.
But something inside told me to let it go, and focus on the real reason I was in this country. I fell asleep in the recliner with that thought in my head, lured into a restless doze by the sound of the rain against my windows. I was here because had a killer to find.
THREE
The months weighed heavily.
I woke up early the next morning. In fact, I woke up early most mornings. If I slept more than five hours, I was useless the next day. It probably came down to my body’s confusion. In New York, my go-to drug of choice had been caffeine. Sarah had always called me the Man with the Styrofoam hands because I always had a cup of bitter precinct coffee in my hands.
I ate a quick breakfast of dry toast and coffee and reminded myself to buy some butter. I brushed my teeth and looked in the mirror.
Jesus, I looked like crap. I’d once been called “handsome,” by a female D.A. back in New York. The boys in the precinct had found it hilarious. But those days were just a memory now. Echoes of former glory etched by history, my face was worn by deep creases and hair flecked gray at the temples. I wasn’t the man I used to be, and I had never thought that he was up to much.
Moving into the stale office, I was smacked by memories of the day before.
I looked outside and opened the window a crack onto the sort of moist atmosphere that seemed to pervade the capital. People were coming and going, surrounded by the morning smells of London — baking bread, tea and coffee, car exhaust, and the after-scent of rain. In the distance, tower blocks clawed at the gray sky. Beneath my window, narrow roads crowded with pedestrians and black cabs signaled the start of another day.
It was all pleasant enough, but I simply couldn’t let myself be swayed from my somber mood.
I’d been in this dark place for a while now. Most people told me that the best way to overcome it was to think of the great memories I had of Sarah and Tommy, but trying to do that only reminded me of how badly I missed them.
I had come to London with the express purpose of finding out what had happened when my family had been murdered on the wrong side of the world. Six months later, those thoughts still burned in my mind. Murdered. Even now I could barely believe it was true, or perhaps some part of me just didn’t.
Remorse ambushed me again.
I had let Sarah take the job in London while I had remained in New York to finish my night course at Columbia University. I had been gunning for Captain and the forensics qualification was my ticket.
I had encouraged her to go for the temporary Editor position and had even agreed to her taking Tommy over the summer to see her home country. I had. Me. I had sent my wife and son 3,500 miles away for a “temporary situation.”
Now they were dead and there was nothing temporary about it. They were never coming back.
I could remember the night I found out like it was yesterday: a knock at the door. An officer’s voice on the other side.
“Thomas Blume? I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
The memories threatened to break me again, so I collapsed into the chair behind my desk and looked around, desperate for a distraction that didn’t come in a bottle. The tiny office space looked quaint enough, cluttered with papers, files, magazines, and folders. The beat-up laptop on my desk should have been euthanized years ago; I had no idea how it had survived this long…at least nine years. I sat down behind it, but rather than power it up, I reached for my digital camera, still sitting in the middle of the desk from yesterday’s meeting with Anthony.
Frame and shoot.
I looked through the pictures and saw that I did indeed have a few clear pictures of the man. He looked to be in his early forties, a little overweight, and very pale. If I wanted to, I could probably track him down. I’d start by asking the desk clerk at the hotel and then —
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. I clicked the camera off, not wanting any visitors to see Anthony’s wife in such a way, and answered the door. There were two policemen on the other side of the door and, as was my habit, I found myself sizing them up right away.
There were two men on the other side of the door, holding up Police badges. They were detectives, and, as was my habit, I found myself sizing them up right away.
“Mr. Blume?” the cop in front asked. He was tall but not muscular. He wore a mustache that looked almost chiseled on and had eyes that made me think he did a lot of squinting.
“That’s me,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“There’s a situation we hope you can provide some answers to,” the second cop said. This cop was butch but also looked like he had done a lot of drugs during high school. You could see it on his slack, pock-marked face. He reminded me of a dog, but I couldn’t remember which type. They looked at me like I was going to invite them in.
I didn’t.
“What situation is that?” I asked.
“Mr. Blume, do you know a man by the name of Anthony Taylor?”
Alarms instantly went off in my head, but I tried not to let it show. “I do,” I answered as nonchalantly as I could.
“Well, Mr. Taylor committed suicide last night.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, as guilt hit me again. Was there anything else I could screw up?
“And we also saw in his planner that he met with you yesterday,” the first cop said. “As you were an acquaintance of his, we thought we’d check to see what, exactly, you were meeting about?”
“That’s private information,” I said, but I was pretty sure they’d tear that defense to shreds…which they did, promptly.
“He killed himself and as far as we know, you are the last person that saw him alive. You know that the privacy shite won’t work here.” Moustache said.
They were right, so all I could do was shrug. “He thought his wife was cheating on him but didn’t have the courage to confront her about it,” I informed them. I had stepped in front of the doorway, making sure they knew d
amn well that I wasn’t going to invite them in. Yes, they were just doing their job but for a reason I could not explain, I had a sense of responsibility for Anthony…not what he had decided to do, but in the personal ramifications of working with him.
“And?” the dog-faced cop with the hazy eyes said.
“And he turned out to be right. I presented him with the evidence yesterday.”
“Evidence?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Pictures.”
The two cops shared an expression that enraged me…an expression that basically translated to: Get a load of this worthless son of a bitch. And damn them if it didn’t make me feel like shit.
“You didn’t think there would be repercussions?” Moustache glared.
“No. I’ve helped a few people with these kinds of things. There’s always some anger and regret, but it comes to one of two conclusions: the cheated spouse either leaves or the marriage mends itself.”
“Tell me, how long you been living in London?” The short cop flicked through a notebook and glanced at me.
“Who said I was living here?”
The first cop smiled. We ran your name through our system. Seems you entered the UK about six months ago. Never returned to the United States. At least not on the record. So unless we’re mistaken, you’ve been here for at least half a year.”
“It’s a long visit,” I said.
“Aye,” the second cop nodded along. “I’ll say. I’m just curious, Mr. Blume. Where you been stayin’ during this long visit, here?”
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Of course you don’t,” said the first cop. “Course, if you chose not to, we would be obliged to imagine you aren’t staying anywhere. Which means you’re a vagrant.”
“A foreign vagrant,” his partner added.
“And that’s not good.”
“Not good at all.”
“Course if you are staying somewhere, we don’t have to worry about that.”
I sighed, looking from one to the other, scowling at each of them. Finally, I told them the truth.
“Now,” the first cop went on, “of course since you are staying here, paying a monthly rent and all, you are in fact in violation of the travel visa you entered the country on.”
I shook my head. “You asshole.”
“I’m afraid you can probably guess what we do to visitors who violate their visas, can’t you?”
When I said nothing, the second cop answered for me. “We deport them.” He grinned and fluttered his fingers at me. “Bye-bye. Back to America.”
I stared at them, my heart frozen in my chest. They couldn’t deport me; I still had work to do here. I still needed to solve Sarah and Tommy’s murder. Lord knew that these two idiots wouldn’t be able to. I had to stay.
“Come on,” I croaked.
“Sorry, mate,” the first cop smiled smugly. “Just doing my job. Maybe next time you overstay your welcome somewhere you’ll be smart enough to stay out of trouble.”
“You don’t understand,” I insisted. “I used to be a cop. If you —“
"No you don't understand," The tall cop cut in. "By my calculations, if you ain’t got a job in two weeks it’s back to New York for you. Got it?”
"Maybe you could become a photographer? The other cop chimed in sarcastically, "Just how much did Anthony Taylor pay you for those pictures?"
“This conversation is over, gentlemen,” I said.
I shut the door with force. It slammed in their faces, and I waited a moment, sure that they would knock again, but they decided to leave me alone. I could hear their muffled voices and footfalls echoing back down the corridor and to the steps beyond. They had no evidence of my wrongdoing, and for now they couldn’t charge me with anything.
Shaking, I walked to my desk and picked up the camera. Then, without realizing what I was doing, I slammed it down on the desk. When it did not break, I threw it hard to the floor. It cracked, the lens popping out and the body splintering.
I stood for a moment trembling, as anger and grief washed through me.
It’s not your fault, Sarah’s voice finally whispered to me. My own voice would have pushed more and more guilt on. In a way, I guess I deserved it. But, as always, it was Sarah that was the voice of reason. Not your fault…
I collapsed into my chair, deflated, and fired up my computer. I had nothing to do, but I desperately wanted to use my time in some way other than occupying real estate at the pub.
Anthony Taylor was dead and in less than two weeks the cops would be back, and next time I wouldn’t be able to keep them out. I’d be bundled on the first plane back to America, flying away from any hope of justice for my family. I couldn’t leave this country, not yet. I had a job to do.
I started off by opening my browser and shopping for a new camera. I had fourteen days to get it together, or everything was lost.
FOUR
It was a comfortable betrayal.
Three days after the two police came by my office and tried to suffocate me with a guilt trip about Anthony Taylor, I got another knock on my door. I was taking practice shots with my new camera, getting used to the zoom, flash, and all of that stuff. It was another Canon. I had never considered myself loyal to any brand, but for some reason, I found cameras to be the exception. I was also nursing a hangover from pounding beer the night before. It had been a rough night — one of those where the memories of Sarah and Tommy were demonic poltergeists haunting my apartment. Forcing me to remain in limbo between sleep and consciousness.
I looked up to the door, somehow certain that this would be the two cops again. Maybe they found my name somewhere else in Anthony’s personal belongings.
I almost didn’t answer it but figured that would be stupid. And besides, I still felt as if I owed Anthony something.
I was relieved to see that the two cops were not standing there. Instead, there was a short but muscular man in his forties with thinning midnight black hair and intense eyes. Most people would have been alarmed by his intimidating appearance, but I knew differently. Amir Mazra was one of the kindest and most insightful men I’d met. He was the owner of the restaurant below and originally from Iran or Afghanistan or somewhere like that. Right then I realized I’d knew little about the Middle East and felt ashamed for a second.
“Hey Amir,” I said.
“Thomas. Come on. Let’s have lunch.”
“Downstairs?” I asked, looking to the floor. “No offense, but I smell it every day. It smells delicious, but I’ve had my fill.”
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go out. Your choice.”
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
He thought about this for a moment and answered slowly. “I haven’t seen much of you lately,” he said. “And when I have, it’s usually watching you go past the fire escape window, stumbling up the steps.”
“Is this an intervention?” I asked him, laughing humorlessly.
“No. It is an invitation to lunch from a man that hopes you see him as a friend.”
I nodded, reminded at how well Amir was able to push bullshit to the side and get sentimental in a way that was not only intense, but heartfelt. He was, in a way, the only living connection I had to my New York roots.
“Steak?” I said, realizing that I was in fact suddenly starving.
“Turn the lights off,” Amir said. “Don’t waste electricity.”
I looked back into my office and flicked the switch. “You’re my landlord,” I said, “not my Mommy.”
“Yes, but saving money on electricity will help you stop taking crappy jobs like this one with Anthony Taylor.”
“You heard about that, huh?”
He nodded. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
***
“I’m done with cases like that,” I told Amir as I polished off my very average meal. The comment was random, a stark contrast from our reminiscing about the past. But I knew why Amir had wanted to have lunch with me. He was checking up on me, pl
ain and simple.
“Good,” Amir said. “I’m glad. But can I ask why?”
“Well, what if this little discovery did push Taylor to kill himself? Without the work I did for him, would he ever have gotten the proof?”
“You can’t do that to yourself,” Amir said. “Why heap guilt on yourself? You’re carrying enough of it already, don’t let it poison you. Besides, I thought you came to London to relieve the grief, figure things out. Not to add to it.”
