Dr Leach had asked if I ever had what she euphemistically described as ‘dark thoughts’. I’d shaken my head but the truth was that there wasn’t much holding me on to the face of the earth. Most people my age were looking forward to spending their golden years playing with grandchildren and growing tomatoes on their allotment. Things might work out in Manchester. On the other hand, they might not.
A seagull shrieked and something warm and wet landed on my head. Contemplating the infinite in a moonlit bay isn’t made easier with a dollop of bird shit running down the back of your neck. Using a discarded copy of the Saltrossan Advertiser, I mopped up the mess as best I could.
The culprit had perched on the end of a telescope twenty feet away. I threw the balled-up paper more in hope than expectation and scored a direct hit. The gull shrieked indignantly and took to the air. Not a huge victory in the grand scheme of things, but a victory nonetheless. I celebrated by lighting a fag and inhaling deeply.
Maybe it would be the cancer ward after all.
By the time I got back to the Bannock, it was well past midnight. The bar was still busy, but I wasn’t in the mood for company. Alec picked up on this and didn’t try to engage me in conversation when I ordered a couple of miniatures. The lingering aroma of seagull shit may also have had something to do with this.
In my room I set the alarm on the clock radio for 4.55 and tried to tune into a decent station. The reception was dreadful and the best I could manage was a local oldies show. Listening to songs penned when the world was young isn’t the best idea when you’re half in the bag, and particularly not after the kind of day I’d had.
While sipping the first miniature, I tried some positive thinking. Tomorrow I’d be back in London. Only for a day, but at least that would give me enough time to present my invoice to Frank before packing my worldly goods. Then I could bid a leisurely farewell to the French and a couple of other favoured pubs.
Twenty-four hours after that I’d be departing the Smoke again – this time without a return ticket in my wallet. Stephie would be sitting next to me and it would be goodbye to the bad old days, and hello to whatever Manchester had to offer.
I decided that it sure as hell wouldn’t be skip-tracing. I’d had a bellyful of crouching behind hedges trying to photograph person A entering address B in order that company C could serve him a summons. Exactly what I was going to turn my hand to was less clear-cut. Fortunately the Stones came to my rescue.
You might not always get what you want, Jagger advised, but you just might find that you get what you need. That was what it was all about. Surrendering to providence and not worrying whether it turned out to be everything I’d hoped for. Had Mick and Keith been in the room, I’d have clapped them on the back and insisted they share the second bottle. As things were, I twisted off the cap and drank it alone.
Years of the Monarch have made me pretty resilient when it comes to hangovers. Nevertheless I had a stunner when the taxi picked me up at dawn. The driver was chirpy, as ‘the Accies’ had apparently beaten Dundee the previous evening. It was a one-way conversation, which suited me.
It had been a miserable time in Saltrossan and I had no regrets about leaving. All I felt when boarding the train was gratitude that someone had switched the heating on. I chucked my bag into the overhead rack and stretched out on a seat. The next thing I knew, the ticket collector was shaking me awake in Glasgow Queen Street.
A few hours’ sleep had done much to restore my equilibrium. A BLT and half a pint of orange juice did an awful lot more. I was knocking the booze on the head after my farewell tour of Soho’s pubs. Complete sobriety would be a votive offering to the patron saint of the second chance, whatever his or her name might be.
I alternated my time on the way back to London between reading the latest Stephen King and supplementary bouts of dozing. Shortly after we pulled out of Darlington, I called Stephie to update her on my circumstances.
‘What the hell’s going on, Kenny?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for the last twenty-four hours. Didn’t you get my messages?’
‘I’ve been up in Scotland working on a case. It’s been a bit hectic.’
‘Too hectic to return five calls?’
‘Sorry, Steph, you cut out there. I’m on the train back to London and the signal’s not so great. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.’
‘When’s that going to be?’ Stephie asked, irritation in her voice.
‘How about I swing by Wednesday morning?’
‘Do you want to load any stuff into the removal van? I assumed you’d be coming with me, but if you want to make other arrangements . . .’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘I’ll pack everything tomorrow and see you about nine on Wednesday. That okay?’
‘I suppose it will have to be,’ Stephie said, not sounding entirely mollified. ‘There’s one other thing I need to discuss with you . . .’
‘Actually, we’re just about to go into a tunnel,’ I said. ‘Why don’t I give you a call from the flat tonight and we can sort everything out?’
‘Make sure you do,’ she said just before the connection died.
At Euston, I remained in my seat until everyone had retrieved their bags and headed for the doors. Then I sauntered out of the empty carriage and on to the platform. Usually I discover that I’ve lost my ticket before having to put up a convincing argument that I had one in the first place. Not this time.
I walked through the gates to find DI Standish and a pair of uniformed policemen waiting on the other side.
‘Kenneth Gabriel,’ Standish said, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Anna Jennings. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘You’re joking,’ I said.
He wasn’t.
THIRTY-FIVE
Detective Inspector Standish was wearing the same suit as when we’d last had a chinwag in Matcham. The wart on his cheek appeared larger, an optical illusion that may have been caused by the harsh light in Interview Room 4 of West End Central. Sitting beside Standish was Detective Sergeant Hugo Jacobs. His chalk-stripe whistle was a class apart, and could have been tailored a few doors down on Savile Row. The accent went with the suit, and Hugo’s cheeks were as pink as a pair of freshly picked Braeburns.
Sarah Delaney had been my solicitor for the last three hours. A beefy woman in her late thirties, she had objected to Standish’s general line of inquiry several times, and advised me not to answer two questions specifically. Assuming things didn’t go my way, I might be retaining her on a more permanent basis.
Standish ran his hand over his chin and reviewed his notes.
‘Seriously, Kenny,’ he said, ‘are you really sticking to this story?’ Jacobs shook his head as though he couldn’t quite believe it either.
‘It’s the truth,’ I told them.
‘It’s bollocks,’ Standish insisted. ‘For one thing, you couldn’t remember if the key was above the door or under a plant pot.’
‘It was above the door.’