…LONDON…
Caroline listened to her voicemail. It had gone unattended.
Listen you homophobic bitch, you think you can crucify this man because he…
Next.
Hi, Caroline, my name’s Guy and I think we should meet. I’ve been fucked by names, you would not believe, I’m talking about big names, I’m talking show business, I’m…
Next.
Caroline, I’m Tobin Robinson’s producer. Tobin would very much…
Next.
Listen, sweetie, I really like your face, you have that kind of thin cocksucker…
Next.
We had a little chat, glass of beer, you came to see me. Remember?
It was Jim Hird, the doorman who saw Mackie.
I was talkin to a bloke today, he wrote down the number of that bike, know the one I mean? Some blokes come around askin but he didn’t like the look of ’em, kept mum. I thought you might have a use for it.
He read out the number.
She was out of the door in seconds but she had to wait five minutes for Alan Sindall, the chief crime reporter, to get off the phone before she could ask him.
‘You’ll have to buy me a drink,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something urgent on at the mo. I’ll send it around. Soonest.’