Evil in Return (7 page)

Her mouth tensed. ‘From an interviewer’s point of view, he was a bloody nightmare. If you want the honest truth, he was like a passive-aggressive clam.’

‘That’s a pretty odd way to describe him.’

‘What can I say? He was really cynical about the whole publishing process, being expected to perform like a fucking dancing bear – his words, not mine – with all the probing and pressure and stuff. Have you read his book?’ She looked at him in an accusatorial way.

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, you ought to. You might understand him better.’

He nodded. The book would have to be read, if nothing else to tick the box, and he had already made up his mind to ask Donovan to do it. She was a quick reader as well as a good judge of character. They would also need to look at whatever Logan had been writing just before he died. Anna was watching him, abstractedly twisting her long hair into a rope and coiling it up on the top of her head. It struck him that whatever had gone on between them, she had probably spent more time with Logan than anyone else had in the last few weeks, or even months, of his life. Yet something was missing.

‘You seem to know him very well,’ he said, thoughtfully.

‘I have an instinctive feel for people. It’s why I do what I do.’ She let her hair drop and clamped her mouth shut as though slamming a door.

‘What else can you tell me?’

‘What do you mean?’

He leaned forwards towards her and spread his hands. ‘Look, given what’s happened, there must be something that came out of your conversations that I should know.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘There has to be something, even if it seems trivial.’

There was a beat before she answered. ‘No. Most of the time we talked about the past. Look, I’ve told you everything I know. Now I really must be getting on. If I don’t go home and email my copy, my editor’s going to crucify me.’

Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his hair and stared at her for a moment. She had every right to walk out the door and no doubt she knew it, but he couldn’t let her go that easily. Instinct was telling him she was keeping something from him. Maybe it was information about Joe Logan – it was even possible that she didn’t understand the value of what she knew. Or maybe it was just the simple fact that she had slept with him. That she’d used him. He wasn’t there to make moral judgements. All that mattered was whether or not it had any bearing on the murder, but he had no idea how he was going to get it out of her.

‘What can you tell me about his second book?’ he asked abruptly.

Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘His second book?’

‘Yes. I understand he was working on another book. You must have discussed it.’

‘Naturally it was one of my questions. I mean, how do you follow something like
Indian Summer
? I thought it must be pretty difficult as a first-time writer to live up to something like that.’ She frowned and put her head to one side. ‘Why are you so interested in all of this? What the hell does it matter?’

‘Please answer the question. What did he say?’

‘He said he’d started something but he wasn’t ready to talk about it.’

‘What, not even to you?’

‘He was really cagey, like it was something precious he was guarding, something sensitive.’

‘So, he didn’t trust you?’

She hesitated and bit her lip, staring hard at him before replying. ‘In the end, I got it out of him. I suppose I can tell you. I mean now he’s dead, he’s hardly going to write it, is he?’

‘Go on.’

She sighed. ‘He was writing some sort of a thriller. OK?’

‘A thriller?’ He couldn’t help sounding surprised.

‘Yes. About a man, an English teacher, like Joe, whose best friend is involved in some sort of a conspiracy or cover-up. Then the friend gets bumped off and the teacher has to find out what really happened and clear his friend’s name. It all sounded a bit of a cliché . . .’

‘What sort of conspiracy?’ he said, trying not to sound too interested.

‘Search me. As I said, he wouldn’t tell me. Worried I’d steal his idea, maybe.’

Hopefully, Logan’s laptop would give them everything they needed. Not wanting to arouse her curiosity any further, he changed the subject. ‘Did you tape your conversations?’

‘He wouldn’t let me. He said he didn’t like hearing the sound of his voice. He said it put him off.’

‘But he was an actor. Didn’t you find that a bit strange?’

‘Sure. There were a lot of strange things about him.’ She shifted in her seat still holding his gaze. ‘What’s going on? What are you not telling me?’

‘I told you before, I can’t give you any more details.’

‘There’s a personal motive. That’s what you’re saying, right? That’s why you’re so interested in his private life, in what he said and did in the last few weeks. That’s why you’re grilling me.’ She gave a husky laugh and leaned back against the cushions.

What could he say? There was nothing more to be gained from talking to her and he stood up, Minderedes following suit. ‘I can’t say anything ahead of the press briefing, but if you want to attend it, I’m sure it can be arranged.’

Anna remained seated, smiling and looking up at him expectantly, as though she hoped he’d sit down again. ‘That would be useful, yes. But I’d rather get it from you, the horse’s mouth, as they say. Promise I won’t reveal my source. Is it something to do with the new book he’s writing?’

He shook his head and handed her a business card. ‘We’ll need copies of whatever notes you’ve got, plus any drafts of the interview. If you think of anything else, give me a call.’

Her eyes flicked to the card in her hand, then back at Tartaglia. She got to her feet. ‘Look, it’d be really good if I could put something in my piece about what happened to Joe. Just a line or two. I’ve answered all your questions. Surely you can tell me something?’

He held up his hand. Others might be mollified by the sudden softening of her tone but it had no effect on him. ‘I’m afraid you’re the one jumping to conclusions. You were one of only a few people to see Mr Logan in the weeks before he died and you spent quite a lot of time together. Naturally, we need to speak to you and get some background info on him, but I can assure you it’s just routine.’

‘Routine?’ Her smile widened. ‘Pull the other one. It’s got bells.’

Outside in the street, the dusty pavement reflected the heat of the day like an open oven door. Pausing in the deep shadow of the bar’s awning, Tartaglia wiped his brow and turned to Minderedes. ‘Wait until she’s gone then go back inside and find out who was in charge the night Joe Logan died. See if they have CCTV. I want to know exactly when Anna Paget arrived and when she left that night. She seems to be a regular here. Find out everything they know about her. After that, pay a visit to the newspaper she works for and do the same.’

Minderedes grinned. ‘My pleasure. What a foxy little—’

‘What an attitude, you mean.’

‘And some. She thawed a bit at the end though, didn’t she?’

‘Because she wanted something.’ He gave Minderedes a penetrating look. It wasn’t the first time his usually acute judgement had been blurred by a pretty face, which was fine so long as he kept it out of the workplace, particularly away from anyone concerned with a case. But Minderedes had crossed the boundary before and had missed being suspended by the skin of his teeth. He hoped the man had learned his lesson, but somehow he doubted it. Minderedes generally acted as though he had nine lives. ‘Don’t go getting any ideas.’

Minderedes held up his hands in surrender. ‘I know better than that, boss. You know that.’

‘I hope so, for your sake. You know the consequences.’

‘I was just looking. No harm in that.’

‘So long as your brain’s still working.’

‘At least she’s not the sort you forget in a hurry.’

‘It can work both ways,’ he said sharply.

If Minderedes didn’t wipe that stupid smile off his face PDQ, he’d do it for him. Whether it was the heat, lack of sleep or Anna herself, Tartaglia felt irritable and on edge. To make things worse, he had the nagging feeling that he had let her off the hook, although he had no idea how. ‘Wait in the car until she leaves. Don’t on any account let her see you.’ In spite of Minderedes’ protestations, the less he had to do with her, the better. He didn’t trust either of them, nor did he want to alert Anna to the fact that they were checking up on her.

Minderedes nodded. ‘Cool. So what do you think, Sir? You think she’s lying?’

‘I honestly don’t know. But I mean to find out.’

8

‘I still can’t believe it,’ Tim Wade said, shaking his head slowly as he struggled to uncurl his baby daughter’s fingers from his ear. ‘When I picked up the paper this evening, I thought it had to be a mistake.’

Alex nodded. ‘I was supposed to be seeing him last night. I pitched up at his boat as we’d arranged but the police were swarming all over it. They wouldn’t tell me what had happened, just that he’d had an accident.’

‘Some accident. The papers said he’d been shot.’

The child started to whimper and Tim shifted her into his other arm, bouncing her gently up and down as he wiped a streak of dribble from the shoulder of his jacket.

It was just after seven in the evening and they were sitting in Tim’s cosy study on the ground floor of his house in Kennington. All the way there, Alex had wondered if he had made a mistake in calling Tim and asking if he could come over, but sitting now in the reassuring comfort and normality of Tim’s world, he felt better about it. After what had happened, he had to talk to someone and Tim was one of the few people who would understand.

Tim had only just got home from work and was still in his sober suit and tie. It had been six months or so since Alex had last seen him, but he seemed to have aged ten years in that time. How life had changed. For a moment the vision of Tim as a golden, vital youth reared up in his mind like a ghost: Head boy, sporting icon of his year, good at everything he turned his hand to, enjoying the rapturous admiration of men and women alike. Alex had envied him. Following in his father’s footsteps, Tim had scaled the heights of the Bar with equal ease, yet here he was, sweating heavily, his once trim body blurred and thickened, at the beck and call of a one-year-old monster. Married life, Alex thought to himself with a shudder. There but for the grace of God . . .

The little girl gave a series of blood-curdling shrieks, grabbing at Tim’s spectacles until he removed them, then tearing at his thinning brown hair. He threw a despairing glance at his friend.

‘Don’t look at me,’ Alex said, shrinking deeper into the soft leather of the old armchair. ‘Babies aren’t my thing, as you know.’

Tim got to his feet with a sigh, rocking the child backwards and forwards in his arms. ‘One day you’ll have to give up your Peter Pan existence and join the real world.’

‘Is that what you call it?’ Alex smiled. ‘Not if I can help it. Not if this is what I’ve got to look forward to.’

‘It’s not normally like this.’

‘Really?’

‘I’d go mad if it was, but she’s teething. We’ve been up all night with her and the au pair’s off sick and I don’t know how Milly’s going to cope. I’ve got a big case starting in Oxford the day after tomorrow.’

The child started yelping as though jabbed by something sharp, and her face turned a violent pink.

‘Are you sure she’s OK?’

‘I think she’s hungry. Let me see if Milly’s ready to take her now.’

Tim left the room with the baby and Alex heard him calling to Milly, wherever she had hidden herself. Sensibly out of earshot, no doubt. When he’d arrived, she was breast-feeding an even smaller infant in the kitchen. In a voluminous white nightdress, her hair like a haystack, it wasn’t clear if Milly had just got up or was going to bed. He just prayed that she would take pity on them and keep the children out of earshot for a while.

Evening sunlight slanted in through the sash window, dazzling him as he shifted in his seat. The room was stuffy and his head was starting to spin. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have another nosebleed. He watched motes of dust spinning in the shaft of light, feeling on edge and filled with a sense of disquiet that had been gnawing at him since learning of Joe’s death. He got up, opened the window as wide as it would go, and gazed at the small back garden with its untidy strip of lawn, ramshackle shed and overgrown flowerbeds. A wooden table and chairs sat under a large tree at the end of the garden. It would be cooler out there and a smoke might help calm his nerves. Tim wouldn’t tolerate his smoking inside, but he couldn’t risk their being overheard by someone in one of the nearby houses or gardens. He drew the curtains against the light, leaving a gap for air, and switched on a lamp.

After a cursory glance along the familiar regiment of framed photos on Tim’s desk, he spotted a late edition of the Evening Standard lying open on the rug by the fireplace, amidst a collection of toys and wooden bricks. The headline
BESTSELLING WRITER MURDERED IN WEST LONDON CEMETERY
was blazoned across the front page. He had already seen an earlier edition, but he picked it up anyway and scanned the pages, hoping for some more news. Coverage had been expanded, and there was a small paragraph about Joe’s book and its extraordinary success, along with a quote from his publisher talking about his talents as a writer, their shock at his premature death and the loss to the literary world. The rest of the report focused, as before, on the police investigation, with a police spokesman trying to calm speculation that the murder was linked in some way to the gay community. Other than that, there was nothing new and he threw the paper aside.

Tim reappeared moments later. He had taken off his jacket and tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves and put on a pair of black velvet slippers embroidered with gold lion’s heads. Tim’s father had worn slippers almost exactly the same, Alex remembered. He had often gone to stay in the school holidays at Tim’s parents’ converted mill house near Basingstoke. Unlike his own much more modest home, it was luxurious, filled with antiques, and had a huge garden with a tennis court and an outdoor swimming pool. At the time, owning such a house seemed the pinnacle of achievement. Like clockwork, Tim’s father would arrive home on the train from Waterloo and the first thing he would do was get changed and put on his slippers. Like father, like son, it seemed.

‘Hopefully we’ll get some peace for a bit,’ Tim said. ‘I’m absolutely knackered. I’ve been in court all day and I’ve got a shed-load of work to do tonight, but first I need a drink. I’m sure you could use one too.’

‘Thanks.’

‘There’s wine, beer, whisky, brandy, vodka, maybe some tequila . . .’ He rubbed his hands together briskly.

‘What are you having?’

‘Vodka and tonic.’

‘That’s fine for me too.’

Tim left the room again, reappearing shortly afterwards with some bottles of tonic and a bowl of ice. He kicked the door closed behind him and went over to the small table by the window where he started to mix their drinks. ‘How’s the acting?’ he asked, his back to Alex.

Alex hesitated. It was a loaded question. Apart from a couple of small things for Radio 4, he hadn’t had a job in over six months, certainly nothing that would count with Tim. Short of playing Hamlet at the National Theatre, it was impossible to satisfy him. In so many ways, Tim made him feel like a child. Although very different in character, Tim often echoed Alex’s father, the cliché of the driven, self-made man, who had pulled himself up from humble origins and wanted to give his son the best education that money could buy. And for what? So that Alex could fritter it all away in a pointless and wasteful existence? Tim was more measured in his comments, but he too thought Alex should have given up acting long ago and found a proper job and he made no bones about saying so, particularly after a few drinks. They had known each other for so long and, like family, Tim felt entitled to express himself freely. For some reason Alex put up with it. In spite of everything, or perhaps because of everything, he still liked Tim. The fact that their lives were now so different didn’t signify.

Joe had been a lot less tolerant. ‘You’re too fucking sentimental, Alex,’ Joe had said. ‘Free yourself. Forget the past. Get rid of your ghosts and start living in the present.’ Maybe that was what had made Joe write that book. Perhaps it had been a form of exorcism.

‘Got anything interesting in the pipeline?’ Tim added, when Alex didn’t reply.

‘A bit here and there.’ He heard the satisfying plink of ice followed by a soft fizz.

‘You were really good in that Guy Ritchie film. I watched it again the other night when I couldn’t sleep. But it must have come out about ten years ago. It’s a shame nothing big came of it.’

Alex made no comment. Tim was right. It had been one of his best film parts to date, too long ago now to count for much with casting directors.

Tim glanced over his shoulder. ‘Lemon?’

‘Please.’

‘Still working in that restaurant?’

‘It pays the bills. Means I don’t have to worry when things are slow.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s something, and you are one of the managers. How long have you been there?’

‘Just over a year.’ It was more like two, but he doubted Tim was counting.

‘Here you go.’ Tim came over to the sofa and passed him a full tumbler before flopping down in the chair opposite and resting his feet heavily on a small stool. He smacked his lips and took a slug of vodka and tonic. ‘Well, they’re lucky to have you. You must be worth your weight in gold.’

Alex took a couple of mouthfuls; the mixture was reassuringly strong. Tim knew how to mix a drink and he was always generous with his booze. Alex set the glass down on the edge of the nearest bookcase and sank back against the cushions. ‘I keep asking myself, why would anyone want to kill Joe?’

Tim sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. ‘I know it’s upsetting, but I wouldn’t dwell on it too much. This is London, after all. I expect he was just unlucky, in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘But what was he doing wandering around a cemetery?’

‘Research for another stupid book, I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe he was meeting a source.’

‘In a cemetery? He was a novelist, not a journalist. I don’t think he had sources, and from what he told me he wasn’t into research.’

As he gazed at Tim’s tired, genial face, snippets of things Joe had talked about that last night came to mind: living on the canal; imagining what it must be like in winter; the awful, nosy neighbours; the new book he was struggling with; his publisher; his mother and her new husband, whom he disliked, and Ashleigh Grange. He tried to make sense of the stream of consciousness, put it in a vague order, hoping to spark some sort of clarity, but nothing came. They had had several beers and a smoke of some good, strong stuff Joe had produced, and then some wine. After that he had crashed out. It was all a bit of a blur. He shook his head.

‘Joe hated cemeteries. He said they made him feel depressed.’

‘I thought he liked wandering around them. Don’t you remember that time we went to see Siegfried Sassoon’s grave in that little village near Bath? It was pissing down with rain and we got soaked. Wasn’t it Joe who insisted we went to look at it when the rest of us wanted to stay in the pub and have a few more pints?’

‘I remember the rain, but I thought you were the one who was so keen on going out to find it.’

Tim shook his head dismissively. ‘I tell you, it was Joe. Anyway, you said the police were at his boat. What were they doing?’

‘Looked like they were searching it. I wonder what they were after . . .’

‘It’s standard practice. If there’s no obvious suspect or motive, they’ll be going through his things with a fine-tooth comb. They’ll want to find out everything they can about his life and his movements leading up to his death. They’ll be wanting to speak to you at some point, you know. You saw him so recently.’

‘I expect so,’ Alex said noncommittally. On his way to Tim’s after the lunchtime shift, he had switched on his phone and picked up a voicemail from a female detective asking him to get in touch. She had said she wanted to talk to him about Joe and about some calls he had made to Joe’s phone earlier in the week. He assumed they had heard the voicemails he had left as well. Luckily they were pretty innocuous, but the police were certainly moving quickly. He had turned his phone off immediately afterwards. He had no intention of calling her back until he had had time to think things through and had worked out what to say, but he decided it was better not to mention any of this to Tim. He could be very black and white when it came to the law. He also didn’t dare mention that in his panicked state by the canal, he had given them Tim’s name instead of his own. He wouldn’t understand.

‘Have you spoken to Paul or Danny?’

Tim shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen either of them since Fi’s wedding. There was such a crowd and we didn’t get a chance to talk. We meant to meet up afterwards, but you know what it’s like. Can’t see everyone. Not sure I even have their current numbers.’

There was silence for a moment. They had all been so close at university. He was surprised that Tim, of all people, had lost touch. He had been the glue that had held them all together, a combination of sheer force of personality and the fact that everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. They had all been in awe of him, happy to bask in his glory, perhaps in the naive hope that it would rub off on them too. The wedding had also been the last time Alex had seen Paul Khan and Danny Black. Although he had spoken to them both, it was the polite conversation of people who no longer had anything but the past in common. Paul was now a successful lawyer in a big City firm, with a loft apartment in Hoxton, an expensive car and a string of increasingly young girlfriends. He had become a cliché of superficial success, but it wasn’t enough. Even after all these years, he was still trying to prove something, trying to distance himself from his immigrant roots and become part of the establishment, still comically and pathetically insecure compared to Tim. Next thing, Joe had said, he’d be running for Parliament. Joe had dismissed Paul as someone without imagination, which for Joe was the ultimate put-down, and Alex found himself reluctantly agreeing. The seeds had always been there, but maybe when they were young it hadn’t mattered. As for Danny, he was still doing something on the fringes of the film business, with fingers in several pies, although from what Alex had heard from others, things weren’t going so well. Danny had been so pissed at the wedding it had been impossible to get much out of him. Joe hadn’t gone, he remembered. He had made some excuse but it was clear he wasn’t interested. Things had moved on, he had said, for all of them. Joe, Tim, Alex, Paul and Danny. ‘The Famous Five’, as they had once, on a drug-and-drink-fuelled high, styled themselves, or the ‘Fucking Five’ as someone – some narked woman, no doubt – had written a few days later in the dirt on Paul’s car outside the law library, along with the words ‘fuck off’.