The Business Of Dying

18

We weren't back in Islington until close to five o'clock. An accident on the M40 had caused massive tailbacks, and since neither of us had any idea of alternative routes, we were forced to crawl along at ludicrously slow speeds for hours with thousands of other irate drivers.

I got Malik to drop me off near home. Somehow I couldn't face going back to the station where the talk would doubtless be of promotions and terminal illnesses, and where I suddenly felt as much an outsider as I ever had. Welland had been an ally, a man who'd often stood up for me in the past. Now he was gone. As a replacement, Capper had to be what a media commentator would call 'the nightmare scenario'.

When I got in I checked my messages. There were none on my home phone, but Raymond had left one on his mobile. He wanted to see me as soon as possible and gave me a number to call back on. He signed off by saying it was urgent, but nothing to worry about too much, whatever that was meant to mean. It was unlike Raymond to leave messages for me, unless it was important. I phoned the number he'd left but it too was on answerphone service, so I left a message for him saying I'd meet him at our usual spot at two the following afternoon unless I heard otherwise. I wanted to see him anyway. There was, it was fair to say, a lot to discuss.

After that, I tried Carla Graham, but she'd left Coleman House for the day and I didn't want to risk calling her on her mobile. She might wonder where I'd got the number from. I told the woman on the other end of the phone that it was the police and asked when Carla was expected back. I was told she was on weekend day shifts and would be in the following morning. I said I'd call her then.

Outside it was raining, but I fancied a walk, and maybe a drink somewhere, so I strolled round the corner to the Hind's Head, a quiet little place I frequented occasionally.

There was no-one in there and I didn't recognize the lone barman. He was reading the paper when I came in. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a pint of Fosters, lighting a cigarette and removing my damp coat.

There was a slightly crumpled copy of the Standard next to me on the bar. Since the barman didn't look too chatty and there was no-one else to talk to, I leaned over and picked it up.

The shock hit me right between the eyes like an express train.

The headline was in huge block capitals covering half the page: E-FIT OF CUSTOMS KILLER. Facing it on the opposite side of the page was a detailed photofit picture of a thin-faced man, thirty-five to forty, with short dark hair and eyes that were just slightly too close together.

If I'd asked an artist to knock out a quick picture of my face, he couldn't have done a better job. The likeness was uncanny.

The whole world seemed to cave in on me as the full implications of what I was looking at flooded into my brain like water surging through a burst dam.

Now I knew that more than at any other time in my entire life, I was in real danger. Not just from the cops, but from people whose faces I didn't even know.

But who knew me. And who now realized that I was a lot better off to them dead than alive.

Raymond was right. I should have fucking shot her.