by Steve Mosby
'No, I remember them.' She sniffed and rubbed the side of her nose, then peered at the lit end of her cigarette. 'They went in the office. I don't know what they talked about though. I don't want anything to do with all that shit he does. I just don't want to know.'
I caught her use of the word that time.
'You said them?''
She frowned at me.
'Yeah - girl and a guy. That's who you're talking about, right? She had red hair. I don't know about him. Shaved head, I think.' She pumped her shoulders and chest out. 'Big fucking monkey guy, yeah?'
That was definitely her, and it sounded like James as well, which threw me a little. On one level, it made sense that Sarah had brought my brother along when she came to see Ellis: these were strange people she was talking to, after all. But something must have come between them - hard enough not only for Sarah to leave James, but for him to have amassed sufficient resentment and anger to snap. I'd been imagining her obsession was it, but if James had been involved too then the idea suddenly didn't make as much sense.
'That's them,' I said. 'Look - does Christopher have another place, or anything like that?'
'Yeah, he's got a mansion up the road.' She flicked ash past me, out towards the ledge. Then smiled thinly. 'He'll be down in The Duncan, if that's what you're asking. Pissing away more money we haven't got.'
'The Duncan?'
'The pub. Out on the main road.'
I checked my watch. 'It's open at this time?'
'It's always open. I'd go and drag him out myself, but you tell me - why should I fucking bother?'
'Thanks anyway. How will I recognise him?'
It was an odd question to ask, given the circumstances, but she didn't bat an eyelid. Maybe she was used to complete strangers coming looking for him, or maybe she didn't care.
'Skinny guy. Ginger. About fifty fucking years younger than everyone else in there.' 'Thanks.'
She turned back inside, and said almost to herself: 'On the outside, anyway.'
* * *
Chapter Seventeen
Back out on the main street, I nearly missed The Duncan. I walked halfway past the place before realising I was there.
The building itself was very old, and looked derelict. From its appearance, it might once have been a grand little hotel, but now it was just a crumbling stone facade with sad, empty arches. A 'FOR SALE' sign hung down near the roof, so battered and worn that it might have been there as long as the building had. There were two doors leading inside, and the signs above them were just wooden boards with the name carved into them. If I hadn't known to look, I'd have assumed the place was stripped down and closed up.
I pulled one of the doors open, and walked inside, immediately hit by a waft of stale tobacco and whisky.
It was just a single large room: a spill of dirty architecture that had pooled around the columns and pillars. The carpet was flattened and tacky, and the air was thick from the blue-grey smoke curling above the tables. I guessed the smoking ban wasn't taken too seriously in here. The bar was along one wall, illuminated by the bright-green bulbs in the beer pumps, while everything else was bathed in dim light that lent the whole pub, from the floor to the ceiling, a miserable orange sheen.
I headed straight to the bar and ordered a Coke, taking the opportunity to look around.
It was surprisingly full, although one look at the residents told me they were probably a constant feature, as familiar to the weary-looking barman as the fixtures and fittings were, and as my request for a Coke likely wasn't. A group of builders in paint-spattered jumpers and boots was standing at the bar, lifting frothy pints and barking laughter. Aside from them, the clientele was almost entirely comprised of elderly men wearing dusty old suits, most of whom looked like they'd drifted back here to haunt the place. The majority were alone at their own tables, staring at their drinks.
I spotted Ellis quickly enough. He was sitting at the far end, where a settee ran along the back of the room, curving into the occasional alcoves. A half-drunk pint of lager rested on the table in front of him.
He wasn't much older than me, although he looked it. He was also painfully thin. The cheap white shirt was too big for him, and the baggy sleeves were bunched at the elbow, revealing freckled forearms that maintained a steady width from his wrist on up. His hair was cropped short and visibly receding. As I looked at him, he was staring down at his hands, picking repetitively at a fingernail, and his lips were moving slightly. He wasn't talking to himself, but he wasn't a world away from it either.
I picked up my Coke and walked over.
You're not going to do something stupid?
This was the man who'd been there when Marie died. If he'd shouted something - caught her attention - perhaps it would have stopped her. Instead, his first instinct had been to scrabble for his mobile phone. I couldn't wait to share this! As though he was some kind of hunter and her death had been a trophy to mount on a fucking wall.
I stopped in front of him. The ice in my glass was rattling.
'Christopher?'
He looked up, startled.
His eyes were tiny, and his nose was large and curved. He reminded me of a lizard, how thin and pale and dry he looked.
'Christopher Ellis?'
'Who are you?'
It was a bad choice of words. They brought back the memory of a night-time street spinning around me, the rain hissing down. Sarah's face as she opened the door.
Alex, what's wrong?
And I realised I was going to do something stupid.
But something in my expression must have slipped, because before I could do anything at all, Ellis picked up his pint and threw it at me. Instinct took over. I closed my eyes and raised an arm, just as cold liquid splashed across my face and chest. At least the glass missed, shattering somewhere behind me. But I opened my eyes just as Ellis barrelled into me. My foot slid away, and I hit the floor.
'Fuck:
I glanced around. He was already halfway across the pub, heading straight for one of the exits. For some reason, everyone else in the pub had stopped what they were doing.
I scrambled to my feet.
'Hey!' the barman shouted.
We both ignored him. Ellis slammed the door open so hard it nearly came off its hinges, while I was just running, determined to get hold of him. One of the builders at the bar half-heartedly stepped in my direction, and I palmed him away - 'Fuck off' - then smacked into the door as it slammed back towards me.
I half fell out onto the pavement.
Looked right, then left, and saw Ellis's back disappearing down the street.
I went after him. He was fast, though. His long legs were pounding hard at the ground, like he was running for his life. I did my best to match him, but he was quicker than he looked and began accelerating away.
'Ellis! I just want to talk!'
Obviously, that wasn't convincing. He swerved round the next corner and vanished from sight. I reached it a few seconds later, then caught sight of him ducking into a cobbled alley halfway down on the right beneath a coal-black viaduct. I sprinted across, just in time to see him make another turn at the far side of a skip up ahead. I rounded that, into a smaller, sheltered alley with a spiderweb of dirty metal fire escapes above.
Smash!
Ellis pulled a metal waste bin over as he ran. It rolled down the alley behind him, then stopped against the wall just as I reached it.
Leaping over. Landing OK.
He glanced over his shoulder, an expression of absolute terror on his face, then dodged under some scaffolding and vanished round another corner. A fluttering polythene sheet whipped my arm as I followed.
A large, open, concrete space now. It looked like a factory had been demolished, leaving the ground scarred and pitted. Ellis was cutting diagonally across, heading for a torn section in a chain link fence at the far corner. My shoes crunched on broken glass and rusted bolts as I sprinted after him. I heard the fence ping as he clambered through, and
then he vanished off to the right.
A few seconds later, I eased myself beneath the sharp edges of the wire, and emerged onto a sandy footpath running along the edge of a canal.
It was empty. Ellis was gone.
My heart was pounding.
The footpath ahead was visible for at least a hundred metres, and there was no way he could have got that far. The dank water was undisturbed. I listened carefully. It was so quiet here I thought I could hear the midges that were flitting off the water's surface.
Slow down. Think.
I walked a little way along. Once I'd got past the end of the fence, there was a seven-foot concrete wall, the top studded with broken bottle glass. No blood, no tears of clothing: he'd not gone over. After the wall, though, the path crumbled away at the side into a stretch of woodland. The trees were standing straight and proud, stuck in a tangle of brambles and undergrowth. It looked impenetrable, but I figured Ellis had to have cut into there.
There was no sign of him, but I couldn't see very far into it at all. I listened again and still heard nothing. If he was moving about in there, he was being careful. But maybe he was ducked down. Keeping still.
I took a step in. My heart was still thumping, and now the muscles in my legs were beginning to burn slowly.
'Ellis?'
A pair of birds scattered out from the trees.
'I just want to talk.'
No reply. I made my way through the undergrowth, keeping an eye out for a flash of his white shirt amongst the greenery. I even checked up in the trees. Nothing. If he was hiding, he'd found a good hole to lie in. But it only took a minute of struggling before I found a slope leading up to another back street, and realised he was probably long gone.
Shit.
Lost him.
I stood on the edge of the pavement and leaned on my knees, my heart making it clear it would slow down in its own sweet time. Although it was frustrating Ellis had got away, I was more confused by his reaction. Why the hell had he thrown a fucking pint glass at me? Even if I'd looked annoyed, it seemed an extreme response. And when I'd seen his face as he glanced back, he'd been absolutely terrified.
I walked a little way up the street and found the main road.
Yeah, well. I know where you live, you silly bastard.
I started off in what I hoped was the right direction, but then felt a vibration in my pocket. It was Mike ringing me, but when I checked my watch it wasn't much after ten. He must have finished with my brother earlier than expected. I held the phone to my ear as I walked.
'Hey.'
His voice was excited, urgent. 'Alex? You OK?' 'Yeah, I'm fine.'
'How did it go with Ellis?'
I ran my hand through my hair, scanning the street as I went.
'Couldn't exactly pin him down,' I said. 'You?'
'I don't know.' He sounded more out of breath than I did. 'But I asked James about him. About this Ellis guy.'
'What?' I stopped walking. Then started again. 'Never mind. What did he say?'
'He said he'd never heard of him.'
'He's lying.'
'It was strange, though. He got really pissed off when I told him about you coming home.'
'That's not strange.'
'No, but he clammed up. It was different from how he's been. He looked like… I don't know, like he'd been caught out, or something.'
I didn't think that was particularly strange, either, given the relationship we had. I could imagine how much he'd resent me being here.
'Did he say anything else?'
'He said this was all your fault.'
'Really?'
Even by my brother's standards, that was rich. Feeling a degree of guilt for letting Sarah down was one thing, but I wasn't going to be handed any by him. Whatever I might have done, James was responsible for his own fucking actions.
'Yeah. He said to ask you about a guy called Peter French. Mean anything?'
'No,' I said.
But I stopped in my tracks.
For a moment, I just stood there, feeling my heart knocking against my chest. That was a name I'd not heard in a long time.
'What did he say about him?'
'He said to ask you. And about a letter, as well. He wanted to know if you'd found it yet. What does that mean?'
I thought about it. The only letter I could think of was the one I'd sent Sarah before I left, but I couldn't imagine what relevance that had. J's really annoyed at you for running out. Was that it? Was he blaming me for leaving Sarah to deal with what she eventually found?
'I don't know,' I said. 'What else?'
'He was really angry. Do you know a place called the Chalkie?'
I frowned. 'Why?'
'Because he said to tell you to go there.'
Mike paused.
'He said, "to see what he's done".'
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
When the door went for the second time that morning, Mandy Gilroyd cursed her boyfriend. And not just for the second time. As if she didn't have enough shit to deal with worrying about their finances, she was apparently now expected to be his fucking secretary as well. Christ, he was a bastard. Drowning his sorrows, whatever the hell they were, while he left her here to… take messages for him. She had no idea what he thought he was playing at, but it was going to have to stop.
'Hang on,' she shouted. 'Shit.'
She stalked around the front room. The place was a tip. No doubt Chris imagined she was going to take care of that for him as well. There were six empty green cans on the small table, one of them on its side, doubled-up, like a soldier that had been shot; half a takeaway curry, congealed in a tin-foil tray; two bowls over-flowing with cigarette ends - although that was partly her.
The only time Mandy ever felt like tidying was in the handful of seconds after someone had knocked at the door. Since that was impossible, it just made her angry instead. Bastard. Refusing to put down her drink, she half-heartedly kicked one of Chris's jumpers to the side of the settee, where it wrapped its arms around the wooden leg.
Bang bang bang.
'I said: hang on.'
She skirted the coffee table and crossed to the door.
'Fuck's sake.'
She undid the chain and opened the door. There was a man in a suit standing outside, half silhouetted against the sun. He was looking off down the walkway, but then he turned to her and smiled. He was in his fifties, and had a kind face, but the smile was professional, and she'd seen enough of them in her time to know what he was.
'A cop,' she said. 'Brilliant.'
'Miss Gilroyd?'
'What the hell's he done now?'
Immediately, she felt bad for that. Her personal problems with Chris were one thing, but this was the police. A common enemy. For the first time that morning, she summoned up some solidarity with her boyfriend, and set her expression hard, folding her arms. She forgot about the mug she was holding, which slopped a little vodka-coffee down the doorframe.
The policeman still smiled, although she knew he'd seen.
'That obvious, is it?' he said. 'Here.'
He took out his wallet and showed her his ID. Detective David Garland.
She said nothing.
'Can I come in?'
Mandy shrugged - whatever - then turned away and walked back into the front room. She knew from experience that it wasn't worth arguing. Garland took the hint and followed her inside, closing the door behind him.
'Is Christopher in?'
'Nope.'
'He due back any time soon?'
'Why are you asking me?'
She turned round, expecting him to be annoyed at her tone, but he didn't seem to have even noticed. He wasn't actually looking at her. Instead, he'd wandered over to the bookcase and was peering curiously at a few of Chris's books. The top shelf. Garland ran his finger along the spines there. Mandy knew what those books were. Chris had shown her one about a year ago, as though it was some kind of challenge. She'd shrugged at the
time. Then avoided looking at them since.
'Nice little collection,' Garland said.
'They're not mine.' Mandy folded her arms again, remembering the drink this time. 'What do you want?'
'Have you heard of a man called Roger Timms?'
'Nope.'
Garland stared across the room at her, incredulous.
'You don't watch the news?'
She shrugged. 'Never heard of the guy.'
'Does Chris know him?'
'I don't know. And like I said, Chris isn't here.'
'Well, I can wait.' Garland wandered across the room towards her. 'By the way, who was that at the door earlier?'
'The door?'
Suddenly, he didn't look quite so kind any more. A chill went through her. Something wasn't right here. But he was a cop, wasn't he? The ID had looked like… well, it had looked like ID.
He was right in front of her now.
'What did he want?'
You've made a mistake here.
'I don't - what?'
But Garland just smiled. Everything froze for a moment, and then Mandy threw her mug at him and tried to dodge past. She was dimly aware of him moving, then the room spun round in a Hash, and she was now on her back at the side of the settee. Looking at the ceiling. It felt like she was wearing those old 3D glasses: one of her eyes had gone red. She blinked, and it hurt.
He stepped into view above, tall as a statue, and looked down at her with a blank expression.
By his side - very loosely, as though it was an afterthought - he was holding a gun.
Garland worked his way through Christopher Ellis's flat quickly and methodically. Having already done a damage calculation - nobody had seen him arrive, he'd subdued Gilroyd quietly, and the chain was on the front door in case Ellis returned - he knew there was no need to rush. But he liked to be as efficient as possible. Time was a precious thing: like food and water, you never knew when it might run out. He took it even more seriously when someone else was paying for it.
He searched the drawers and cabinets in the front room, scanning each individual document in turn. Slowly but surely, he gathered together printouts, bank statements and any documents he thought might prove incriminating, and piled them in the centre of the living room floor.
