Dead at First Sight

27 Monday 1 October

Tooth was feeling ill again, despite having seen the specialist this morning in Munich. Dr Wolfgang Riske was considered to be the top man in the world in the field of venoms. It was an appointment he’d waited two months for, and he’d been desperate not to miss it. He seriously believed that the poisons inside him were killing him, slowly, steadily, and the effects he felt were worsening by the day.

A German actor who lived on the floor below him in the Breisacher Strasse apartment building was not helping by playing his goddam piano again. Some piece of operatic crap. The same piece over and over.

Plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-PLONK.

And every few minutes the jerk would start singing along to it, in English, in a baritone voice, changing the inflection each time as if trying to find the right emphasis. Maybe he had a good voice, Tooth didn’t know or care. Country and Western was the only music he listened to, and he didn’t listen to much of that.

It was eleven-goddam-thirty at night. He was singing again now — ‘All my DAYS of philandering are over!’

Plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-PLONK.

The actor’s name was on the panel by the front door. Hans-Jürgen Stockerl. Tooth had seen him once downstairs, coming out of his apartment. A mediagenic guy in his fifties with foppish hair. He’d googled him, out of interest. He was quite famous, it appeared. A stage, screen and television actor, singer and musician.

Tooth had felt lousy the whole short time he’d been in England. Now back here in Munich, he’d not eaten since yesterday morning. Lying on his bed, giddy, a lot of circling around happening inside his head. The room heaved about like he was in the cabin of a ship in a rough sea. Every sound weaved through his nerves. He was trying to sleep.

Plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-PLONK.

‘All my days of PHILANDERING are over!’ He was singing even louder now.

Anger was growing inside Tooth. Anger at himself for failing in Munich and now failing in Brighton. Both because of useless intelligence from Steve Barrey.

‘Shut up!’ Tooth said. ‘Shut the—’

His phone began vibrating and buzzing on his bedside table.

Tooth knew who it was and he didn’t want to answer it. He didn’t have the energy or inclination to listen to Mr Barrey yelling at him.

The only inclination he had was to go downstairs, kick open Hans-Jürgen Stockerl’s front door, break all the fingers on both of his hands and ram a sock in his mouth.

The phone stopped buzzing. A few seconds later, it started again.

Maybe he’d take the phone downstairs and ram that in the crooner’s mouth.

See what his voice sounded like without any teeth.

Plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-plink, plink-plink-PLONK. Again.

The voice, even louder now. ‘All my days of philandering are OVER!’

The phone fell silent again. For a brief while. Then it pinged with a text. He picked it up and glanced at it. As he expected, it was Mr Barrey.

Tooth texted back.