A Traitor to Memory

And now he was back in it all, Pitchley thought as he rubbed his forehead. He was mixed up in it as effectively as if he'd never managed to put twenty years between himself and what had happened in that miserable house. He'd changed his name, he'd switched jobs five times, but all his best efforts to remake himself were going to be brought to nothing if he couldn't get CreamPants to see that her statement was crucial to his survival.

Not that CreamPants' statement was the only thing he needed to put his house in order. He also needed to deal with Robbie and Brent, those two loose cannons who were about to fire.

He'd assumed they wanted money again when they'd shown up a second time in Crediton Hill. No matter that he'd already given them a cheque, he knew them well enough to realise there was a decent possibility that Robbie had been inspired by the sight of a Ladbrokes to deposit those funds not in a bank account but on the head of a horse whose name he rather fancied. This assumption on Pitchley's part was ratified when Robbie said, “Show 'im, Brent,” not five minutes after the two of them had hulked through his front door, carrying with them the stench of their poor bathing habits. Accepting the instruction, Brent brought forth from his jacket a copy of The Source, which he opened like someone shaking out bed sheets.

“Look who it was got mashed on your doorstep, Jay,” Brent said with a grin as he showed the scabrous paper's front page. And of course it would be The Source, Pitchley thought. God forbid that either Brent or Robbie would elevate their taste to something less sensational.

He couldn't avoid seeing what Brent dangled in front of him: the garish headline, the photograph of Eugenie Davies, the inset photograph of the street in which he himself lived, and the second inset photograph of the boy no longer a boy but a man now and a celebrity. It was all down to him that this death was taking up newsprint at all, Pitchley thought bitterly. If Gideon Davies hadn't achieved fame, fortune, and success in a world that increasingly valued those accomplishments, then the papers wouldn't even be covering this situation. It would simply be an unfortunate hit-and-run that the police were in the process of investigating. Full stop and end of story.

Robbie said, “'Course, we di'n't know when we 'as here yesterday. Mind 'f I unload this, Jay?” And he'd shrugged his way out of his heavy waxed jacket and lobbed it onto the back of a chair. He made a circuit of the room and a point of examining everything in it. He said, “Nice gaff, this. You done good for yourself, Jay. I expect you got a big name in the City, least 'mong the people who count. That right, Jay? You massage their money and presto amazo, it makes more money and they trust you to do that, don't they?”

Pitchley said, “Just say what you want. I'm rather pressed for time.”

“Don't see why,” Robbie said. “Shoot. In New York …” He snapped his fingers in the direction of his companion. “Brent. Time in New York?”

Brent looked at his watch obediently. His lips moved as he did the maths. He frowned and employed the fingers of one hand. He finally said, “Early.”

Robbie said, “Right. Early, Jay. Th' market's not closed yet in New York. You got plenty of time to make a few more quid before the day's over. Even with this little confab of ours.”

Pitchley sighed. The only way to get rid of the two men would be to make it look as though he was playing Rob's game. He said, “You're right, of course,” and nothing more. He merely walked to a bureau near the window that overlooked the street, and from inside he brought out his chequebook and a biro that he clicked open officially. He carried the chequebook into the dining room, where he pulled out a chair, sat, and began to write. He started with the amount: three thousand pounds. He couldn't imagine that Rob would ask for less.

Rob strode into the dining room. Brent, as always, followed his brother. Rob said, “That's what you think, is it, Jay? Us two show up and it's all about money?”

“What else?” Pitchley filled in the date and began to write the other man's name.

Robbie's hand smacked down on the dining room table. “Hey! You stop that and look at me.” And for good measure, he knocked the biro from Pitchley's hand. “You think this is about money, Jay? Me and Brent trot round—all this way up to Hampstead, mind you—with business waiting to be tended to out there”—this with a jerk of his head back in the direction of the sitting room, by which Pitchley took that he meant the street—“with us losing dosh by the bucketful just to stand here and bunny with you for ten minutes and you think we come about money? Hell, man.” And to the other, “What d'you think of that, Brent?”

Brent joined them at the table, The Source still dangling from his fingers. He wouldn't know what to do with the paper till Robbie gave him his next set of instructions. As for now, it gave him something to occupy his hands.

The poor oaf was pathetic, Pitchley thought. It was a wonder he'd ever learned to tie his shoes. He said, “All right. Fine,” and sat back in his chair. “So why don't you tell me why you've come, Rob?”

“Can't just be a friendly visit, that it?”