‘Do you at least feel we’re getting somewhere?’
Heck shrugged. ‘O’Hoorigan ran away from us – which likely means he’s got something to hide, so it’s promising. But I’d like to know more about this guy, Deke. Did you notice he never took his gloves off once in that pub?’
‘Probably because he didn’t want to bust his knuckles.’
‘Or because he didn’t want to leave any prints. It’s August. Why would he be wearing gloves?’
Lauren pondered. ‘Perhaps he’d been working on a site somewhere?’
‘What, and he was still wearing them in the pub? Did he even look like he belonged in that place?’
‘Okay, I admit it. Deke’s a mystery man. But he’s not the guy we’re after.’
‘True,’ Heck agreed.
‘Which means we’ve no choice but to go to Gallows Hill?’
He nodded, but looked discomforted by the prospect. ‘I hear it’s unoccupied these days, which is probably a good thing.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Just off the M602 motorway. It was built as a series of apartment blocks, but it always looked more like a prison to me. Except …’
‘Except what?’
‘Except that no prison was ever so bloody grim.’
City of London bars were rarely busy on weekday evenings. The old days, when the City had purely been a place of work, and when tomb-like silence had filled the glass and concrete canyons after nightfall, were long gone. These days there were almost as many wine bars and restaurants as there were financial institutions. But Monday nights were not really the time for socialising, especially late on.
As such, by half past eleven, Ian Blenkinsop found himself almost alone at the bar in Mad Jack’s. Anyone who knew him would say that he cut a dishevelled, rather mournful figure. He was still in his daytime suit, but over the last few hours it had become crumpled. His tie was loose, his collar undone. His briefcase lay at his feet, while his coat was draped messily over the bar alongside him. He was pale-faced and sweaty, as he ordered yet another large gin and tonic, maybe his eighth of the evening.
‘It’s just no good is it,’ he mumbled.
One of the few bar servers left at this hour was a girl of about eighteen, with short, dark hair and a pretty face. She smiled politely, feigning interest as she placed clean glasses on the shelves.
‘Life’s so brief,’ he added, slurring badly. ‘So fragile. You never know when someone’s just gonna come along and snuff it out. You know, love, anything could happen to any one of us at any time.’ He gazed at her, trying to be profound – and in doing so, his eyes almost crossed.
She continued to feign interest, but said nothing.
‘“Out, out brief candle”,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not just talking about death, mind.’ He pointed a long, wavering finger at no one in particular. ‘You can bugger up your life in any number of ways. One moment of stupidity is all it takes, and nothing will ever be the same again. You might as well be fucking dead. Take me, for instance …’
Another bar server appeared; a youngish, Italian-looking chap. He’d been watching for several minutes, and had now decided to step forward.
‘Are you alright, Sir?’ he asked.
Somewhat relieved, the girl moved further along the bar, to serve another customer.
‘Me?’ Blenkinsop said, puzzled. ‘I’m alright. Well … as alright as I can be after what’s happened. You wouldn’t believe the things that are going on in my life.’
The barman, Andreas, who’d been working here for several years, was not unused to City men staggering in to drown their sorrows after losing their companies a fortune, so he did what he usually did, which was exactly what the girl had been doing: smile and nod, as if interested, and all the while have his mind on more important things, like who Arsenal were playing that coming Saturday.
‘Take me,’ Blenkinsop said again, trying to pick up the thread that he’d left hanging a few seconds ago, though to him those seconds seemed like hours. ‘Take me …’
‘Do I have to?’ the barman replied with a chuckle, trying to make a joke of it.
Blenkinsop stared at him, fuddled. As he did, his eyes again shifted out of focus and he swayed, almost falling off his stool. ‘No, I’ll … I’ll have another of these.’ He pushed his empty across the counter.
‘You sure about that, Sir?’ Andreas asked.
‘Listen, you’re on … you’re on good money working here. Yeah?’
‘Am I?’
‘Now listen, I’m paying your wages. If I want a drink, there’s no reason why I can’t have one. I’ve earned that right. Understand me? I earned it – it wasn’t my fault the way things worked out.’
‘Anything you say, Sir. Double G&T is it?’
‘Erm … better make it a treble.’
‘A treble?’
‘That means three.’
‘Okay. If that’s what you want, Sir.’ Andreas moved away.
‘Take me,’ Blenkinsop said again, loudly. ‘I’ve … I’ve really blown it, you know. I mean … life may get back to normal, but I don’t know when. And all through one crazy moment of uncontrolled … desire.’ He stressed the word ‘desire’, almost growled it. ‘That’s what it’s all about: lust, wanting … course there’s always a fucking woman involved …’
There was a sudden rattle of paper, so sharp that it even cut through Blenkinsop’s blurred thoughts. He glanced to his right.
The man the barmaid had gone to serve was sitting on a bar stool a couple of feet away. He had a pint of lager in front of him and was reading a copy of the Standard. He was no one familiar, but Blenkinsop was puzzled that he hadn’t observed the chap before – it was like he’d materialised from nowhere.
‘Erm … are we acquainted?’ Blenkinsop asked.
The man turned to look at him. He was in his late twenties, and of stocky build. His complexion was swarthy, his hair cut very short. His eyes were dark, unblinking. He didn’t say a word.
‘I was just saying,’ Blenkinsop mumbled, ‘how easily life can unravel. You know, if you make … bad choices.’
Slowly and deliberately, the man folded his newspaper, running his thumb and forefinger along the top crease, leaving it razor sharp. He laid the paper down. His eyes never left Blenkinsop’s confused face.
The barman now returned – thankfully, because for some reason the attitude of the newspaper-reading man had become a little unnerving, even to someone in a semi-stupor. Blenkinsop fumbled for his money and banged it on the counter. He took a big gulp, and sighed with relief. ‘Nectar … believe it or not, I needed that.’
But the barman had gone again, heading for the till. Blenkinsop glanced to his right – and it was a cold shock to see that the newspaper-reading man was no longer there. One or two punters were still in the pub, small huddles of them in distant corners, but the chap with the paper had vanished.
For some reason, Blenkinsop found this even spookier than having him at his shoulder. Had he just seen a ghost – one of London’s many pub-dwelling spectres?