A Traitor to Memory

P-Man sank his head into his hands, body language for his sudden realisation that his bollixed-up life had just become a degree more bollixed up. “I've told you everything I can tell you,” he said, sidestepping the Jimmy Pytches issue. “I've not seen that woman—I've not seen any of them—since six months after the trial. I moved on. Well, what else could I do? New house, new life—”

“New name,” Leach said. “Just like before. But Mr. Azoff here doesn't seem to know that a bloke like you with a past like yours has a way of getting sucked into events, Mr. Pytches. Even when he thinks he's weighted that past in concrete boots and chucked it into the Thames.”

“What the hell are you on about, Leach?” Azoff said.

“Get rid of that shit burner you've got in your mouth, and I'll do what I can to elucidate,” Leach answered. “This is a non-smoking area, and I presume that reading is one of your talents, Mr. Azoff.”

Azoff took his time about removing the cigarette from his mouth, and he took even more time to dislodge its ash against the sole of his shoe, carefully so as to preserve the remaining tobacco for his later pleasure. During this performance, P-Man, unbidden, unspooled most of his story for the solicitor. At the end of a recitation that was as brief and as positively slanted as possible, P-Man said, “I've not mentioned this cot-death business before because there was no need, Lou. And there's still no need. Or at least there wouldn't be if this”—a jerk of his head at Leach indicated that the demonstrative pronoun was as close as P-Man intended to come to dignifying Leach's presence by actually giving him a name—“hadn't made up his mind to something that bears no relationship whatsoever to the truth.”

“Pytches,” Azoff said, and while he sounded thoughtful as he said the name, his narrowing eyes suggested that his thoughts had less to do with absorbing a new piece of information than they had to do with what he planned as a disciplinary measure for a client who continued to withhold facts from him, making him look like a fool each time he was forced to face the police. “You say another kid who died, Jay?”

“Two kids and a woman,” Leach reminded him. “And counting, by the way. Another victim got hit last night. Where were you, Pytches?”

“That's not fair!” P-Man cried. “I haven't seen a single one of those people … I haven't talked to … I don't know why she had my address with her … And I certainly don't believe—”

“Last night,” Leach repeated.

“Nothing. Nowhere. At home. Where the hell else would I be when you've got my car?”

“Picked up by someone, perhaps,” Leach said.

“Who? Someone I supposedly joined for a nice dash round London for a quick hit-and-run?”

“I don't think I mentioned it was hit-and-run.”

“Don't make yourself out to be so bloody clever. You said another victim. You said another hit. You can't expect me to think you meant hitting someone with a cricket bat, can you? Else why would I be here?”

He was getting hot under the collar. Leach liked that. He also liked the fact that P-Man's brief was just cheesed off enough to let him twist in the wind for a minute or two. That could be distinctly useful.

He said, “Good question, Mr. Pytches.”

“Pitchley,” P-Man said.

“What have you seen of Katja Wolff lately?”

“Kat—” P-Man halted himself. “What about Katja Wolff?” he asked, quietly cautious.

“I had a look through ancient history this morning and I found you never gave evidence at her trial.”

“I wasn't asked to give evidence. I was in the house, but I didn't see anything and there was no reason—”

“But the Beckett woman did. The boy's teacher. Sarah-Jane she was called. My notes—have I mentioned that I keep all my records from investigations?—show that you and she were together when the kid got the chop. You were together, which must mean you both saw everything or nothing at all, but in any event—”

“I didn't see anything.”

“—in any event,” Leach continued forcefully, “Beckett gave evidence while you stayed mum. Why was that?”

“She was the boy's teacher. Gideon. The brother. She saw more of the family. She saw more of the little girl. She saw what kind of care Katja gave her, so she must have thought she had something to contribute. And listen, I wasn't asked to give evidence. I spoke to the police, I gave my statement, I waited for more but I wasn't asked.”

“Convenient, that.”

“Why? Are you trying to suggest—”

“Plug it,” Azoff said finally. And to Leach, “Get to the point or we're off.”

“Not without my motor,” P-Man said.

Leach fished in his jacket pocket and brought out the release form for the Boxter. He laid it on the table between himself and the two other men. He said, “You were the only one from that house who didn't give evidence against her, Mr. Pytches. I'd think she'd've dropped by to say thank you now that she's out of the coop.”

“What're you on about?” P-Man cried.