Chapter Three

1

SOMERSET

Jack considered what his next move was as he made his way across a grazing field toward the road he’d seen.

It was a beautiful sunny spring morning. There were few clouds. The meadow was speckled in dandelions. He walked through the long forgotten grass, taking his time to give his clothes the chance to dry off in the sunshine, thinking about the fall from the bridge and the unconscious drift miles downstream. It was a riddle which gave no clues away in the question.

Did the police already know he had murdered Lucy? Did they know his name? Would they be waiting for him at his home to drag him away to a prison cell? Perhaps he had been kept alive only to answer for what he had done and be punished; or to allow his pursuers the gratification of revenge.

As he approached the raised up road he spotted the rectangular top of a red phone booth: another happenstance that defied probability. If he was lucky there would be a lay-by: an ideal spot to get cars to stop to hitch a ride and he had the funny feeling, before climbing up, that there would be. The only question was which way to go? Back to Bristol, to walk into a police station to answer for his crimes, or home, to London?

Standing over Lucy’s body, suicide had seemed his only option. Now, with perspective, he saw things differently. It was weak. It was an escape. He wasn’t going to try that again. He didn’t know what he was going to do but he wasn’t going to kill himself.

The phone booth was a welcome sight. He had already checked his wallet. What few notes he had were sodden but he had change enough for a call. As soon as he made out the booth in the distance he was gripped by the desire to call Dominic: his mother’s elderly brother: far more friend than uncle. Not to confide in him about what had happened – that was a horror Jack didn’t relish and didn’t want to accelerate – but so much had occurred. He wanted to hear a friendly voice saying welcoming words.

He reached the fence at the foot of the slope that climbed to the road. The phone booth was no longer visible but he knew it was approximately above him. Jack gripped the top rung of the fence in both hands, took a half step back then vaulted over, his legs tightly together, then he started climbing the slope on the other side, wondering if his photograph was already being shown on the news. If Dominic knew about Lucy already, the words he was hoping for would not be so welcoming. Without an explanation, Dominic would see the murder as abhorrent; but Jack wouldn’t blurt out excuses or beg for absolution. Lucy was the only one who could grant that and she was dead.

If his picture had been on the news then any driver that picked him up might recognise him. What would happen then? Would he fight to escape? Would he kill again?

No. No he wouldn’t. Never again. Whatever happened.

Jack paused for breath at the top of the bank. He’d judged right. The phone booth was close. The road was single carriageway – more minor than he’d thought at first. Traffic was light. He wondered what time it was. Too early to call Dominic?

He opened the door to the booth, filled the slot with change and then dialled the number.

The first ring came, teased out into something long and drawn. In the split second before the next, Jack’s brain invented and played back the entire content of what Dominic might say if he already knew about the crime. He imagined the condemnation and disgust.

It rang one more time then Dominic answered.

“Hello?”

“Dominic? It’s Jack.”

“Jack!”

“I didn’t get you out of bed did I?”

“At this hour?” Dominic laughed. “I’m an old man. I’ll be sleeping at ten o’clock in the morning on my death bed but not before.”

He didn’t seem to know anything. That was a relief, but it made Jack feel bad all the same because he had wanted to come clean. He didn’t want to conceal his deed, especially from his uncle.

“Jack, I’m glad you called. Where are you?”

He hesitated. “On holiday.” He said no more than that. He still didn’t know what he was going to do next.

“How’s Lucy?”

Jack lowered his head. His throat narrowed. “She’s fine.”

“Good. Good. A man’s been here asking for you.”

“What?”

“This morning. Asking questions.”

The first thing Jack thought of was the police. “Did he say who he was?”

“He’s been trying to get in touch with you for some time but couldn’t find out where you lived. You aren’t on the electoral register.”

“What did he want?” It couldn’t have anything to do with Lucy. That wasn’t possible.

“Jack. I don’t think we should talk about this on the phone.”

“Why not? What’s going on?”

“It’s not something you should hear about like this. We should be face to face.”

The pips went to say there was no more charge left for the call. Jack patted the outer surface of his pocket but he knew that was all the change he had owned.

“Dominic, tell me what’s going on. Who was he?”

“Come and see me when you get back to London.”

“Why won’t you tell me over the phone?”

“Make sure you come today. You need to hear this now.”

Jack started to ask why but the phone went dead. He looked at the receiver, at the empty little holes in the ear piece that no longer made a sound. He checked his pockets more thoroughly for change in vain hope.

Then he set the receiver down and went outside.

2

LONDON

Sam slipped the key out of his pocket and glanced both ways down the corridor, pausing for a moment in each direction to be sure there was no sign, no sound from the other doors. He did not want to be seen here if he could get away without.

The corridor was wide, carpeted straight down its length: old fashioned, red pattern, worn. Wooden veneers down the walls gave it an old world quality to match the floor. No motion or sound. Sam put the key into the lock and turned. He pushed the door open and went in, shutting it quietly behind.

“What are you doing here?” It was a woman’s voice, sharp with fear and anger.

Sam froze, instantly gauging her. In the first half second he banished the image of his sister Lucy sitting in that exact chair. The woman was twenty five plus or minus two, smooth face liberally covered in foundation; violet lips that quivered with hesitation at the same time as she demanded to know his identity; arched brows that frowned despite what looked like attraction in her eyes. Sam stepped forward, conscious of the desire she felt. It made her easier to deal with; weaker.

He smiled broadly and raised his eyebrows, careful to add a shadow of grief; dropping without a flinch into The Lie. “I’m so sorry.” He kept his voice light, a shade higher pitched than usual. “I’m Lucy’s brother. She gave me a key. I didn’t think anyone would be in.”

He cased the apartment with a rapid sweeping glance: modern living room filled with a slew of fads on more shelves than should have been there; bathroom; kitchen leading off the lounge; bedroom. Through the open doorway the bed was made.

Sam extended his hand, stalled, withdrew it slightly, then offered it again. The woman blossomed visibly at his shyness, taking his hand in her fingers.

“My name’s Cleo; a friend of Lucy’s. I live in the flat next door. I was just in here chilling out. My boyfriend’s got some mates round.” She chuckled, taking her hand back. “I’ve heard a bit about you.”

“Oh.” He let his head drop fifteen degrees. “Um, have you heard— Have you heard the news?”

The woman uncrossed her bare legs. “What news? About Lucy? What’s wrong?”

Sam glanced down at her knees, at the dip of her cleavage then into her eyes. “She was killed.” He creased his brow and let the tears he’d been building rise. He turned away. The tears started to dry. He narrowed his eyes.

“Oh my God. How did it happen?”

“She was murdered. By her boyfriend.” He paused to let her take it in.

“Jack? No. I can’t— I can’t believe it.”

He turned to face her. “Do you think I’m lying?”

The woman stared at him, startled for a moment, her eyes wider than they should have been. Confusion; then he realised he had let The Lie slip again. His expression was blank, black eyes watching her. He frowned quickly, let his mouth droop and lowered his chin. Her expression shifted a little, unsure.

“Did you know him?” he asked.

“Jack?” He nodded. “Sure. I met him a few times. He’s really nice. I can’t believe he—”

“What’s his surname?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes...”

“Do you know where he lives? Where he works? What he does? Lucy didn’t tell me anything.”

The woman stepped back. “Hey, look—”

“Tell me!” 

That stare again. His expression was blank, eyes narrow. The Lie was slipping; he didn’t know why. All pretext was gone but he didn’t care.

“He’s an artist,” she said, sullen and defiant. “Does pictures for some magazine. I don’t know where he lives. Lucy liked to keep him to herself.”

Sam turned away, ignoring her as useless. He walked through to the bedroom.

“Hey!”

He checked quickly through Lucy’s drawers; the wardrobe. Lingerie, that he found distasteful, was draped over much of the furniture with boob tubes and dresses. There was a discarded magazine on the bed; nothing relevant.

“What are you doing?”

The bathroom and the kitchen were the same; nothing to lead him forward. He stopped abruptly in the corridor, backtracked to the bedroom and picked up the cheaply produced magazine off the bed. The cover showed a picture of a man and a woman sitting in front of a lake, only their backs visible. The woman had a hand cupped to the man’s ear, whispering a secret.

Sam shoved it in the woman’s face. “This sketch. It was drawn by Lucy’s boyfriend?”

She looked at it stupidly. “Yeah. I think so.”

Sam checked the bottom. The artist had signed his name.

Jack Catholic.

He shoved it in his pocket and turned to go. A bare arm snapped up to block his path, resting on the doorframe in front of him. “What’s going on here?”

He turned his head very slowly to look her directly in the eye. “Get out of the way.”

“If Lucy’s dead then why haven’t I heard anything on the news?”

Sam gripped her wrist and twisted, pushing her abruptly to the right. “It only happened last night.”

“Did you call the police?”

He stopped just short of the door. Quite uncharacteristically, he laughed. He looked back over his shoulder. “My sister has been murdered by a man who violated her trust and her love, a man I believe may still be alive and running free.” The woman’s brow creased but she remained silent. “I’m not going to leave this thing to police. Do you have any idea how many criminals slip through their net?

“Lucy’s boyfriend thinks he is safe,” continued Sam, “but he is not safe. I will find him and I will kill him.”

She put one hand on her hip, a sneer on her violet lips. “And what makes you think that you’re more able to track him down than the police?”

Sam turned away and walked out, the door wide open behind him.

3

SOMERSET

“You looking for a lift?”

Jack looked up startled. There was a van parked in the lay-by, not far from the phone booth. It was a home-painted monstrosity with designs all over it: standard hippy emblems for the most part along with a few more obscure sigils. It was as endearing as it was gaudy. Dominic’s wife, Auntie Gill would have loved it if she’d still been alive. In her words, it would have been “too bleeding gaudy to resist.” A wiry middle-aged man with long grey hair and rainbow-coloured clothes was leaning against the back doors, smoking a joint.

“Sorry, what?” said Jack.

“You a hitcher?” he gestured down the lay-by. “You don’t seem to have a car. I’m only asking because I don’t mind dropping you somewhere. I’m kind of bored. I could use the company.” He twisted his spliff so he could see the end and blew on it. “Long as you don’t mind me finishing this first.”

Jack looked back at the call box, along the empty road then to the hippy with the van. “Sure. I guess. That’d be great. I didn’t see you drive up.”

“Must have been using silent engine mode.”

“You have silent running? That thing looks a hundred years old.”

“Just kidding.” He rapped the painted side. “This beauty drives like I sound when I get up in the morning.” He gave a fake cough to illustrate what he meant and batted his eyebrows. “Where you headed?”

Jack hesitated. He thought about Lucy lying dead in the grate then about the conversation he had just had with Dominic. “Which direction are you going?”

“Up onto the M4 at Bristol then down to the capital.”

Bristol or London. To turn himself in or to go back home and find out who was trying to track him down.

“I’m going to London,” he said.

“Fantastic. Here let me put this out. I’m not sure I fancy it after all. Get in.”

Jack walked round to the passenger door. The man got in, reached across and unlocked it. There were signs that the van had been on the road even longer than the great man himself. The inside was matted with stickers and badges, keepsakes from towns all over Europe stuck wherever there was a free surface. A pair of children’s-size clogs had been nailed to the ceiling over the passenger seat. There was a beret hanging from the rear-view mirror along with a little plastic map of Germany.

“Friends call me Crazy Geoff,” said the man, offering his hand.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Jack.”

“You ready for the ride of your life?”

Jack laughed. “As long as you get me there in one piece.”

“I’m not making any promises,” said Geoff.  He started up the engine. It sounded exactly as he’d described. It was amazing Jack hadn’t heard it pull up. He revved, brought her up to power then started off with a lurch. He stuck his hand out as an indicator and pulled onto the road.

Jack thought briefly about the man Dominic had said had been trying to track him down since before Lucy was killed and tried to conjure a reason Dominic might have for not explaining over the phone. Then he thought about Lucy, and just briefly, about her brother.

4

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Crazy Geoff. “You look like you been swimming or something.”

They were on the M4 now, speeding away from the outskirts of Bristol, heading east.

“Yeah,” said Jack.

“Don’t recall seeing any swimming pools out there in the middle of nowhere when I picked you up.”

“No.”

Geoff laughed. “Obviously a subject you’re itching to talk about.”

They drove silently for a while. Jack looked across at Crazy Geoff then back out the front window. “You aren’t going to believe this,” he said. “I jumped off Clifton Suspension Bridge last night.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I survived the fall and got carried downstream. I woke up twenty minutes before I met you, lying in the mud on the riverbank near where you picked me up.”

“Is this a lead-up to a joke?” said Geoff.

“No.”

“I don’t like being lied to.”

“It’s not a lie. Forget I said anything.”

Geoff scrutinised him. “I don’t know much about Clifton Bridge but I had a cousin who was a daredevil back in the seventies. He went off the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco as a publicity stunt and killed himself. Clifton’s taller than that.”

Jack didn’t try to defend himself.  

“Let’s just imagine you’re telling the truth for a second,” said Geoff. “Do you know how fast you’d be going by the time you hit the water?”

Jack shrugged.

“You’d be going near… You’d be going maybe seventy five/eighty miles an hour! It’d be like someone sticking a brick wall in the middle of the fast lane here.” He pointed to the speedometer. “You see that. You see how fast we’re going? It’s impossible.”

“People do survive though don’t they?” asked jack.

“Off Clifton? Fucked if I know. Off the Golden Gate it’s like two in a hundred. Probably less and like I say… I’m pretty sure Clifton’s higher than that.”

They drove in silence again for a while then Crazy Geoff looked back across at Jack. “Are you joshing me about this?”

“Not at all.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. I’m serious.

“Man! That’s a miracle is what that is! You should be proud!”

Jack didn’t reply.

“And you were carried downstream? Unconscious?”

“Yeah.”

“How far is that?”

“No idea. A long way.”

“You are the luckiest guy I ever met, you know that? You don’t look like you’ve got a scratch on you. It’s a miracle!”

“I don’t know about that.”

“It is man. That is the genuine article; not just one miracle but two, back to back like that. It’s a sign is what it is.”

“Of what?”

“Search me.”

“I think you’ve got it wrong,” said Jack. “I’m not sure I deserve a miracle.”

“Well you got one. You got two! What you’ve got to start wondering about is number three!”

“Huh?”

“Everything happens in threes. You never heard that before? You keep your eyes open. One miracle, that’s nothing; just a coincidence, right? A second one: that’s when you start thinking maybe something’s up. If a third comes along then you think of me. I’m telling you; if that happens you know something’s going on. You’re being kept alive for a reason.”

“Give me a break,” said Jack.

“You can be sceptical all you like. Look at me. I’m more sceptical than anybody… till I see it with my own eyes. I’ve only got your word for it anything happened at all; but keep on the lookout. If anything else happens then that’s a sign. You’ve got a purpose.”

“What kind of purpose?”

Crazy Geoff shrugged. “You tell me,” he said.

5

LONDON

Anna Thorpe found her boss in the kitchenette at the end of the open-plan office pouring himself a coffee.

“Henry. Hi. I need to talk to you about Sam.”

Henry Masters had a thick, unsupple body, a bald head, hair cropped close to maintain his dignity and a thick moustache. His hands were webbed with what almost looked like fur. He was four years from retirement, and he made it very clear he wished it was more like six months. He didn’t enjoy pleasantries at the best of times and didn’t make any attempt at eye contact or a smile now. “You know I shouldn’t have to make my own coffee,” he said, spooning five sugars into his cup and stirring in the milk. “Back when I started here that was the secretary’s job. Now I’m not even allowed to call her my secretary. It’s ridiculous.”

“Do you have a minute?”

Masters looked at his watch. “I can give you until I get back to my office.” He started to walk without pausing to see if she was happy with that.

The Investigations Department took up a quarter of that floor in the Tower Insurance building. Most of the office area was open plan, a network of criss-cross passages set out like graph paper around cubicles with temporary partition walls. The path back to Masters’ office led in a straight line along the edge of the floor, open plan to the right, smaller offices of chief investigators like her and Sam to the left.

Anna lowered her voice. “I’ve been looking into some of those closed files in preparation for the audit; cases that showed discrepancies or missing paperwork.”

“I know about that.”

“Last night I spotted some incongruities and this morning I looked into it further. I think one of our investigators has been playing the system.”

Masters’ face hardened. He was listening finally. “Which one?”

“Sam Decker.”

He stopped. “Sam?”

“I’ve found a series of cases that don’t add up under scrutiny.” She opened her shoulder bag, leafed through the files inside and pulled one out, cracking it open. “Look: life assurance case; woman apparently dies, her husband rings up to claim the money. We pay out the claim: two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”

“Where’s the incongruity?”

“The woman rang up the other day, alive and well. She was calling about something else; it was a fluke she called. Around the time of the claim she received a bogus letter from us telling her that her policy had been closed due to unavoidable reasons and she was getting a pay-off of twenty thousand to cover it. That’s why she stopped paying her premium. There’s a call on record changing the address of the policy holder several weeks before her falsely reported death. That was where the check went out to. But that’s a dead end.”

Masters rubbed at the light grey stubble on his cheek with his middle finger. “What about the death certificate?”

“A fake. I’m telling you Henry, Sam Decker made the false claim on this policy then made sure he was the investigating officer. Then he covered it up and walked away with a quarter of a million pounds.”

Masters started walking again. “I don’t believe it; not Sam. He’s a friend of mine. We’ve worked together for eight years; it isn’t possible.”

“There are other cases,” said Anna, struggling to fit the file back into her bag as she kept up. “Arson, car insurance… Some of them stolen claims, some based around completely fabricated property. And I have a feeling that the cases I’ve discovered so far are the tip of the iceberg. I think Sam’s been playing us for years, building up a fortune on the sly so that he can get set for life. Then he’s going to leave the country and jet set for the rest of his days.”

“Look Anna, I know you and Sam don’t see eye to eye.”

“This isn’t about that.”

“You’ve been on my back to get rid of him for the past three years.”

“Henry; this isn’t personal; really. I was following your instructions when this came to light. If it wasn’t for the audit, it would have gone unnoticed. I’m not just trying to pin this on Sam because I don’t like him. There’s evidence.”

“What evidence?”

She had been afraid of this question. “So far nothing absolutely concrete. A whole series of cases with question marks over them like the one I mentioned and Sam the investigating officer on each. If he was on the up and up he would have noticed the oddities; you know how anal he is. And he’s the only one who was in a position to cover it up.”

Masters halted abruptly. Anna overran and had to back up. “So you don’t have any definite proof; is that what you’re saying?” He didn’t want to listen. He and Sam had been friends for too long. But she wasn’t going to give up that easily. She was sure of herself and if that bastard was finally going to get what was coming to him, she wanted to be in on it.

“I’ve got enough for an investigation to be opened and enough to call in the police.”

His face was stern, expression closed. “I don’t want you to waste anymore time on this. Sam Decker is one of the kindest, most conscientious men I have ever known. There is no way he could be involved in the illicit activity you’re describing. I think you’re allowing your personal vendetta to cloud your approach to your work. I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

Masters turned away and continued walking.

“Henry wait.”

Masters stopped ten yards away but didn’t present his face. “What is it?”

“We’re talking several million pounds of the investors money. Several million pounds; I don’t know how much. We can’t afford to let this disappear; not with the audit review coming up.”

In the open plan area to the right, heads were turning. Masters walked back to meet Anna. “All right. Investigate it and keep me posted but we keep it in-house. No police; understand?”

Anna nodded. “No problem.” When Masters turned away she smiled, watching him lumber back toward his office. He may have been wrong about Sam but he was right about one thing.

This was a vendetta

6

Jack found himself suddenly reluctant to climb out of the van when it pulled up at the front of his home in Hounslow, an outer suburb of London.

He lived in an upstairs flat that was part of a Victorian house with a raised front door at the top of a short flight of steps. It was remarkable luck to have hitched a ride with a driver more than willing to drop him at home, but Crazy Geoff had enjoyed the company enough to stretch it out with a pretty major detour. Most of the journey had been a spiral retelling of Crazy Geoff’s glory days on the open road in the seventies and eighties. Jack listened to it with grateful good humour, saying thanks but no thanks to the occasional offered spliff when Crazy Geoff stopped to stretch his legs.

The journey in that heap, surrounded by such pleasantly nostalgic clutter and conversation had let Jack temporarily forget his situation. Now he was back it thumped to the centre of his conscious thoughts once more.

There were no police cars parked by the steps of his building, strobe lights flickering alternately. At first glance there didn’t even seem to be a suspicious stakeout vehicle containing a pair of heavily armed plain-clothed policemen. Having said that, the street was lined with cars as it was at any time of day or night and he couldn’t be sure.

Crazy Geoff was still talking, rounding up the latest story but rude as he knew it was, Jack had tuned out. He couldn’t focus on that now because here at last he had returned to a place where he could be found. If the police were after him – and surely they had to be by now – then this house was an open trap, either seconds or hours away from snapping shut around him, but certainly no more than days.

Should he tell Geoff to drive on; become that fugitive he had imagined? On the other hand, he was a fugitive already. These were fugitive thoughts he was thinking; the reasoning of a murderer.

He should go straight to Dominic’s; find out who was after him; but he was weary. He needed a respite, even for a little while, and more practically, he couldn’t rely on Geoff to be his chauffeur anymore; crazy or not. Before he could muster up enough doubt to stop himself, Jack thanked Crazy Geoff for the lift and opened the door.

“You have a happy life,” said Geoff, showing a smile that was missing its two front teeth.  Jack climbed out and shut the door, sending back a nod through the open window. “Thanks. You too.”

Crazy Geoff revved the engine of his hippy-mobile and flashed his eyebrows then pulled off down the street surprisingly fast. Jack stood where he was for several moments, waiting for the trap to close – for a couple of chubby men in navy blue suits and creased shirts to approach him and ask if he was Jack Catholic and would he mind accompanying them to the station.

They didn’t appear. The street was empty.

But what did that mean? That he was in the clear? Not at all. This house was still only pretending to be a refuge. Behind the bricks and windows were jagged metal teeth and a steel spring, just waiting for the moment when they would snap shut. He hadn’t tripped the trigger mechanism yet, that was all.

Again he had the compulsion to walk away; but he didn’t. He walked up the steps to the front door and flicked the key in the lock. The shadowy blackness inside swallowed him up as he went in and slammed the door.

7

Sam stood looking impassively at the front entrance to the office building he had been working from for the past eight years. He was calculating his chances of running into trouble.

For a couple of minutes he considered the other possibility: walking away as he had planned to do before Lucy died. Every second he spent here was a risk. He’d covered his tracks well enough but the audit review had already set a deadline on his closing ties and leaving the country. It was possible that pre-audit checks might bring to light what he had done. Every day that passed made it riskier that they would piece things together and realise; especially with him not there to cover up any issues that arose.

On the other hand he needed help if he was going to find Lucy’s killer quickly. It was a double edged sword: try and find Jack on his own and give them longer to wise up to his crimes or work with them to find Jack, risk their knowing his movements, but find Jack a lot quicker as a result.

It was foolish to even be here. He had the money now. Why not just go?

But he pictured Lucy’s corpse again and knew that wasn’t an option.

He started to cross the street, blocking the memory of the crime scene. Now wasn’t the time to be sentimental. He kept his eyes slightly unfocused so that his peripheral vision could keep watch for oncoming cars as he looked ahead. He mounted the pavement on the other side of the road and pushed through the revolving doors.

He stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor and walked between the cubicles to the central corridor then stopped. Anna Thorpe was near the end of the corridor, her back to him, one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder bag: grey calf length skirt, pale tan overcoat, boots, blond hair tied back in a French braid. His direct superior Henry Masters’ office was beyond her, the door just closing. She was the last person he wanted to talk to.

Anna started to pivot. Sam crossed into the sub-passage between the cubicles in the open-plan area and started to cut round, keeping an eye on the top of her head, visible above the partition, as she made her way back to her office. Some of his colleagues greeted him warmly, asking why he was back in from leave. He flashed The Lie impatiently, grinning and cracking little jokes, careful to keep his voice low. Anna vanished inside her office and closed the door. Sam hurried across the rest of the floor, ignoring any further pleasantries. He cut into Masters’ office and shut the door behind him.

Sam walked right up to the desk. It was cheap; fake oak. He didn’t glance to the sides but ran subconsciously through his mental inventory of the room: book cases lining the two side walls; cupboard behind and to the right that he knew contained liquor; a filing cabinet.

“Sam,” said Masters, clearly off balance, “I’ve... been wanting to see you.”

“I’m sorry Henry,” replied Sam, pressing Masters to relinquish control of the conversation, “I have something I would like to talk to you about that’s very important.”

Slightly befuddled, Masters said, “What is it?”

“I’ve worked here for some time. Some of the men and women I’ve worked with have proved themselves more than competent. I would like to borrow two of them to help me in a personal investigation. Mike and one other. Anyone except Anna. I would also like you to make available certain resources I require.

“Wait a minute,” said Masters.

Sam raised his finger and pressed on, leaking enough information out to keep his boss off-balance. “I have given eight years of my life for this firm. Now I want something in return. My sister’s been murdered Henry and I’m asking for your help as a friend.”

Total control; the Lie was perfect. Masters was reeling with conflicting motives. “I don’t know,” he said, “Something’s come up Sam. I’m worried about—”

“My sister,” broke in Sam, “I need the company’s resources to help me find out who did it!”

“But look—”

“Just help me out you fat idiot!” snapped Sam and then froze, his confidence faltering. The Lie was failing him. It was failing him again. He took a step backward. Both were silent. Masters stared, the pain of a slap in the face evident in his expression. Sam cleared his throat, his own feeling of self-control again unsure.

“There have been some irregularities,” said Masters, coughing. “Irregularities in your paperwork. Something Anna highlighted to me.”

Sam glanced at the door. He was calculating his chances if this turned bad.

“I know how long you have been here Sam,” continued Masters, “I would like to give you the benefit of the doubt. But insurance can be a tempting game; especially for old hands like us.”

Sam walked swiftly round the desk. He grabbed Masters’ lapel and screwed it in his fist. “I need the resources of the company to track my sister’s killer,” he said; slow, deliberate words. “You are going to help me.”

There was fear and confusion in Masters’ eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He released him.

“I was just going to discuss these allegations with you Sam but I don’t know. I’m going to have to suspend your service to the company until a full investigation can be levelled. The police may need to be informed.”

Sam stared at him. He stared. His head was throbbing. Then suddenly and completely he broke off. His pulse lowered. He looked out the window at the clouds; at the London skyline. He forced his pulse to slow until it was absolutely normal.

Then he said, “I resign,” and left the room immediately.

8

“Where you been?” A heavy hand came down on Jack’s shoulder. It grabbed him and spun him round.

For a moment he knew it was a policeman as certainly as he’d known he was going to die as he fell from the bridge, then he recognised the voice. Jack stared into the darkness, trying to piece what light there was into an image as his eyes became accustomed.

“I said, where you been?” His landlord released him, pushing him back.

“I was out of town.”

The glimmer from the front door was behind the man. His body drew the shadows in. They intensified in his chest and in his lowered face as he stepped to the side of the corridor. “Yeah. Well, you’re out of here now.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “What?”

Jameson’s features were becoming clear. The darkness was taking shape into the familiar odorous wood veneer and damp-stained walls around him. His arcing forehead was much clearer in the gloom than the pit of his brow or his eyes. “Rent’s not been paid dipshit! You’re out!”

“What do you mean?”

 “The rent’s not been paid! You’re out! That check of yours was worthless!”

“God, really?” said Jack, genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry.” He reined himself in, the impossible situation nonetheless begging him to let his anger come. It wasn’t as intense by far as it had been in that little hotel in Bristol but it was made from the same substance, as though that first outburst had opened a sluice gate in his mind to a reservoir of anger he hadn’t known existed. He drew in a long breath, consciously eliminating the tension in his voice. “Look, there must be some money left in my account. I can’t believe—”

“If you’d wasted less time painting it wouldn’t be coming to this. I’ve already chucked out all that rubbish.”

“My pictures?”

Jameson sneered. “It was all crap anyway.”

“Could you give me some more time?”

“You’ve had your time.”

A frightening thought came to Jack suddenly: that it didn’t matter now if he killed again. He was a murderer. Nothing could change that. Would it really make a difference if he took another life? Each possible response rose in his mind, the angry ones still jostling for recognition. It would be weak to back down; to turn away; he would be giving up. There were voices in his head: friends, books, his father, Dominic. They told him how to react with perfectly conflicting moral clarity. He maintained his gaze with Jameson; then he smiled warmly. “You want me to leave right now?”

Jameson nodded. “All your stuff’s gone already.”

“Okay Mr Jameson.” He crossed to the front door.

“Oh yeah,” said the landlord, “I forgot.” He pointed a meaty thumb over his shoulder at the pay phone on the wall. “Been taking bloody messages for you while you been gone and that ain’t my job neither.”

Again there came a positive guilty dread that the police had been calling.

“That uncle of yours. Rang four or five times. Called just now. I’m sick of being your answering service.”

“But you do it so well.”

 “What you say?”

Jack smiled. “Not a thing. Was there any message?”

“No.”

“Right. Well. Thank you for your sensitivity and charm.” Jack took the worn brass front door handle in his fingers, feeling it as the key to homelessness that it was; the key to poverty. He glanced back and as kindly as he could manage said, “Goodbye.”

He closed the front door and walked down the steps onto the pavement. There was no way now to put it off. He had to go and see Dominic, to find out who was trying to find him and why.

As he walked away the metaphorical jaws of the huge bear trap that was only pretending to be a house quivered, but did not snap closed.

9 

There was a commotion coming from the staffroom next door to her office. Anna sighed, laid down the file she had open and made her way round, intending to ask them to keep it down.

It was a little room with no facilities beyond a vending machine, TV and several comfy chairs. The window only overlooked the blank wall of a neighbouring office building. A dozen of her colleagues were crowded in the doorway watching something on television. They seemed very excited.

“What is it?” asked Anna. “What’s going on?” Through a gap in the crowd she got a glimpse of the picture. It was the midday news.

“Sam’s sister’s been murdered in Bristol!”

“What?”

“Shhh!”

The newsreader was speaking. “The body of the victim was found yesterday evening. Police are seeking this man for questioning about the crime, caught here on an amateur video.”

The image became a blurred shot from a video camera, panning quickly round with several bangs in the background that sounded like gunshots. The picture jerked to a stop and showed a shaky view of a man standing on the balcony of a small hotel in a grey coat, firing a pistol. Anna couldn’t believe it. She recognised that face.

Someone said, “It’s Sam! It’s Sam Decker!” Then everyone was shouting. She couldn’t hear the newsreader anymore.

Surely he wasn’t capable of that; of murdering his own sister; but then again, Anna had seen his real face, the one he kept hidden most of the time. More than anyone else she knew what he was capable of.

The picture became a grainy close-up of Sam’s features. The newsreader said, “The police have warned that this man should not be approached. He is considered armed and dangerous.”

Someone said “Where is Sam? He’s on leave isn’t he?”

“No, he’s here. I just saw him. He’s in with Masters.”

Anna ran out into the corridor.

Everyone else on the floor was busy working. They had no idea what was going on. At the end of the walkway Masters door was closed. She jogged toward it, suddenly feeling an ugly quiver of fear. What if Sam was in there? What was she going to do? She needed to call the police. She slowed down to do that but thought better of it. If he was in there then Masters could be in danger. By the time the police arrived it might be too late.

She pushed open the door. Masters was slouching in his chair alone looking shocked, his face pallid.

“Henry, are you okay? Where’s Sam? Is he here?”

“He just left.” He spoke in short breathless bursts. “It was odd. He acted so strangely; aggressive; angry. It wasn’t like him at all.”

“We have to find him,” said Anna, “The news says he murdered his sister. How long ago did he leave?”

Masters looked flummoxed. “His sister?”

“Henry! When did Sam leave!”

“A moment ago. Less than a minute.”

Anna turned in the doorway then paused and looked back. “Call the police and get building security on the phone. Tell them to hold him in reception. I’m going down!”

10

The elevator dinged when it reached the ground floor and Sam walked out into the lobby.

Front wall completely made of glass; plants everywhere of various sizes; combined reception and security desk; card-key operated turnstiles; a square of comfortable visitor chairs.

Masters reaction to his request was a setback but not a huge one. He had other contacts he could use that had aided him in the past and worst case scenario: he could do all the legwork himself.

Of greater concern was that they were already on to him because of the money he’d taken from the company. It was unclear how much knowledge they had to date but once they found information on one of his dealings it wouldn’t take them long to piece through the rest, especially if Anna was heading up the investigation. Either way, if they knew about him they would be calling the police imminently. His safe locations were dwindling. He had to find Jack Catholic now.

As he neared the security desk, one of the guards stepped clear and waved. “Good afternoon Mr Decker. How you doing?”

Sam smiled warmly. “Can’t complain Bob, certainly. Can’t complain. How are you?”

“Er, not bad. Look…” He stopped directly in front of Sam. “I just got a call from the fourth floor; from Mr Masters. Saying he, er, wanted to ask you something.”

Sam continued smiling. “Oh really? No problem. He want me to pop back up?”

Basement exit and fire escape at the back of the building.

“No. Er, Ms Thorpe’s on her way down apparently. She’s going to give you a message.”

“Fine,” said Sam, his eyes on the other security guard as he came away from the desk too and started to crescent round to Sam’s right. “I’m just going to light up a cigarette. Can you tell her I’ll be right outside?” He didn’t smoke but chances were, they didn’t know that. He moved gradually round to the left closer to the security desk. There was a plant pot on the nearest end of it containing a bonsai tree.

The guard was becoming increasingly nervous. “If it’s okay with you, he asked if you could wait inside.”

Sam grinned, gauging where both guards were. Then the grin dropped off his face. “What if it isn’t all right with me?”

“What?”  

Sam slammed his fist into the guard’s gut, doubling him over, then cracked it hard against the side of his face. The guard went down on his knees. That was enough. The other guard was older and fatter but he was still a threat. He ran forward as Sam grabbed the bonsai tree on the counter by its trunk and smashed it into his cheek. The pot shattered in an explosion of soil.

Sam started to run, throwing the remains of the miniature tree down. Somewhere behind him the lift chimed. He vaulted the security turnstile and sprinted to the entranceway. A man and woman waiting at reception scattered to the right. Behind him the lift pinged again. He stopped in the doorway and looked back.

Anna Thorpe came running out into the lobby. She assessed what was going on immediately and saw him, face furious and hot. This time Sam’s grin was real.

He gave her a quick two finger salute off his forehead then disappeared into the crowds. 

CHAPTER FOUR