Murray wandered through to the kitchen and looked down onto the backcourt. An old man in carpet slippers was scavenging through the bins. He watched him for a while then went into the hallway, picked up the phone and dialled the police. The phone rang for a long time, and then a deep voice said, ‘Sandyford police station.’
‘Hello, there’s an old man out the back of my building going through the rubbish. He’s in his slippers and I’m worried he’s got dementia or something.’
‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘I’m not dressed yet.’
The voice at the other end of the phone was weary.
‘Do you think he’s looking for receipts or anything?’
‘Receipts?’
It was like a foreign word. Murray couldn’t think what it had to do with the conversation.
‘Identity fraud.’
It was in his mind to say that the old man would be welcome to his identity, but he answered, ‘No, I don’t think he’s doing any harm. I just thought he might be confused.’
‘Okay,’ the policeman sighed again. ‘Give me your name and address and we’ll send someone round when we can.’
‘When will that be?’
The voice contained the full quota of contempt that an early-rising man in uniform could hold for a civilian who had only now crawled out of bed.
‘I couldn’t say, sir.’
Murray gave his details, hung up and went back to the window. The old man was gone. He stood there for a moment debating whether to call the police again or get dressed and hunt for him amongst the backcourts. In the end he did neither, simply clicked the kettle on and lifted his mail from the table.
A bill from the factors, a leaflet from the local supermarket outlining their offers in colours bright enough to sicken the famished, a bank statement that would show he earned more than his needs, a plain white envelope and a letter stamped with the logo of Christie’s agents. He hesitated between the final two, and then tore at the seal of the agent’s letter.
Dear Dr Watson
Ms Graves has asked me to advise you that she has given your request serious consideration, but has regretfully decided to decline. Ms Graves has strong views on the privacy of artists, and while she wishes you every success in your critical analysis of Archie Lunan’s poetry, she does not see what a discussion of their time together would achieve. She now considers this correspondence closed and has asked me to bring to your attention the government’s recent anti-stalking legislation.
Yours sincerely
Foster James
Niles, James and Worthing
Murray swore and crumpled the letter into a ball.
The airwaves were full of people talking. Child-murderers and drugs casualties, people who had once sat next to someone famous on the bus, even the dead were in on the act, revealing scandals from beyond the grave. Everywhere people were blogging, Twittering and confessing; TV shows ran late into the night detailing private lives that would have been better kept private; but Archie’s old love would consider a second approach grounds for prosecution.
He smoothed the letter out and re-read it. The trick would be to bump into Christie casually, at a poetry reading perhaps. Somewhere with wine and easy company where he could lay on the charm, get her talking about old times before he admitted that yes, it was he who was writing Archie’s biography.
Some chance.
He smoothed the paper again, knowing it had to become part of his file. Did it tell him anything beyond what was said?
Murray whispered. ‘You never left, never got any distance. That’s why you care so much.’
He slit open the second envelope with his thumb, wondering what the penalties for stalking were and if stalkers were still allowed to teach. The green paper inside had been carefully folded in half. The type suggested that the sender had only recently come into possession of a word processor. Fonts battled for prominence, but boldest of all was the heading: God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. Service times were detailed beneath.
Murray crumpled the page and balled it into the recycling bag, trying to smile at the thought that – Rachel aside – it was the best offer he’d had in a while.
Chapter Eight
MURRAY SEEMED TO have been waiting a long time. He decided to count to a hundred then ring the doorbell again. He’d reached eighty-five when a shadow appeared, advancing slowly towards him beyond the thickened safety glass.
‘Aye, aye, just a minute.’
Professor James’s voice was cracked with age and sharp with irritation. Murray thought of Macbeth’s porter, provoked by the knock at the castle door, comic in his anger, the moment of calm before the discovery of horror.
James fumbled with a set of keys and his sigh was audible through the locked door, but it was only when the professor pushed it wide that Murray realised how badly he’d aged. It was almost twenty years since they’d met, but somehow he’d still expected to see the stern-faced lecturer who had approached the lectern like a United Free Church of Scotland minister about to deliver a sermon to a congregation set on damnation. Pipe-smoking, bespectacled and bad-tempered, his stocky body packed into an old tweed jacket, James had been everything that Murray, fresh from a comprehensive school staffed by corduroy-clad progressives, had desired in a university professor.
James shook his hand. ‘Come away through.’
The professor had never been handsome, but he’d been a vigorous presence, with the barrel chest and bullet head of a pugilist. Old age had shrunk his body and bent his spine, rendering his face oversized and jutting. The edge of his skull was decorated with a patina of freckles and grave spots. The effect was grotesque, an ancient, nodding toddler with an eager grin.
‘This is a rare treat. Two names from the past in one day.’
Murray followed James down a small hallway decorated with photographs of the professor’s children and grandchildren. The glass front door had presumably been designed to let in light, but perhaps the house faced the wrong way, or maybe the day was too dull to extract any brightness from, because the hall was dark, the smiles in the pictures cast in shadows.
‘Two names?’
‘You and Lunan, outstanding students the pair of you.’
It was strange, hearing himself coupled with the poet.
‘My student years certainly feel a long time past.’
‘You’ll be part of a million pasts by the time you’re finished. Teaching confers its own brand of celebrity. You get hailed by folk you’ve no memory of. My tip is allow them do the talking and don’t let on you’ve not got a clue who they are.’ James led Murray into a burgled-looking sitting room. He lowered himself gently into a high-backed armchair and nodded towards a chintz couch. ‘Shift those papers and make yourself comfortable. As you can see, I’ve reverted to a bachelor state.’
Murray