Smoke and Whispers
by 
Mick Herron

When a body is hauled from the River Tyne, Sarah Tucker heads to Newcastle for a closer look. She identifies the dead woman as private detective Zoë Boehm,
but putting a name to the corpse only raises further questions. Did Zoë kill herself, or did one of her old cases come back to haunt her? Why was she wearing
a jacket a murderer had stolen years before? And what's brought Sarah's sparring partner, Gerard Inchon, to the same broken down hotel? Coincidence is
an excuse that soon looks pretty unconvincing. Sarah can't leave until she's found the answers to her questions, however dangerous they might turn out
to be.  



Also by Mick Herron
Down Cemetery Road
The Last Voice You Hear
Why We Die
Reconstruction

SOHO
Constable London
Constable  Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com

To Juliet Burton

First published in the UK by Constable,
an imprint of Constable  Robinson, 2009

First US edition published by SohoConstable,
an imprint of Soho Press, 2009

Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
www. sohopress .com

Bertrams
Copyright © Mick Herron, 2009

The right of Mick Herron to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs  Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold,
hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data is available from the British Library

UK ISBN: 978-1-84529-920-0

US ISBN: 978-1-56947-564-5
US Library of Congress number: 2008047121

Printed and bound in the EU
13579 10 8642
From Mixed Sources
Product group from well-managed
forests and other controlled sources
© 1996 Forest Stewardship Council


1

It was dark, but there were stars upon the water. They
reflected from the lights strung on the bridges, from the
windows of the still-lit buildings, from the yellow shuttle
bus pulling away along the quay, but most of all from the
searchlights on the police launch: dabs of light that pricked
out the body bobbing on the river like a chalk outline on
concrete.
Small groups on the Gateshead Millennium Bridge
watched events unfold.
There was a time the city would have been fast asleep
by now
'Welcome to the 247 society The speaker scratched his
nose. 'Welcome to the twenty-first century, in fact
Fairfax looked at his watch, in retrospective validation of
his comment. 11.24. On the far bank the Sage's glassy surface
threw back distorted impressions of Newcastle: loopy
cartoon buildings shivering in a February wind. He said,
'The CC coverage might've picked it up. If it came from a
bridge.'
'Suicide TV.'
'The operators call it Jump Watch.' Fairfax buried his
hands in his overcoat pockets. 'That's if it came from a
bridge,' he repeated.
But if CCTV had picked it up, they'd have known about
it sooner. An alert would have been sounded; the launch
dispatched more quickly Instead, the body had just floated
quietly into view, and left to its own devices might have
made it to the open sea. A pedestrian had spotted it, and

7

belled the nines, as they used to say. From a mobile. Which
speeded things up, if that mattered to the body.

'Said he thought it was the seal at first.'

'He thought it was what?'

'The seal. It often comes up here. Splashes about in front
of the Baltic, draws a crowd. Didn't they have a whale in
London once?'

'It died,' Fairfax reminded him. 'And it's too cold for
a seal.'

'They live in the sea. I'm guessing they like the cold.'

In which case, it had come to the right place. Any colder
and it could have put a T-shirt on and gone clubbing.

An unborn pun drifted away across the river. The body
was that of a woman, Fairfax thought. Already, the business
of establishing identity was under way.

Downriver, more light bled from the buildings lining the
water: hotels, restaurants, bars - even closed for business
they leaked electricity into the night, as if scared of the
dark, or the predators it used to bring. But that city was
long gone, or at least banished from its old haunts. The
quayside wore new clothes these days; its warehouses torn
down; the cranes that lined the waterfront just a memory
The rats chewing on its leavings were of an entirely new
order; wore suits and power haircuts, and slit each other's
throats quietly in boardrooms, rather than noisily over
snooker tables. The stakes were of an order that even the
eighties' sharks had never dreamed of. That stretch of land
between the Baltic and the Sage was reputedly the most
expensive in the country. All of which, Fairfax supposed,
should have altered his lot beyond recognition: coppering
the city was not the job it had been twenty years ago. But
in the end coppering always boiled down to the same
thing, and sooner or later you had a body in the water.

On whose surface the borrowed stars twinkled, small
flashes of illumination just that little bit younger than their
sources on the bridges. Come morning they'd surrender to
the larger glare of day, by which time a lot more light
would have been cast on the body. It would have been

recovered, for a start; would have gushed water like an old
mattress as it was hauled on to the launch, and with
torches shone upon it would appear fragile and monochrome:
black hair, white skin, black jacket. Empty eyes. In
too many ways, that was the whole story right there: the
body, once retrieved, had empty, finished eyes. But it was
all just beginning, too. Come morning, DI Andrew Fairfax
would have learned more: scraps of knowledge pieced
together from an unwrapped body on a slab; from clothing
and pocket contents, driving licence and credit cards, all
chipping in to produce an identity, even if its owner was
no longer around. Zoe Boehm. Private inquiry agent,
according to a sheaf of business cards in her wallet. Fortysix.
Formerly of Oxford. No footage existed of her launching
herself from the suicide's favourite, the High Level, but
she'd drowned all right, even though she'd received a blow
on the back of the head first. A wound not necessarily
inconsistent with a high fall into water.

Come morning, all of that. At the moment, what Fairfax
had was a floating body

He said, 'Valentine's coming up.'

Valentine's always saw a needle in the suicide figures:
the first Monday of the New Year was the divorce lawyer's
favourite day, and all those filed papers would be turning
up on doormats round about now, just as shop windows
filled with heart-shaped balloons and cuddly bears.
Everywhere the newly-single looked, they'd be seeing red.
For some, it was the last straw. But then for some, the last
straw was the first within reach, as if the whole bundle
had been handed to them the wrong way round. For some,
not much encouragement was needed to go jumping to
conclusions.

Which Fairfax was doing himself. Whatever the statistics
said, there were always anomalies. Accidents kept on happening,
and murders never stopped.

'Well, we'll see,' he said.

A hook on a stick snagged the body, and the heavy
process of dragging it on to the launch began.

arched tunnel under the railway line. At the far end, where
the road turned cobbled, she found the Bolbec Hotel.
Above her a train rattled north.
And somewhere in front of her, unseen from here,
flowed the river, down which the body identified as Zoe
Boehm had floated the week before.
A fire that had definitely gone out.


Fires have to be tended carefully, in case they go out;
except those that have to be fought fiercely, in case they
don't. Which was a way of saying that events could be one
thing or could be another. There was no way of telling
without getting close.
There'd been a body in the water. That had an end-of
story feel to it, but still: she had to get close.
She'd come to Newcastle on a stopping train, and when
she alighted beneath the high arched spaces of the station,
what mostly struck her was the cold; a five-degree drop en
route, and it hadn't been warm to start with. Carrying only
a holdall, she picked her way through people hauling suitcases
on wheels - edged past others on benches, holding
gently steaming cardboard cups - and found the exit,
where she paused to check the map she'd downloaded that
morning. Nearby was a bar whose tables spread on to the
concourse. A group of young men in short-sleeved shirts
sat at one, hoisting glasses in a toast that mostly consisted
of vowels.
Short sleeves, she thought. Jesus.
Taxis waited outside, but she wasn't going far. She
turned right. Her route took her past a large hotel and the
Lit  Phil, then a confusing array of traffic lights and road
signs before bending to the right between what appeared
to be matching warehouses: big wooden structures with
metal shutters blinding their doors and windows. Cars
hurried past, looking for a motorway. She reached a corner,
checked her map, and turned right again, down a high-
Number 27 - second floor - had that twice-breathed air of
all hotel rooms, and was decorated to suit an era long
expired. Ranks of fleur-de-lys marched up and down the
wallpaper, and curled round the lampshade's fringed hem.
The colours that weren't green were either cream or red,
and the carpet's reds were interspersed with deeper reds;
not so much a pattern as a palimpsest, though what stories
her hotel carpet hid, she didn't want to know. The bathroom
was tiny. Sarah put her bag on the bed, used the loo,
then washed her hands and face. The activity splashed
colour into her cheeks, and she thought, observing the
reaction in the mirror, that she looked suddenly older: a
more weatherbeaten, less maintained Sarah Tucker. Back in
the bedroom she turned the lamp on and the overhead
light off. The room's colours changed; became warmer.
Sitting on the bed, she pulled out her mobile.
'Russ? It's me. I guess you're not back yet.' She paused,
her words drying up in these unfamiliar surroundings.
What did she want to tell him? That she'd arrived safely:
"I got here okay. Train a bit late but . . . And I've checked
in at the hotel, the Bolbec Hotel. I'll let you have the number
later, but you've got my mobile.' Well, of course he did:
they'd been living together three years. From somewhere
below the window came a shout that might have been
ecstasy as easily as pain. 'I'll try to call later. But I'll probably
have an early night. Love you. Bye.'
For a moment she sat wondering if Russ had been there
while she was speaking, though why she should think that,
she couldn't say. Russell wasn't terribly happy that she'd
come away - well, that was unfair; wasn't happy about the
ordeal she was about to undergo - but he knew it had to
be done, and would have come with her if she'd asked. She
hadn't. This was something she had to do alone: again,
she couldn't have put the why into words. Something to
do with taking leave, she supposed. The friendship she'd
shared with Zoe had been mostly celebrated in its absence,
but there'd been a bond between them which you couldn't
have forged with evenings in wine bars, or shopping for
shoes. Not had been, she corrected herself. Was. There was a
bond between them until the world proved otherwise,
which it would have the opportunity to do very soon.
She made another call. 'I'm supposed to speak to an
Inspector Fairfax. Detective Inspector.' She waited. 'When
will he be there?' It was after six. Policemen went home
too. She was put through to his voicemail, and told it who
she was. 'I'm the friend of, of Zoe Boehm's. The woman
whose body was found. Whose body you think was
found.' The river lapped quietly, not far away She looked
at her watch again. It had little new to tell her. 'I'm told
there's still not been a formal - that you need an actual
identification made. By someone who knew her.' She
thought: Why am I telling him this? He already knows.
Arrangements had been made. Sarah had spoken to officers
from three different forces. She recited her mobile
number. 'I'll be there in the morning. Thanks.'
That done, she unpacked her bag. It didn't hold a lot;
what she was wearing was going to have to see her
through tomorrow. She'd worn black jeans for the journey;
black boots, white blouse, a black V-neck, and probably
resembled an off-duty nun. Her coat was on a hanger now.
It was thigh-length, very dark blue, and from midway up
buttoned diagonally towards her right shoulder. She'd
loved this in the shop, though had wondered since if it
didn't look vaguely military But no one saluted when she
wore it, and Russ claimed it looked good on her.
Perhaps she should call him again. She could do with
hearing his voice. Thinking so, she touched the diamond
ear studs he'd bought her last birthday, when she'd turned
forty. It had felt okay, on the whole. The studs had helped.
. . . They'd never argued much, and Sarah took more
pleasure in this than she would have done in the opportunities
for letting off steam argument allowed, or the
traditional ways of making-up it fostered. But they'd had
disagreements, and her being here had provoked one.
'There must be somebody else,' he'd said. 'Family Didn't
she have family?'
Russell was tallish, dark - thinning a little on top - and
had kind brown eyes. He didn't swagger; didn't roll. He
was doing neither now, but his words had been gathering
momentum for hours. Sarah was sure he'd tried to block
them, but it must have been like holding a door shut
against an incoming tide.
"I don't think so.'
They were in their kitchen, sitting at the large wooden
table which bore the scars of years of farmhouse work.
Both were city-bred, and neither went out of their way to
fake rural credentials, but the table had been here when
Russ had bought the house, and no way was he getting
shot of it. Here in this same kitchen Zoe had once arrived,
trouble trailing at her heels. That was the first time Russ
had met her. It had been a memorable occasion.
And now he'd said carefully, 'You don't think so?'
'Russ, you know how it was. We didn't have an . . . ordinary
friendship.'
'You mean, the kind where you stay in touch and share
details about each other's lives like, for instance, whether
you have family or not?'
'She saved my life.'
He reached for her hand, and she gave it. 'I know,' he
said. 'I'm sorry. I'm not trying to make this harder for
you. And I'm sorry as hell about what's happened, you
know that.'
She did know that. He had held her while she cried.
'I'm just worried it'll upset you more. Identifying her . . .
remains.'
'It'll upset me ten times as much if I don't know for sure.'
'Don't know what for sure? That she's dead?'
'Yes. That she's dead.'
'It was in the paper, Sarah. There was ID on the body
'But no one formally identified her.'
'They don't need that these days. They can do a dental
check. DNA. Whatever.'
"I need to know for myself, Russ. Reading it in a newspaper,
or some kind of official letter - it's not enough. I
need to know
Because Zoe had been slippery in life, and there was
always the hope she hadn't lost this quality in death. There
was a certain statistical foundation to this. Death happened
to everybody, but could only happen to Zoe once. That
made the odds Everyone else: Zoe. If you approached the
issue from this direction, you'd obviously want proof
before you began to mourn.
But these weren't terms to use with Russ, who would
doubtless find a way to dismiss them.
Before she could find an alternative argument, he was
talking again: 'Sarah, I loved Zoe, okay? I mean, I didn't
know her well, but I didn't have to. I owe her a debt I'll
never be able to repay. But .. .' He reached out; added his
other hand to the one that was already holding hers, and
stroked her fingers. 'But the way she lived, what she chose
to do with her life - I'm not saying it was always going to
end this way. But I don't want you being drawn into it
again.'
'It's not a question of that. It's not about being drawn in - what would that mean anyway?'
She meant what she said: what did it mean? If Zoe was
dead, and Sarah satisfied herself of that, how did it implicate
her? Did Zoe being dead mean part of Sarah would die
too? Is that what Russ meant?
He said, 'Sarah, you only know her body's been found
because you saw it on the web.'
It was true. In the absence of phone calls, in the absence
of letters, in the absence of anything resembling regular
keeping-in-touch, Sarah had developed the habit of
Googling Zoe occasionally, to see if she was cropping up
in newspapers. Perhaps, she now thought, she'd always
been expecting something like this. To fire up a search
engine, and have the first thing it rolled over be Zoe's
body Found in the river Tyne last night has been identified as
one Zoe Boehm she'd read. The river Tyne. She'd looked
from the list of references eating up her screen to the postcard
on the desk in front of her, and thought how strange
it was that these connections could be made so easily; so
flippantly, almost. Found in the river Tyne. The same Tyne
flowing through Zoe's postcard, which had arrived the
previous week.
"I don't know what difference that makes,' she told him.
And told him, too, that she'd made her mind up; that this
was something she was going to do.
Russ had this quality: he knew when to stop making
objections.
She'd brought the postcard with her. It lay on the laminated
sheet on her bedside table, the one explaining how the
telephone worked; where to go when the hotel caught fire;
what time breakfast was served. All useful information,
but she'd have preferred this clarity to be transferred to
the postcard; its message set out in simple, basic terms,
perhaps with a telephone number attached, or a list of
available times.
Once, years ago, Zoe had arrived when Sarah was in big
trouble. "I can't just walk away,' she'd told Sarah. Neither
could Sarah, now.

Having arrived, having unpacked, having made her calls,
Sarah felt somewhat paralysed. It was a not unfamiliar
response to unfamiliar surroundings: should she stay here,
where the few possessions she'd brought at least allowed
her to feel she'd made a mark, or head out and lay claim
to somewhere else? If Russ were with her, there'd be no
contest. Alone, and in a city not different enough to feel
exotic, the temptation was to hunker down: stay in her
room, read, get through tomorrow when it came. Go to bed
early. Have a bath. Options unfolded like a flower, all of
them safe and time-consuming. She wandered into the
bathroom, to reflect a while.
The face that looked back at her was the one she'd grown
into, with even the changes that time had wrought seeming
expected, as if they'd always been buried beneath the
skin, waiting for the right moment to appear. Lines at the
eyes threaded outwards, and on bad days her chin would
sag if she didn't hold her head at a tilt. But holding it so
gave her a defiant edge, which made her feel more confident,
and thus better able to cope with a fat day . . . Her
brown hair, which she now wore short, tufted in a way that
could look artfully achieved, but was mostly down to its
having its own ideas about how it should grow. That was
the process in a nutshell, really. Your body did what it
was going to do. You took steps in mitigation, but the face
you were growing into was already there.
What she thought now - an attitude she'd achieved these
past few years - was that hers wasn't a bad face, and allowing
for the age-old default female setting of wishing she
looked completely different, she was happy enough with
it, except for the chin, and perhaps those lines at the eyes.
And now she reached into her handbag, withdrew her
spectacles case, and put her glasses on. Okay: this, maybe,
her face hadn't been prepared for. Evolution took slow
steps, as she understood it. Aged thirty-nine, she hadn't
worn glasses; aged forty she did. Maybe, in another ten
years, she'd have grown used to the way they made her
look, but she wasn't banking on it.
Russ liked them. He said they made her look 'studious,
but still up for it'. Russ could be depended upon to say the
right thing, particularly if he'd had a fortnight to prepare.
But this was ridiculous: standing here hamstrung in a
hotel bathroom. She brushed her hair. She'd go out. At the
very least she'd head down to the bar, and have a drink. It
was surprising, actually, that it had taken this long to
notice she hadn't had one yet.
At the doorknob she paused, and looked behind her.
She'd planned to ask for the room Zoe had had, but when
it came to the crunch, found herself unable - how would
she frame the request? Hold herself out as another private
detective? Did the staff know that's what Zoe had been? Or
even, come to that, that Zoe had been pulled out of the
river a week ago? She'd checked out of the hotel before that
happened. Ludicrous to think the staff kept a check on erstwhile
guests; possible, too, that Zoe Boehm hadn't used her
real name when checking in. Sarah herself wouldn't have
known she'd been here had it not been for that postcard.
I'm in this mausoleum called the Bolbec Hotel. I swear at
nights you can hear the mice laying plans.

The picture showed the Gateshead Millennium Bridge
after dark; a graceful arc reflected in the water; an oval the
river might pour through.
Unlike Zoe to drop Sarah a line. But was it unlike Zoe to
jump off a bridge? She didn't know. She didn't know. Was
the picture a clue? It might have been. She'd thought she'd
known her friend but - she didn't know.
And didn't know which room Zoe had stayed in, but
surely it wouldn't have been much different to this, and
that thought held Sarah there a little longer, hand on the
doorknob - eyeing the reds of the carpet; the creams of
the bedspread; the regimented pattern on the walls - and
wondering if Zoe had had such a moment, near the end of
her life; a moment of hesitation on a threshold, glancing
back to see if there was anything she'd forgotten. Except
Zoe never forgot much. What she left behind she left deliberately,
as being no longer of use.
Sarah flicked the light switch and shut the door, locking
the darkness inside.

She didn't need to take the lift - she could manage a couple
of flights of stairs, thanks - but with six floors to descend,
she'd have made the same choice: the lift didn't inspire
confidence. It had a metal grille for a door, and she suspected
this might be all that was holding it together. The
stairs it was then, which were wide; the landings hung
with the kind of paintings that always look like they need
cleaning: pairs of dead pheasants, tied at the ankle;
improbably polished pieces of fruit. Sarah was compiling
her own picture of the hotel's past, a brighter place than its
present. Crinoline featured heavily, as did steamer trunks
carted by uniformed porters, their braces showing.
The bar, too, was a hymn to faded grandeur. There was
a large mirror behind the bar itself, engraved with gilt lettering
she couldn't make out for the rows of bottles in front
of it. The wooden counter curved like a ship's flank, and
had a brass footrail. If she checked, she'd probably find
the screwholes that once fixed a spittoon in place. A threadbare
rug covered most of the floor. Scattered here and
there were the usual round tables with small congregations
of stools, but by the fireplace in the far wall was a sofa;
also a couple of rattan armchairs that looked like they'd
wandered in from somewhere else - possibly the dining
room, whose entrance was to their left. Their backs faced
the rest of the bar, as if they were engaged in private
conversation.
She was the only one here, apart from the barman. Who,
she guessed, was mid-thirties, which was pushing it for the
look he was aiming at: head shaved to blond stubble; small
gold hoop through his left nostril. But she'd be the first to
admit she wasn't the best judge of what passed for edge
these days; besides, his eyes were a blue so pale, they
almost shaded into grey, and he smiled with genuine
warmth. And when he asked her pleasure, his accent broke
like a wave on a faraway beach.
'You're not local.'
'Ah. You penetrated my disguise.' He wiped the counter
with a cloth as he spoke, as if he were method acting. He
wore a collarless white shirt, its top button undone, and
dark chinos. "I heard that wherever you go in the world,
you'll find a Geordie and an Australian. I'm just cutting to
the chase.'
'So statistically, there must be a Geordie bartender in
Sydney now.'
'If I came from Sydney, miss, I'd never have left.'
She liked the 'miss'. 'So why not just go there instead?'
"I am. I'm taking the long way round. What can I get you?'
He chatted amiably as he poured a glass of Sauvignon:
his name was Barry, he'd only worked here two weeks, and
he hailed - don't laugh - from Wallaby Springs.
'Sounds like a middle-of-nowhere place.'
'You wish. Wallaby's slightly left of nowhere. People
heading for the middle miss it completely
'This must feel like home from home.'
'The hotel, you mean, not the city. We're not weighed
down with guests, that's true.' He glanced around theatrically:
they were still alone. 'We're not supposed to be trumpeting
this - act like everything's normal, you know? - but
the place is closing down. End of next month.'
Sarah said, "I thought it felt deserted.'
She didn't just mean of guests, either. All she'd seen of
staff so far was the woman who'd checked her in, and
now Barry.
Who said, 'That's how come I got the job. Last guy quit
soon as he heard. No barman likes to close a place down.'
'But you don't mind.'
He shrugged. 'It's not a career. Just where I am right
now. And it beats flipping burgers.'
Flipping burgers, Sarah thought. Had any job summed
itself up so succinctly? She took a sip of wine, which was
crisp and dry and stirred an appetite: she'd not eaten since
a sandwich on the train. 'Speaking of which,' she said, 'is
your restaurant open?'
'Don't worry, we're not that closed. It'll open at seven.'
It was ten to. 'There's a party coming in.'
'Party?'
'You're not the only guest.' He winked, and she thought:
uh-oh. There was clear blue water between friendliness
and fancying your chances. She didn't want to be fending
off Barry in a deserted bar. But he went on, 'Some businessman,
here to frighten up investors. He booked a buffet
for twenty-five. Things'll get busier.'
This, too, Sarah didn't need: to be sharing a restaurant
with a gang of venture capitalists. 'How about room
service?'
He made a face. 'Sorry Must seem like a half-arsed operation,
right?'
'Not your fault.' The wine was going down nicely 'I'll
have another of these.'
'Second one's on the management,' he said. 'House
rules.'
'Thank you, Barry' When he set a fresh glass in front
of her, she said, 'A friend of mine stayed here a few
weeks ago.'
'Male or female?'
'Female.'
'Dark-haired lady? Curly hair?'
She said, 'That was quick. That was very quick.'
'She was my first customer. Or the first not to be an
overweight bloke wanting to know if I had any useful
numbers. Guys who tend bar and guys who drive taxis,
we're all supposed to be a sort of 18-rated Time Out
'So you remember her.'
'Yeah, she was here. We talked a bit. Zoe, right?'
'Zoe. Yes.'
'She drank what you're drinking. Always a good basis
for friendship.'
'In the absence of anything else,' Sarah agreed. 'What
did you talk about?'
Barry shrugged. He'd thrown his cloth over a shoulder,
and again this struck Sarah as a little too perfect a gesture.
Maybe he took his cues from that same olde-worlde sense
she'd felt on walking down the stairs. Then again, what did
she know about bartending? It must come with its own set
of tics. 'Usual stuff,' he said. 'She played her cards pretty
close. Never did work out why she was here, or what she
did for a living. But I only noticed that afterwards, you
know what I mean?'
'Yes,' Sarah said.
'She had a way of drawing you out without letting you
in. What felt like a conversation at the time seemed more
like an interrogation afterwards. I mean, she must have
left here knowing all there is to know about the Springs,
right? But I can't even remember where she lived. London,
was it?'
'You're talking about her in the past tense.'
'Occupational hazard. A lot of the people I talk to, I
never see again.'
There was noise behind Sarah; voices approaching from
the lobby. This would be the party Barry had mentioned.
'I'll leave you to it,' she told him. 'Thanks for the drink.
And the company'
'You're very welcome.' He raised his voice. 'Evening,
gents. It's my pleasure to be serving you tonight.'
Sarah retreated to one of those rattan chairs; sat with her
back to the incoming company. Businessmen. She could see
it already. Loud-voiced laughter and off-colour jokes. She
closed her eyes as the noise level rose, and found herself
hurtling into tomorrow, when all doubts would be settled
one way or the other: Zoe was dead or not dead, and Sarah
would know whether she was free to mourn or not. This
would be new territory She had encountered death before,
of course, but there were degrees of appropriate grief. An
English attitude, but no less felt for all that. So far, there'd
always been someone closer to the dead than her; she'd
always been encroaching on someone else's sorrow simply
by feeling less of it than them. With Zoe, that wasn't the
case. With Zoe, she'd be mourning hardest.

Her wine was still dry, still crisp, but it was also rapidly
disappearing.
Voices floated over from the bar.
'You can call it the Athens of the North for all I care, old
boy, the clue's still in the name. North.'
'It's only three hours from London by train.'
'My point exactly. In three hours, I could have a good
meal, asset-strip a failing charity and still get an early
night.'
It was the words as much as the voice, but it was also
the voice - a round plump voice, which could only come
from a tongue thick and fat, well used to digging the cream
out of a doughnut.
But, of course, it was also the words.
'So you're only here to make money'
'Only God and the Treasury make money, old son. I'm
more of a collector.'
Ha ha.
'But a generous collector. As those around me can testify'
The clink of a glass being set on a counter. "I don't get
many complaints from those who follow where I lead.'
Sarah looked at her own glass, which had become horribly
empty. In her mind she was tossing a coin, but there
was never any doubt which side it would fall.
'Is this all an act?'
'All? No.' The pause came with stage directions: she
could almost hear him tilting his head to one side. 'Thirty
per cent. Maybe forty. Does it matter?'
Ha ha.
She slipped out of the chair, and found her legs a little
wobbly - the wine? No, not the wine. Circumstance, pure
and simple.
A small circle had congregated at the bar, behind which
Barry was wiping the counter again, trying a little too obviously
not to listen to the entertainment. The circled characters
were the usual collection of suits; were all men; teeth
and eyes and hair and limbs arranged in recognizable
ways. She paid them no attention. Her interest was in their
focal point: the man with his back to her, making all the
noise, though whatever he was actually saying now was
lost in another round of laughter:
Ha ha ha ha ha.
And then the laughter died bit by bit, as the men facing
her realized she wasn't about to sidestep them and make
her order at the bar; that she had, in fact, come to a halt
just behind their host, and wasn't going anywhere until
he'd turned. Which he did, once it became apparent from
their expressions that there was someone behind him.
In that first brief moment of recognition, something else
flickered in his eyes: a hint of shock. Or possibly even fear.
'Good God,' he said. 'Sarah Trafford.'
'Gerard Inchon,' she said. 'Fancy meeting you here.'
They'd both racked up some body miles since last meeting,
but - glasses notwithstanding - Sarah was wearing hers
better. It wasn't that Gerard had put on weight (though he
had) or lost more hair (though he had); it was that he
seemed to be carrying something extra, the strain of which
tugged at his mouth, making a flat line of what had once
been plump and fleshy His face looked drawn, was her initial
impression; was almost a caricature of his younger self,
though that thought lasted no more than a second, and
whatever reaction he'd nearly let slip was swallowed in a
smile that seemed no less genuine for being hastily slapped
on. 'After all this time,' he said.
'It's been a while,' she agreed.
'You're here alone?'
He was looking over her shoulder, satisfying himself she
wasn't the vanguard of a larger visitation.
'I'm on my own, yes.'
He said to his gang, 'Do excuse me. An old friend, an
unexpected pleasure. Barry - fix drinks, good man. Introductions
in half a sec'
One hand on her elbow, he drew her expertly towards
the fireplace she'd just left. Which was laid but unlit: split
logs criss-crossed in tepee fashion - that thing about
carrying coals to Newcastle had come home to roost.
Nobody was doing it, so they had to rely on wood.
'Sarah Trafford,' he said again.
'Tucker,' she corrected him.

'Of course.' He released her arm. 'You ditched the lessthan-lily-white
Mark, didn't you?'
She had no desire to rattle the bones of her defunct
marriage. 'How are you, Gerard?'
'Oh, bloody well. Not far short of fantastic, in fact. But
what about you? You're not actually staying here, are you?'
'Yes.'
'Good God. What on earth for?'
'I'm on holiday'
'In Newcastle?' Gerard Inchon could do puzzled like
nobody's business. 'Doncaster fully booked, was it?'
Thinner mouth or not, he could still give it some lip.
'They had a rush on,' she told him. "I suspect they're
having a whippet rally'
He was into his forties now: his thinning still brown hair
scraped back over his head; his jowls - she rarely had
recourse to 'jowls', but Gerard demanded it - his jowls still
wobbly, giving his face an inverted look. Still clean-shaven.
Immaculately so, in fact. And, now his initial reaction had
faded, still with that knack of assuming local attention as
his due: for all he might resemble an extra in a forties film
- a background figure at a racetrack, or remonstrating with
a policeman - Gerard would never settle for a walk-on
part. Not that he'd steal scenes, precisely He'd just acquire
them at fire-sale prices, flog them to a shell company, then
lease them back at rates he could claim against tax: he was,
after all, a businessman - a 'leading' businessman, in fact.
Nor was this just his opinion. Sarah had heard him profiled
on Radio 4 when Inchon Enterprises went public; she'd
been impressed by how little of his private life made it on
to the airwaves. His marriage to Paula had been mentioned,
and that was about it. Because Gerard Inchon was
a public figure, but not one anyone knew much about. She
suspected that was the way he liked it.
'Now now,' he said. 'I'll make the slighting regional
references.'
He seemed quite serious about this, and perhaps was.
Sarah looked beyond him, to the crowd at the bar. 'I'm
interrupting your party,' she said. 'You'll want to be with
your friends.'
'Friends?'
'I'm using the term loosely,' she assured him.
'I've never met most of them,' he said. 'But you know
what it's like when you're in a new town. You want to
leave your marker with the movers and shakers.'
This was so far removed from Sarah's experience that
she couldn't reply directly. 'And what brings you here in
the first place?'
'You can't guess?'
'Business?'
'You always did have my number, didn't you, Sarah?'
They both knew this wasn't so. They'd met during a
troublesome upheaval in Sarah's life - the same upheaval
that had brought Zoe into it - and for a while she'd
thought Gerard Inchon the cause of her problems. The fact
that she'd been wrong should have taught her a lesson, she
supposed, about first impressions and surface values. She
was never really sure, though, that life's lessons stuck.
She said, "I wouldn't have thought the Bolbec tony
enough for you.'
'Tony? That's New Labour speak for classy, yes? I didn't
have you down as a snob.'
"I mean it doesn't have wi-fi, Gerard. Or an atrium. Or a
TV chef.'
'Oh, I don't know. I think he used to be on Steptoe and Son.'
'It doesn't even have a sauna. Why aren't you at
Malmaison?'
'Fully booked. Chelsea are in town. But don't worry, I'll
sack my PA first thing in the morning.'
'You haven't changed, have you?'
'Still the capitalist monster?'
'Exactly' But she smiled as she said it. They had an
understanding, Sarah and Gerard. They'd clash broadswords,
but refrain from whopping each other's limbs off.
'How's Paula?'
'Fine. Fine. Fine.' He glanced round. The group he'd
abandoned had been augmented by half a dozen more: all
male. 'What are you doing now?'
'I'll just finish my drink and slip off quietly. I didn't
mean to drag you from your guests, Gerard.'
'Not at all. I mean, that's not what you'll do at all. You'll
join us, of course. I assume you haven't eaten?'
'Well, no, but '
'Have to have gone completely bloody native to have
done that. It's not eight yet. They call it "tea", did you
know? Anyway, it's a buffet, so you'll hardly upset the
placement. That's settled, then.'
Sarah felt conscious that she was under-dressed; that
everyone in sight, Barry excepted, was suited and tied and
generally dolled to the nines. Gerard himself was tailored
just short of perfection: a dark grey suit; a rich blue tie.
'Well, I'm . . .'
But she wasn't anything. All she had lined up was
another attempt to contact Russ. And while meeting a
bunch of strange businessmen wasn't her idea of a night
out, neither was sitting in a hotel room waiting for morning,
when she'd take a trip to the morgue. If she stayed in
her room, she wouldn't be alone. Zoe's potential ghost
would be with her, rattling memories and whispering
dread.
Besides, Gerard had a deaf spot where 'No' was
concerned.
'Thank you. I'd enjoy that.'
And besides again, what were the odds? Of Gerard
Inchon being here, in the same hotel Zoe had stayed, in
what might have been the last week of her life? Sarah
wasn't aware they'd ever met, but she was a point of connection
between the two. If time was the means by which
the universe prevented everything from happening at
once, coincidence was the excuse it used when things occasionally
did. But as an excuse, it quickly wore thin. Zoe,
dead or not, was whispering already. What are the chances,
Sarah? What's he doing here, anyway?





26
27
Come to that, what had Zoe been doing here?
Gerard, smiling, took her by the arm once more. 'Let's
have another drink,' he said. 'And meet these no doubt
charming people.'

She was poured another glass by a smirking Barry, and in
quick succession met two no doubt charming people
whose names she immediately forgot. Gerard evidently
had a Rolodex where part of his brain should be. If his
story could be trusted, he'd barely met anyone here himself,
but there was no hesitation in his introductions, and
as soon as he'd made them he was off. The bar was filling
up still, and Gerard worked the room like a politician,
pressing flesh on each new arrival; producing brief barks
of laughter and intakes of breath in about equal measure.
It was early yet, though. She'd seen him split bigger
crowds than this.
'So you know our host?'
'Not well. But yes, we're acquainted of old.'
A waitress had joined the gathering throng; was cruising
with a bottle of fizz, topping glasses, all bright-eyed and
shiny. Sarah guessed someone had once told her her eyes
were her best feature, because she was holding them open
wider than natural. God, the hoops you had to jump
through. It was a wonder footbinding had slipped off the
agenda. She remembered Ginger Rogers' remark: that
she'd made the same moves Fred did, only backwards,
wearing heels. And even as the thought occurred, Sarah
realized she was drifting, and that her new friends were
visibly unimpressed with her sparkle . . . Perhaps this had
been a mistake. Perhaps she should have sneaked off to her
room after all.
'I'm sorry, excuse me a moment?'
She abandoned her glass, found the loo, then washed her
hands and took a good long stare in the mirror. More and
more often, this was her way of facing herself. She liked to
know which Sarah she was talking to. 'Are you up to this?'
The Sarah in the mirror mouthed the words back at her.
'Because otherwise you could hide in your room and think
about your dead friend.' Not necessarily dead, the answer
came. And then, again, What's Gerard Inchon doing here anyway? Not a question to be answered by hiding in her room.
Nor by standing like a lemon while folk talked round her.
'Party time,' she told the Sarah in the mirror.
Knock 'em dead, Sarah replied.

She collected a glass of fizz from the circuiting girl; had
barely taken a sip before a man approached her with a
smile. 'We haven't met, have we?'
'We have now.'
'That's good. My name's Jack.'
'Hello, Jack. Mine's Sarah. I don't need to ask if you're
from round here.'
'Holding a census?' He glanced round the room, which
now held about twenty people. 'I'll save you a few minutes.
There's yourself, your man Inchon, and those two in
the corner, there, Little and Large. My friend John. And
everyone else is toon-grown.'
'You know them all?'
'The ones I don't, I can tell.'
She nodded in the direction of the bar. 'And Barry there's
from Australia.'
'Oh aye?'
'A place named Wallaby Springs, would you believe.'
'Now you mention it,' he said, 'no. I wouldn't.'
He was neither little nor large himself, this man Jack; he
was tall but thin, the kind of thin steel cables were. Sarah
found herself remembering a soldier she'd once known.
Jack, though, looked reasonably user-friendly His dark
hair, neatly styled, fell fuller than the military allowed, and
the suit he wore - blue as evening fog - cost as much as
everyone else's put together, Gerard's excluded. Patches of
acne scarring on his cheeks were a reminder of an adolescence
as far behind him as Sarah's own.
'And what is it you do, Jack?'
'I'm a career criminal.'
It was so unexpected, she couldn't help but laugh.
'You've fallen in good company, then.'
'A regular thieves' gathering,' he agreed. 'No, these gentlemen
are what pass for the great and good in these parts.
By which I don't mean they're either great or good, just
that they can be relied upon to turn up when money's in
the air.'
'Is that what I can smell? I'm surprised the room's not
fuller.'
'If the money was free, you'd have trouble bending your
elbow,' he agreed. 'No, they're here to gawp at your man
Inchon. Hoping some of it will rub off.'
'It?'
'It's always tempting to think other people's success is
based on luck.'
'And what's yours based on?'
'My success?'
'You're here,' she said, 'aren't you?'

'Good point.' He drained his glass, examined the empty
vessel a moment as if surprised it wasn't larger, then said,
'The family business started in haulage, but these days it's
mostly storage. You know those big depots you see outside
city centres? The kind trains go past when they're reaching
the station?'
'Acres of dismantled cars,' Sarah said.
'That's from a poem, I can tell. Well, we - the family we
own a lot of those. You wouldn't believe how much
people will pay to fill them with junk.'
'Nice for you.'
'As you say. So there's capital to take care of, and never
let anybody tell you that's not a full-time responsibility.
Hence, as you've pointed out, my being here.' He pointed
with his empty glass to where Gerard was doing his three
ring circus act. 'Your man Inchon's been scaring up local
talent. I'd be failing in my duty if I didn't take an interest.'

Your man Inchon. His third use of this. 'What makes you
think he's mine?'
'Just a turn of phrase. But you're the only lady here. And
we've established you're not from these parts.'
Invisible quote marks hovered over that. These parts.
'Fair enough. We're old friends as it happens, but I'm
here by chance. I didn't know Gerard was in Newcastle.
I'm on .. . other business.'
He raised an eyebrow. 'What were you about to say
before you changed it?'
'Nothing I particularly want to elaborate on. If that's
okay'
'Aye, of course.' He didn't try to work it, either. 'He has
quite a rep, your friend.'
'We haven't seen each other in some years.'
'Well, he's managed all right in your absence.'
Sarah didn't doubt it for a minute, but it was an interesting
slant on Gerard Inchon: that people in cities he
didn't frequent were keen on getting a gawp at him. Not
the big beast Branson was, but he obviously punched
above his weight in the marketplace. And his weight, as
she'd already noted, hadn't diminished in recent years.
'And what is it you do, Sarah?' she was being asked.
'Editorial stuff. I'm a sub-editor.'
'With a newspaper?'
She shook her head. "I freelance. A lot of publishing
houses outsource their hands-on work. I do bits and
pieces.'
'But you're your own boss.'
'That sounds nicer than "spends a lot of time trolling
after work".'
'Still true, isn't it? It's all down to spin. People take you
at face value. You want to make a good first impression,
you've five seconds to do it in. Ask your man Inchon.' He
put a hand on his heart. 'Turn of phrase. Honest to God.'
The girl with the bottle refilled their glasses. Barry, Sarah
saw, was busy behind the bar too: a lot of the company had
moved on to spirits. She didn't think that was a direction
she'd be heading in. On the other hand, if they didn't eat
soon, the fizz would be damaging enough.
As if hearing her thought, the girl said, 'There'll be food
in five minutes. Just through the doors, like.'
'Thank you.' The girl moved on. Like. The distance from
Kensington to Tyneside could be measured in the placement
of that syllable.
Jack had turned to greet a friend. Sarah sipped fizz,
reminded herself to drink more slowly, then sipped again.
She scanned the room as if absorbed in what she saw. Now
that she was here, she was in it for the long haul. No sneaking
off to commune with Zoe's ghost.
Someone materialized beside her: short man, strange
hair, dark suit, orange tie.
He said something she didn't catch.
'Could you speak up? Your tie's very loud.'
Her conscience would kick her for that in the morning.
'I'm sorry?'
"I said, I didn't quite hear what you said.'
He was mid-to-late fifties, with a round face, its shape
emphasized by a neatly trimmed beard which decorated
his face cheek to cheek without bothering his upper lip.
Beard; no moustache. A style choice so ill-advised, she
wondered if it weren't actually a medical condition.
'Wright,' he said to her. She thought he'd said right at first,
as if he were about to get down to putting her straight.
'John M. Wright,' he continued.
Sarah was pretty sure no one had ever introduced himself
to her using his middle initial before.
'Sarah,' she responded. 'Em, Sarah Tucker.'
"I see you're our token woman tonight.'
'I'd noticed. But thank you for pointing it out.'
Jack was back. 'Ms Tucker's in publishing. She owns her
own company'
The ghost of a wink accompanied this information, but
it slipped past Wright without causing a draught.
"I also keep livestock,' she said. 'Ostriches.'
'Ah, yes. Good money in them, is there?'
'Small change mostly Also bracelets, watches, bottle tops.
They'll eat anything, really. What do you do, Mr Wright?'
'Medical research.'
'Sounds interesting.'
'It's fascinating.'
Why did she feel she'd just been contradicted? 'Involved
how?'
"I run a facility' He took a sip from his wineglass. There
was something very precise about this, as if he'd calculated
in advance the exact amount of liquid he cared to ingest.
'A small one. Privately funded. Which is one of the reasons I'm here now.'
'I'm sorry?'
'Funding. Wherever the moneymen gather, you see?' He
laughed, as if he'd said something amusing, and stroked
his ridiculous beard. 'Most scientific research these days is
dunning investors.'
'You're here to mug Gerard, then.'
'Who?'
'Gerard Inchon.' She made a vague gesture in Gerard's
direction. Gerard happened to be watching them at that
moment, though that didn't mean he'd ceased talking to
the folk around him, or indeed ceased drinking. And they
said men couldn't multitask. She gave him a wave.
'Our host.'
'Not actually mug him, no.'
Mr Wright didn't seem comfortable with the frivolous
approach. But she couldn't stop herself saying, 'But it was
worth wangling an invite anyway'
Jack said, 'John's here with me.'
'Oh. Sorry, I didn't mean '

'None taken,' Jack said, though the offence hadn't
been headed his way. 'John and I have certain interests in
common.'
She made a stab at what they were. 'You stash your equipment
overflow in his storage depots?' she asked Wright.
Jack laughed, but John M. Wright said, 'Mr Gannon's
family are my main investors.'
He wasn't local - had no particular accent she could pinpoint,
but certainly wasn't a Tynesider. This was the John
Jack had identified as an out-of-towner.
The girl with the bottle reappeared, this time sans bottle.
'Would you like to move through to the restaurant?'
'We would indeed,' Sarah said. 'Thank you.'
Word of food shimmered through the gathering like
wind through a field of corn. John M. Wright was among
the first to head through the restaurant doors.
"I hope I didn't offend your friend,' Sarah said as they
followed.
'I'm not sure personal offence figures high on John's
radar.'
'What sort of medical research does he do?'
'Respiratory diseases. Or conditions, whatever. You
know, asthma, allergies, that sort of thing.'
'And you're happy about introducing him to other
backers.'
Jack said, 'If he finds a cure for asthma, we'll be
delighted to share the profits.' He caught her look. "I hope
you didn't think this was a charity do, Sarah.'
'God forbid.'
'The kind of work John's facility does, it takes a lot of
money to keep it going. And he's not happy about his
current housing.'
'Could you put him in one of your warehouses?'
He smiled politely. 'Do you really keep ostriches?'
'A pair, yes. We rescued them when the bottom fell out
of the ostrich-meat market. From a nearby farm.'
'We?'
'Russ. My partner and I. Are you married, Jack?'
"I have been.'
"Me too.' Perhaps she'd had too much to drink. Or perhaps
she just liked Jack. 'Funny, isn't it? When it's over, you
can't really remember what you thought you'd wanted out
of it.'
After a moment or two, Jack said: "I think I wanted the
usual stuff. Shall we follow the food?'
The restaurant was much the same size as the bar, and
similarly decorated; i.e., a while ago. Its tables had been
shifted to the edges of the room, and loaded with plates of
sausages and samosas; of ham and salmon; of bread rolls
and tuna sandwiches and bowls of salad and rice. This was
what she needed. Something to soak up the wine. Plus
more wine, of course. There was no point pretending she
was about to come over abstemious.
Plate filled with food, she found herself drifting towards
the nucleus of the gathering, which was Gerard. It was
hard to tell whether he was being viewed with fascination
or horror, though she doubted he'd have minded which.
For some reason, the song 'Lawyers, Guns and Money'
came to mind. Gerard collected guns, and it was a fair bet
he had no shortage of lawyers, either. And only Gerard, she
decided; only Gerard could breeze into town, get a fix on
the local players, and set up an evening like this, inside
what - a couple of days? He might have been lord of the
manor, and these men his long-suffering tenants. No: he
might have been the conqueror, entertaining brand-new
subjects.
'So where's the future, then?' he was being asked. 'In
your field, I mean.'
Inchon Enterprises was in the communications line. In
that Radio 4 profile, Gerard had summed up his corporate
philosophy: Money talks. That's what communication's all
about.
But now he said, 'Oh, if I'm in a field, the future's the
next field along, isn't it?'
'You're looking to diversify?'
'Diversity? Can't bloody avoid it, old son.' She couldn't
tell whether he'd misheard deliberately or not. "I have to
fill out forms, explaining how many ethnic minorities,
women, wrinklies and differently abled people I employ
Well, I don't fill out the forms myself. An old deaf woman
does that. But my impression was you had the same laws
up here now.'

Jack, plate in hand, was behind her. 'Does this a lot,
does he?'
Sarah said, 'In my experience, yes, he enjoys being
obnoxious.'
'I suppose it sorts the wheat from the chaff.'
'Meaning?'
Jack managed a sip of wine without spilling his food.
'Come chucking-out time, nine-tenths of this lot'll think
he's just another loud-mouthed pillock who believes the
crap he's spouting.'
'Well,' she said. 'They'll have a point.'
'But the others'll remember he's a self-made multimillionaire.'
'And
that'll give them pause?'
'What do you think?'
She thought she didn't much like being treated as if
Gerard Inchon were her specialist subject. 'So you tell me.
Why does he do it then?'
'To scare away the idiots,' Jack said. 'He doesn't strike
me as a man with much time for idiots.'
That was probably a good assessment, though didn't
allow for the fun Gerard derived from it. Besides, Sarah
had the impression Gerard was in low gear. His attention
seemed constantly on the prowl: he was forever looking
her way, or maybe just in her direction.
John M. Wright had arrived on her other flank. His meal,
she couldn't help noticing, consisted entirely of sausages
and rice.
She felt guilty for the way she'd treated him before, so
now said, 'Jack tells me you're looking for new premises.'
'Premises?'
'The real estate kind. For your . . .' She had to shake off
the word laboratory, which sounded too mad-scientist.
Though it wasn't her fault he had loony facial hair.
'Research premises.'
'I've had better,' he said.
'Where was that?'
'It was a while ago now.'
'But presumably still in the same place,' she couldn't
help saying.
Jack said, 'You were in Surrey before you came here,
weren't you, John?'
'Yes.' He speared half a sausage into his mouth, but
didn't allow that to prevent him saying, 'Mr Gannon has
been a friend to my work.'
That would be Jack, she registered. 'Asthma would be a
good thing to cure.'
'Children,' he said, his mouth full.
'For them, especially' She could feel herself being
sucked into one of those dinner party conversations, where
you're compelled to have views on subjects you'd rarely
considered before.
'It's to them you have to look, Ms Tucker,' he said. She
was surprised he'd taken hold of her name. 'If you want to
cure asthma, you have to look to the children. That's where
the condition is at its most vulnerable.'
What a bizarre way of putting it. But he was the expert.
She said, "I assume cleaning the air would help too.'
'We all have to live in the world as it is.'
Low gear or not, Gerard was still making waves.
Someone had just asked if he was interested in property.
'Well, of course I bloody am. I'm a businessman, not a
Buddhist.'
Sarah wouldn't have put it past him to make sure there
was a Buddhist nearby before launching that line.
Jack excused himself: he'd seen someone he needed to
talk to. For a frightening moment, she thought that would
leave her with John M. Wright, but he was sidling off too,
to fix his empty plate. Before she could get down to
emptying her own, Gerard was waving her over.
'Old friend,' he said to the assembled crew. 'Always nice
to have one around when you're surrounded by savages.
Present company, etcetera.'
'Gerard likes to test people's patience,' she found herself
explaining.
'Aye, we'd got that far.'

'It's funny, like,' another man offered. 'If you're mad and
rich, you're eccentric. But if you're a worky-ticket and rich,
you're still a worky-ticket.'
Gerard scented blood. "I knew I should have bought that
phrase book.'
Of the seven men listening, four laughed; two, Sarah
thought, genuinely. She remembered what Jack had said,
about sorting wheat from chaff. Sheep from lambs might
be a better way of putting it.
'Ah sometimes think Hadrian built that bloody wall
wrong side of the Tyne.'
'Absolutely,' Gerard agreed. 'Peterborough would have been nearer the mark.' He paused. 'Well, just south of
Peterborough.'
One of the older men - one of those whose laugh Sarah
had pegged as genuine - said, 'Tell us, to pass this audition
of yours, are we supposed to agree with you or
disagree?'
And now Gerard laughed: a big honking laugh which
circled the room twice before he shut it off. 'Audition.
Priceless. Let's have some more drinks.'
There must be a line, Sarah thought - Gerard had probably
mapped it a time or two - beyond which you bought
more drinks or got a slap in the mouth.
Whatever instructions Barry had been given, he'd taken
to heart; was already circulating with a pair of bottles with
optics removed. This was the pacifier, not the drinks themselves.
The pacifier was Barry: white shirt, black trousers,
tea-towel over a shoulder; a reminder that this was a civilized
occasion. Of course, a few more drinks, and a different
set of rules would arrive. But that line wouldn't need mapping. The rise in temperature would do the trick.
As Barry refilled, Gerard went on: 'I'm always keen on
meeting movers and shakers. There's a lot going on in
your city'
This wasn't for general consumption. The business of
refuelling had fragmented the group, and Gerard was
addressing the older man, though Sarah revised her
adjective as she took a closer look. He was white-haired,
sure, but his hair had stolen a march on the rest of him: his
face was unlined, apart from the usual creases at mouth
and eyes; and those eyes themselves were bright as a blackbird's.
He didn't, Sarah noticed, proffer his glass for a refill.
'Movers and shakers?' he said. "I take it we're past the
roughing-up stage.'
And Gerard smiled a wolverine smile, and drew the man
away to a quieter corner.

More drinks were poured; conversation flowed. Sarah
Tucker found herself the centre of attention, which happened
when you were the only woman present. It wasn't
unpleasant, and the men were well behaved - perhaps
because she was Gerard's particular guest; a personal
friend, not a name on a list. Did they imagine Gerard
would wreak awful revenge if her honour was besmirched?
Or perhaps they simply didn't find her attractive.
Fine by her.
As you get older, time speeds up. While you're drinking,
much the same happens.
She remembered kissing Gerard on the cheek, which was
almost a first; she remembered collecting a bottle of water
from the bar. She didn't remember heading up to her room.
But next she knew she was on her back in the darkness,
alcohol fizzing in the corners of her mind. A while since
she'd drunk so much. Most evenings a glass of wine or two
with Russ; rarely a second cork pulled - if you could call
them corks, mostly plastic now, and even Aussie wines
using screwtops . . . Could there really be a place called
Wallaby Springs? Jack didn't think so either. Jack's family
stored people's junk for a living, but 'junk' was just another
way of saying 'secrets', so no wonder they'd found themselves
wealthy, like Gerard. Was he fatter than he used to
be or just plain all-round bigger? And what were the
chances, finding him in the hotel Zoe had stayed in before
she died? Oh Zoe .. .
Maybe she wasn't dead. That was a possibility Sarah
could hang on to until the morning, at any rate.
At some point, hanging on, she let go. Her last thought
was one she'd had earlier that evening.
If time was the means by which the universe prevented everything
from happening at once, coincidence was the excuse it used
when things occasionally did.
But as an excuse, it quickly wore thin.

She woke with a start from a dream in which she'd piloted
a bus over a cliff, still groggy enough to hope her passengers
had woken too. There was a loud hissing somewhere,
though luckily this turned out to be the radiator and not a
snake under the bed. It wasn't light - what crawled past
the blind was a grimy grey; a slight reminder of daylight but
the winking TV clock said 6.59, and flipped on to 7.00
as she watched. And as soon as she moved, she recalled
she'd been drinking. This wasn't a hard, hammering
reminder. It was more of a suggestion of pain to come, like
a grief recalled, or one about to happen.
She'd had the sense to acquire water before hitting the
bed; not quite enough to have drunk more than a swallow
or two. Arranging herself into a sitting position, she
poured a glassful now and drank it gratefully, ignoring
the memories that threatened to intrude. Payback was the
worst part of any hangover - reality's payback, when
the evening's wit and glamour were revealed as alcohol's
illusions. All over this strange city, she thought, grown
men were waking up thinking what was that woman like?
But this, too, was part of the payback: the mind magnifying
self-inflicted embarrassments, and pretending anyone
else cared.
There'd been a call from Russ logged on her mobile
when she got back to her room. Her phone had been on
silent; she hadn't heard it ring. And it had been too late to
call him then and was too early now. She sent a quick text
instead, using short but sincere words, then dragged herself
into the shower where she washed away last night.
There wasn't water enough, though, to drown the hours
ahead.

'Ms Tucker?'
'Yes?'
'The inspector's on the phone. He'll be free in a moment.
Would you come with me, please?'
'You're ...?'
'King. Detective Sergeant King.'
DS King was wide in the shoulders, but his jacket looked
a comfortable fit: not off-the-peg then, she thought irrelevantly.
He was West Indian, and wore his hair clipped to a
soft buzz, with a tidy moustache-and-goatee set completing
the look. A gold stud winked in one ear. Strangely, he
was wearing trainers; a worn beaten pair which in no way
matched his suit.
He noticed her noticing. 'It's a long story,' he said. "I
won't bore you with it.' He was holding the door open.
'This way?'
It had just gone quarter past nine. She'd been on time for
the appointment, but had been asked to wait anyway: here
in the police station lobby, which had a shiny tiled floor and
some heavily used noticeboards. Is there an addict in your
life? one poster asked, with small print that went on to
explain how to find the answer. Another warned about
alcohol abuse; a pretty raw subject where Sarah was concerned.
But as her hangover's symptoms receded, she
recognized them for what they were: her body's way of distracting
her mind's attention from what lay ahead. Did your
best friend drown last week? That wasn't a poster, just a noise
in her head, but it was loud and getting louder. Is Zoe dead? She hadn't minded being kept waiting for the answer.
But now she was being dragged towards it, by a combination
of time ticking past and a policeman in trainers.
Down a corridor with scuff-marked walls they went, then

up a flight of stairs, through whose smeary landing windows
a dismal light swam. The inspector - his name was
Fairfax - was kept in an office on the next floor up. His
accent was not as broad as his sergeant's. He was putting
the phone down as they came through his door.
'Ms Tucker?'
'That's right.'
When they'd spoken the other day she'd formed a picture
of what he looked like, but had clean forgotten it now,
so couldn't compare the reality. Which was pretty ordinary:
tall, with thin, rather elongated features. The hint of a
developing paunch spoiled this effect. Like his sergeant he
wore a dark suit over a white shirt; Fairfax's, though, most
definitely came off a peg. 'Please. Take a seat,' he said.
'Thanks.'
Afterwards, she couldn't remember a single thing about
his office. At the time, all she noticed was the whiteboard
behind him, which hadn't been wiped effectively: the
ghosts of erased messages hovered tantalizingly below its
surface. It was like being whispered to by a billboard.
"I understand you were a friend of Zoe Boehm's.'
'Were?'
"I beg your pardon?'
'You said "were". That's what we're here to find out,
isn't it? Not our friendship, I mean. Just what tense it's in.'
From behind her, DS King said, 'We don't mean to jump
the gun.' That 'we' was taking collective responsibility a
little far, she thought. 'We do, though, have a dead woman.
For your sake, we hope it's not Ms Boehm. But it's
somebody'
'Yes. I didn't mean . . .'
What she didn't mean trailed away; joined the erased
deductions on the whiteboard.
Fairfax said, 'The woman had a wallet in her pocket. It
contained various bits and pieces - credit cards, some business
cards. All belonging to one Zoe Boehm.'
'But that's not enough, is it?'

'No. Not for a firm identification.'
'What else do you have?'
He had leaned his elbows on his desk after sitting, and
brought his palms together in prayer. Now he drew them
apart, as if releasing something invisible. 'That's it, really.
Your friend, she - she's a little hard to pin down.'
Sarah nodded.
'Her teeth seem in good order. The dead woman's teeth,
I mean. Or so the pathologist said, but we can't find that
Ms Boehm's registered with a dentist anywhere. Would
that come as a surprise to you?'
'Little that Zoe does or doesn't do would surprise me,'
Sarah said honestly. 'She's too sensible not to have a dentist.
But she's just - just paranoid enough to make sure
nobody could trace her records.'
'She's a private detective.'
'Yes.'
'She had reason to be paranoid?'
He was having trouble with his tenses again, but she was
past picking him up on it. 'I'm sure she's made enemies.'
'Why might she be in Newcastle?'
'Working. That's what I assume.'
'And you were aware that she was here?'
She nodded. 'There was a postcard. She sent me a
postcard.'
'Saying?'
Sarah furrowed her brow, but was pretty sure she
remembered the words. "I'm staying in this mausoleum
of a place." The picture was of the Millennium Bridge. "I
swear at night you can hear the mice making plans."'
DS King said, 'Making plans?'
"I don't think she meant anything by it. It was just a kind
of joke.'
'And you're sure the postcard was from her?' Fairfax
asked.
'It hadn't occurred to me it wasn't. It looked like her
writing.'
Now Fairfax said, 'When was the last time you saw her?'
'More than a year ago.'
He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were close.'
'That's as close as she lets people get.' She hated this:
having to explain Zoe to a stranger. Their friendship was
their business. 'She'd call. It's not as if we live in the same
neighbourhood.'
'When was the last time you heard from her?' King asked.
'That would be the postcard,' she said, without turning
round.
'And the last time she called?'
"I don't remember.'
'But when she did, what did you talk about?'
She said, 'Nothing to suggest she might head to a different
city to jump in a river.'
Neither man replied to that.
'That's what you're assuming, isn't it? That she's a
suicide.'
Fairfax said, 'We're not assuming anything yet. Not until
we get a firm ID.'
'Well then,' Sarah said. 'Perhaps we'd better get on with
that part.'

Making her way from hotel to police station - a straightforward
journey, if one that took her through what felt like
three different cities, so various were the aspects it presented
- Sarah hadn't been able to rid herself of the feeling
of being watched: a sense not so much of eyes burning
into her back as one of logged movement, as if she were
leaving a trail. But then, she was in a city. Back home, her
days were largely spent alone in her study; her too
frequent trips to the kitchen mitigated by a two-mile hike
after lunch, during most of which she'd see nobody, unless
Russ accompanied her. Human contact came at a remove:
e-mail, fax, phone. So the sense of being crowded took getting
used to, and didn't mean that the observation was any
more than the casual once-over every citizen suffered: from
passers-by, from reflecting surfaces, from the cameras fixed
at junctions, which swivelled at pre-determined intervals.
And they reminded her, just for a moment, of the ostriches
- Mr O and Nicole - whose heads would likewise track her
when she passed their pen. They were just as detached, just
as unblinking. And what they did with the information
was just as unknowable.
It was a cold day, and the buildings looked moist to the
touch, as if the river's breath had soaked into their stone.
Sarah had first been in Newcastle years ago, and had been
struck then by its anonymity. She'd expected - well, she
didn't know what she'd expected, but something more
than she'd found, which was exhaustion wrought in concrete
and scaffolding; a palpable sense of relegation that
was tempered, but just barely, by the in-the-teeth-of-it
humour of the locals, like the Maggie was here scrawled on
the whitewashed window of a bankrupt business. At that
time, a huge tract of the centre had recently been torn
down, and a shopping precinct driven like a stake through
the heart of the city. Wandering into it, Sarah had been struck by its lack of natural light, and the cheap glitz its
shops afforded. It brought to mind a vision of a five-year
old in her mum's high heels and moth-chewed feather boa.
Since then, things had changed. Less of the feather boa; more of the boa constrictor, sloughing one skin to show the
fresh glistening surface beneath. Down by the river was
where this change was most apparent. You could stand on
a bridge after nightfall and think yourself in a European
capital: lights dancing on the water, and big glass buildings
winking at the stars above. There was music and art and
sculpture; there were the new courts buildings, with the
promise they carried of justice and order and jobs for professionals,
and plenty of cafes and bars and restaurants
where those same professionals could satisfy their daily
need for latte and Shiraz and pesto. And everywhere, new
buildings were under construction: luxury apartments
with urban views to rival anywhere in the country, and
with immediate access to live jazz venues; to museums of
storytelling; to city-farms and organic groceries.
But Sarah knew, too, that the older city remained, and
you didn't have to look hard to find it. Behind the new
and newly refurbished blocks on the quayside were the
same small streets that had always been there; the same
railway arches and lock-up garages; and hanging around
them were the same people, pursuing the same lifelong
objective of satisfaction bordering on happiness. There'd be
untouched pubs on those old streets - untouched meaning
unthemed - and in their snugs and saloons, Newcastle survived
unaltered. You could doll a city up in new glad rags,
but you couldn't actually change its identity. It would be
like trying to forge DNA. And this was a good thing,
because otherwise you could always be anywhere; the
name hanging over the streets irrelevant.
As she walked, she had wondered what Zoe had made
of the place. It was an oddity of their relationship that she
could rarely predict what Zoe's opinion might be. That too
had been a good thing. And as she contemplated this, she
regretted the slippage of tenses, and recognized that all
morning, she'd been preparing herself for what was almost
upon her now, as the car driven by Detective Sergeant King
came to a halt round the back of a large complex of buildings
she guessed must be part of a hospital. Here were
industrial-sized waste bins, and heating vents billowing
out steamy clouds, and a pair of double doors with a horizontal
Day-Glo strip painted across them; a strip which
split as the doors swung to allow two boilersuited men to
emerge, pushing a huge trolley laden with what looked
like dirty laundry
She'd done well, she thought, at the station. Perhaps we'd
better get on with that part, she'd said, as if the chore ahead
was just another in a long list. But now she felt her legs
jellying, and had to take a grip on the door handle to
assure herself she had strength in her body. That she wasn't
about to collapse getting out of the car; to choke like a Brit
at Wimbledon at the enormity of the upcoming task.
'Are you all right, Ms Tucker?'
'I'm fine.'
'We'll get you a cup of tea. You'll have to wait a few
minutes anyway. There's hoops need jumping through
first. Nothing you'll be involved in.'
This was Fairfax, who managed the avuncular tone quite
well. But she wasn't in the mood for being cosseted. She
needed a scratching post. 'Well, enjoy your boys' games. Is
there anywhere special you'd like me to wait?'
Her legs worked well enough, it turned out, and slamming
the car door helped. She'd folded her arms before she
knew what she was doing; probably looked the archetypal
angry woman, though the men hadn't emerged yet, so didn't notice. They'd be whispering a quick joke. When she
unfolded her arms, her hands shook. No one had made her
come here - it had been her own decision - but that initial
phone call felt a long way back; felt as if it had been the
first step taken on to scree, to launch a tumbling she
couldn't halt. Too late now. DS King emerged from the car.
Fairfax too.
'This is hard for you. We realize that.'
'Yes. It is.'
'The DI came on like a patronizing tosser.' This was said
clearly enough for Fairfax to hear. 'It's just his way He
doesn't mean anything by it.'
She had nothing to say. Words were sharp-edged objects,
to be issued carefully, in case they caused damage. 'Shall
we. Get on with it?'
'This way'
Through those double doors, then, and up a stairwell:
this surprised her. She'd imagined heading down; had
expected a cellar, a lack of windows. King led the way.
Fairfax walked beside her. Neither said anything until they
reached a small room containing a glass-topped table on
which a few leaflets had been scattered. There were also
two plastic chairs, on one of which she was expected to sit.
'This won't take long.'
She nodded.
The leaflets were on grief counselling and death registration
procedures. Sarah tried to ignore them.
It was impossible, she discovered, to shake off a feeling
of impending diagnosis. As if whatever was about to happen
had graver implications for her own future than for
anyone else's, even if its effect on the latter was a line
drawn through it. Her legs felt shaky again, so she sat, but
could do nothing to prevent a tremor convulsing her body.
In twenty minutes she'd know if Zoe were dead. Sarah
couldn't be sure what kind of hole that would leave in her
own life. It was like trying to predict the injuries you'd suffer
if the floor beneath you gave way.
The door opened. DS King appeared.
'If you'd like to come through, please.'

The air smelled of ethanol; a still-damp aroma, as if the
walls had just been hosed down, but it seemed to Sarah
that it masked something earthier, something rotten, the
way a teenage boy might spray on deodorant in lieu of
showering. She had been wrong about there being no windows,
but the windows had white plastic blinds over them,
and the light was all electric. She was in a viewing area;
part of a larger room, the rest of which hid behind a curtain.
The curtain made it worse. It indicated that there was
nothing behind it you'd be comfortable seeing.
And there was a slab in the centre of this area, with
something laid dead flat upon it, covered by a sheet.
DS King and DI Fairfax stood behind her, close enough
for her to feel their heat. A young man who looked vaguely
Latin was present too, wearing a white coat with ID
clipped to the pocket. He didn't speak, but nodded in a
way that seemed kind. Sarah's lip trembled with tension as
she nodded back. He withdrew the covering sheet, and
stepped aside.
Sarah saw a woman, lying on a slab. She was white so
white she was faintly blue - and had black hair, and
was dead. It was Zoe. Why would Sarah be here, if it
wasn't Zoe?
All the air had been sucked out of the room, but leaked
slowly back. Breathing was a luxury granted to visitors.
She heard Fairfax, unless it was King, clear his throat,
and took a step forward to forestall words.
It felt important to be quiet, though there was nobody
here to disturb.
Sarah closed her eyes, and opened them again. The body
on the slab hadn't moved. It was Zoe. But it was not Zoe.
It was like looking at a lamp from which the bulb had been
removed, and trying to gauge how much light it once shed.
The last time Sarah had seen Zoe Boehm, they'd shared a
meal in an Italian place near the bus station in Oxford.
There'd been photos of the owner's infant daughter plastered
across the walls, and the tablecloths had been the
usual red-and-white check. Almost two years ago, because
Zoe had never been one for keeping in touch, but at least
she'd been alive; the light she'd cast being that dark glow
Sarah had grown used to: laughing and joking but holding
something back - not a secret, necessarily (though Zoe kept
plenty of those); more a state of mind she held at bay so as
not to spoil the occasion. And now she was here, an
unchecked tablecloth laid across her; more years than anyone
could count waiting to be piled on top. Except it wasn't
her. And then it was. And then it wasn't.
Truth was, Sarah couldn't tell. It was like Zoe, that was
certain. The features were arranged the way Zoe's had
been. But this woman looked both older and younger at
once; this woman - this body - had been some time in the
water. There was bloat to contend with, and the recoloration
of death. Zoe, always pale, had never looked rinsed
this way. The blue-white of the skin shaded black in the
hollows of eyes and nose. The hair, a dark cap of curls,
looked - well - lifeless. Any visible marks? was the usual
question, but Sarah didn't know that either. For certain Zoe
had scars, but Sarah hadn't borne witness to them. Besides,
two years of living would have changed her in ways Sarah
could hardly be expected to catalogue; two years of living
plus one week of death would have pushed her a whole
new distance away. It might be her. It looked like her. But
Sarah couldn't be sure. Corpses sink, she'd been told. Then
rise to the surface three, four, five days later, when gases
in the body are released. Was that how long this woman
had been in the water? What would Sarah look like if
this had happened to her? Would she recognize herself?
Would Russ?
Again, she felt that someone was about to talk, and
tensed. It was all she could do not to put her fingers in
her ears.
This body had not been laid to rest. It had simply been
stretched out. Under its sheet, its arms would be at its
sides; its fingers thicker than fingers ought to be. Zoe had
been fingerprinted, to Sarah's certain knowledge. She'd
also since received notification, as Sarah had herself, that
those prints had been destroyed. This had been in the aftermath
of their first encounter. Sarah's copy of that letter was
in a drawer somewhere. Zoe, she suspected, would have
stood over its sender and watched the records fed into a
shredder. There ought to be other items of equal forensic
value, of course, but we can't find that Ms Boehm's registered
with a dentist anywhere, Fairfax had said. Would that come as
a surprise to you?
Hell, no.
Anyone might have reasons for flying under the radar.
Zoe's had been better than most. A while back, she had
fallen into the path of a man who killed women; murdered
them so carefully they looked like unrelated accident
victims, or middle-aged suicides. There'd been two Zoe
had known of for sure. And these, she'd assured Sarah, had
been points on a graph: no man insinuated himself into the
lives of two lonely women, and ended those lives, then
decided enough was enough. It was just that he'd vanished
so cleanly afterwards that Zoe was left feeling she'd been
trying to nail a shadow to a wall. She referred to him by
the name he'd had when he first came to her attention Alan
Talmadge - but that had been no more genuine than
the accent he'd used at the time. On the few occasions Zoe
had laid eyes on him, he'd borne 
little resemblance to the
man she'd been hunting. Not that he'd been a master of
disguise. He was simply anonymous; so bland that a haircut
and an earring could remake him anew. All Zoe had
known for sure was that he liked Motown. And even that
might not have been true; might have been an overlap
between identities.
Zoe had never quite stopped looking for him, and had
never been sure he wasn't looking right back, waiting.
And perhaps he'd stopped waiting. Perhaps that was
why Zoe was on this slab now.
If it was Zoe.
Sarah became aware she'd been holding her breath. She
let it out now; a long slow sigh, involuntary but weighted.
It changed the room's dynamic. Someone shifted from one
foot to another behind her, his shoe scraping on the floor
like wet chalk on a blackboard. Any moment now, she
thought. Any moment now, she was going to be asked the
question she didn't yet have an answer to.
'Ms Tucker '
I'm not sure yet, she intended to say, but the words
wouldn't come.
'There are a few other things you should look at.'
She took a step back from the body. 'I'm sorry?' Her
voice belonged to someone else.
King nodded at the white-smocked young man, who
turned to what looked like a cross between a wardrobe and
a filing cabinet. When he opened it, that was pretty much
what it was. On one side hung a jacket; on the other were
drawers, the topmost of which he pulled open. Shallow,
almost a tray, it held a scatter of objects.
'Her things,' DS King explained.
Sarah recalled an ancient comedy riff, about the decline
in status of possessions whose owners had died: a falling
off, from 'stuff to 'rubbish'. In this case, a deterioration
hastened by time spent underwater. She stepped towards
the drawer, and the objects acquired shape and form. Keys,
watch, lipstick, pen: some other things. A tortoiseshell
comb. Some jewellery. Here was the wallet she'd been told
about; a wallet she didn't recognize because who would?
It was just a black, fold-over wallet with a clasp, somewhat
river-damaged. Its contents were splayed next to it: coins,
some bedraggled notes; a soggy mass that might have been
till receipts. Some of Zoe's business cards in a frothed
together clump, their lettering faint. And her credit cards,
seemingly unaffected by their drenching; their holograms
winking in the light, as if all they needed were a little
nudge, one tiny PIN-prick, and they'd be ready to hit the
shops.
Okay, all this belonged to Zoe. But the fact that this was
Zoe's stuff - her rubbish - didn't mean that the body on
the slab was hers too.
'Also, her clothes,' King said.
Like a well-trained domestic, the morgue attendant slid
the drawer shut, and pulled open a lower, deeper one,
holding clothing.
Her first impression was that they'd been laundered, and
for a moment she was agog at the idea that this might be
standard practice; that the unclaimed dead were valeted,
here in this stainless steel palace. She'd already seen how
the body was sluiced and rinsed of its muddy build-up.
But this impression didn't last, because the river smell hit
her, and no, they hadn't been cleaned; they'd been lain flat
to dry, that was all. If at first glance they looked ironed,
that was simply because they'd been vacuumed - not a
courtesy; just another step in the forensic process. Any
evidence this clothing might have offered had been sucked
up into an industrial device, though what further clues
might have been needed that their owner had been pulled
from a river, Sarah couldn't have said.
Black jeans, belted; a black blouse and a red top. If she'd
been asked to describe what Zoe might be wearing at a
given moment, that would be it: black jeans, black blouse,
red top. And here they were.
Underwear too, of course: white, functional, knickers and
bra. That, too, was of a piece with how she pictured Zoe.
And, on the hanger, a black leather jacket she'd seen Zoe
wearing a dozen times.
Jeans, blouses, tops, underwear: you could put them
on more or less anyone, and it wouldn't make much difference.
Black jeans and red top wasn't an ensemble to
stop you in your tracks. A leather jacket, too, was an everyday
sight.
But this jacket: this was different.
'Does anything seem familiar?'
'Yes,' she said.
'The jacket?'
'It's hers. It's Zoe's.'
She had no doubt about this. Zoe had bought the jacket
in Italy, years before Sarah met her. There was a slight tear
on one sleeve, just above the cuff: Sarah had noticed it
more than once; had suggested somewhere Zoe might take
it for repair.
T don't need it repaired.'
'It'll just get worse.'
'It's part of what the jacket is.' Zoe had stroked the rip
as she'd said the words. 'Like keeping a diary. You know?
I'm fond of this tear. But then, I remember how it got
there.'
Zoe, being Zoe, hadn't revealed how this was.
'You're sure?'
That was DS King again, breaking into memory.
'I'm sure.'
He shared a glance with his boss. Job done were the
words neither said.
'Ms Tucker?'
She had reached out and taken the cuff in her hand. Was
stroking the tear, just half an inch long, the same way Zoe
had done when they'd shared that moment: she couldn't
now put even an approximate date to it.
'Ms Tucker?'
'Yes?'
'Is this the body of your friend, Zoe Boehm?'
'Yes,' she said. 'Yes. It is.'
'Thank you.'
A discreet nod and the sheet was replaced, the drawer
pushed back, the locker closed, and the jacket sealed out
of sight, along with the jeans, the blouse, the top, the
underwear.
It felt as if the lights should be switched off too, but that
didn't happen.

They spent a further ten minutes in a different room, at the
end of which Sarah signed something, she wasn't sure
what. It didn't matter. A signature, anyway, was just a prearranged
squiggle; not proof of identity. All it meant was
that you were aware of the shape of the squiggle required.
If Sarah had been asked what she was feeling during this
period, she wouldn't have been able to say.
The men, Fairfax and King, stepped gently round her.
They seemed decent enough, as far as that went. A little
too much like a double act, sure, but if any job excused a
shoulder-to-shoulder outlook, she supposed police work
fitted the bill.
As they left the building, Fairfax said, 'Thank you for
your help, Ms Tucker. I'm sorry for your loss.'
The cold air cleared her head. 'You think she killed herself,
don't you?'
'We'll continue tracing her movements in the days leading
up to her death.'
'She'd checked out of her hotel.'
"I know.'
'Really? The staff haven't heard the news. That she's
dead, I mean.'
(She's dead. The words struck a flat metallic note, as if
someone were tolling a cracked bell.)
He said, 'So you're staying there too? The Bolbec?'
'Yes.'
"I hope you're not
'You hope I'm not what?'
He said, "I hope you're not causing yourself unnecessary
grief.'
For a moment it interested her, this apparent distinction
between unnecessary grief and the other kind. She had to
blink the distraction away, like a tear. 'As I say, the staff
aren't aware of what's happened.'
'It wasn't necessary to inform them that we'd found a
body to establish that Ms Boehm had checked out Fairfax
said, as if delivering a prepared statement. 'What will you
do now, Ms Tucker?'
'Will I be needed at the inquest?'
'Probably not. It won't be for a week or so anyway'
An unbidden image arrived: of a logjam of freshly dead
corpses; too many for a coroner to deal with inside a week.
'Then I suppose I'll go home,' she said.

At her request, they dropped her in the city centre. She
wanted, she said, to do some shopping, and they saw nothing
odd in this. Identify your friend's body; then a little
retail therapy But maybe - in a job entailing regular trips
to a morgue - you developed a certain insight into the reactions
of the bereaved, and learned there was no template
to rely on. Shopping was as useful, or useless, as any other
response to death. As for Sarah, she wanted to be on her
own, preferably in a crowd. It didn't matter what they
thought she wanted.
The air was cold, but still; the skies grey as an anvil.
Sarah's mental weather, though, was storms and shattered
crockery; in her mind, it rained hammers. She'd just come
from a morgue, where she'd identified a body as Zoe
Boehm. Her reasons for doing so didn't alter this: that a
woman lay dead on a slab, her body sluiced like a disconnected
drainpipe.
And Zoe's possessions had weighed her down in the
water.
If Sarah tried to break down how she felt, the list would
run to pages: grief for Zoe, fear of her own death, the
nagging sense of tasks left unfinished, along with all the
usual physical niggles: that sudden tremor in the calf; an
unexpected churn in the stomach. And underlying everything,
the accumulation of all she'd ever been or felt: the
memories, even forgotten ones; the emotions, even those
wasted. Listing them would be like trying to score a
symphony by cataloguing the orchestra, instrument by
instrument. And everyone was like this. Everyone carried
around their own symphony of the self, with only the
faintest snatch of it audible to those around them; whispered
music all we hear of their real life. This was what
had been snuffed out of that figure on the slab: all the
music no one had ever heard.
She walked through the shoppers' streets, not paying
attention. She was heading riverside.
The road sloped steeply down to the quay. Sarah passed
an arts cinema and several bars that looked new, though
traded on traditional names. An overhead bridge cast a
damp shadow, and a building leaned over the pavement at
a ridiculous angle, like an accident lawyer's daydream.
The whole city was like this: the new jammed next to the
old in a transplant so recent, you could see the join healing.
When she crossed the road, she found herself on a
paved area overlooking the Tyne. There were benches,
but she didn't sit. She leaned on a rail, and gazed at the
river instead.
This was the water that the body had come out of. If
birth had a canal, death had its river.
The more you pondered death, she thought - if you were
an intelligent, educated, well-read woman - the more you
expected yourself to come up with something deep; something
that, if unlikely never to have been thought before,
would at least crystallize your own opinion. But Sarah had
nothing to think. Death happened; would happen to her.
Had happened to the woman she'd just viewed on that
slab. But Sarah had nothing profound to reply to it. It was
a bugger, that was all. Which was unlikely to make it into
a book of quotations.
What did come, though, was the realization that it
shouldn't have come as a surprise, the difficulty she'd had
identifying Zoe. Alive, Zoe had never been easy to pin
down. What had made Sarah think the task would be
easier, Zoe dead? In a world where identity theft was rife,
Zoe had kept hers close and secure; had a deliberate policy
of putting anything which might have betrayed her
through a shredder. Her slash-and-burn approach to
friendship confirmed this.
And one of its effects was that their friendship was hard
to recreate. In a film, flashbacks come with background
detail: clothing, wallpaper; the quality of light as it slices
through windows. The self-assembly kind has less coherence;
comprises fragments pulled from a contextless soup,
with no guarantee that they represent faithful reconstruction.
Thinking of Zoe, Sarah saw no linear structure to
their friendship. There were phrases, and moments of
remembered action that always seemed to be recalled from
above. Not that she had trouble recalling Zoe's face. It was
just that, once you had someone's face firmly in mind,
memory could put any words it wanted in their mouth.
The self-assembly flashback could lie, which no self
respecting movie version could. Even Hitchcock got
burned trying that.
Some words she was sure she recalled correctly, though.
She remembered, for instance, Zoe telling her about her
jacket.
And the jacket was a giveaway. Zoe had constantly worn
it - her signature look. Bought in Italy. Zoe's husband Joe
had picked up something similar at a street market at the
same time, for a tenth of the price. Its sleeves had fallen off
within six months. But Zoe had still been wearing hers
years later; long after Joe died; long after Sarah had met
her; right up until the time it had fallen into the possession
of the killer, Alan Talmadge.
Zoe, to the best of Sarah's knowledge, hadn't worn it
since.

She wasn't sure how long she stood, her thoughts clenched
round her like a fist. After a while, though, it became clear
that no conclusions were available yet, except for the obvious:
that the body must indeed be Zoe's, and that the
insubstantial Alan Talmadge had entered her life again,
shortly before its end. Which cleared this much up: Zoe
hadn't entered the river of her own accord. This knowledge
made Sarah no warmer. When she realized that her shivering
was as much due to cold as to sorrow, she began
making her way back to the Bolbec.
Trusting to a sense of geography that some, Russ especially,
would have doubted existed, she headed upriver
towards a hotel whose tubular neon swirl of a logo was
familiar, and before reaching it turned up a flight of steps
between two apartment blocks still offering empty flats. At
the top, she turned and looked down. On the river's far
bank stood a whitewashed building, the words Ovoline
Lubricants painted on its side. More of the old city, not
fading away.
The Bolbec was up ahead of her, so geography had done
its work. The other buildings in its square were abandoned.
Renovation was happening from the quayside up,
she supposed. A placard announced major developments:
watch this space. Slouched against the wall of the building
opposite the hotel - a former electrical works - was a figure
which straightened at Sarah's approach. He wore dirty
blue jeans, and a variety of shirts and sweaters, layered one
on top of the other so their sleeves blossomed like cauliflowers
at his wrists' bony junction. Topmost was a worn
sheepskin jacket some sizes too small. His hair was dead
straw, and his face grey from huddling in corners.
'Big Issue, lady?'
She didn't always, but sometimes she did. If their eyes
caught hers, she was theirs. She'd fumbled a coin out
before it struck her. 'You don't have any'
"I can get you one.'
He grinned cheekily as he spoke, and she found herself
surrendering the coin anyway 'Maybe next time.'
'Know where to find me.'
In the hotel lobby was Gerard, who probably wasn't
waiting for her, but didn't appear to be doing much else.
'Exploring the boondocks?'
'Doesn't that mean swampland?'
'How the hell should I know?' He looked genuinely surprised
to be asked. 'See anything interesting?'
She closed her eyes briefly: a chiaroscuro nightmare
unreeling on her eyelids. White flesh; black dead hair. A
leather jacket with a familiar scar. 'Not especially,' she said.
'Just stretching my legs.'
'Some holiday you're having.'
'Not all holidays are about being there,' she said. 'Some
are about not being anywhere else.'
'That's probably deeply clever,' said Gerard. 'Well done.
What are you doing for lunch?'
"I hadn't thought about it.'
'That was rather the point of asking, wasn't it? To put the
subject at the forefront of your mind.'
It occurred to Sarah, not for the first time, that conversation
with many men would be a lot simpler conducted
on their terms: Yes, No, Fuck off. It would limit the agenda,
but a lot of them seemed to prefer that.
'Gerard '
'You look like you could do with feeding.' Then, presumably
worried there might be a compliment in there,
added, "I don't mean you're skin and bone or anything.
You didn't stint yourself last night that I noticed. I just
mean you look a little down. Lunch helps with that, I find.'
'Why are you here, Gerard?'
"I was just on my way out.'
'No, I mean, why are you here?.'
"I already told you. Looking at investment opportunities.'

'Why Newcastle?'
'Hadn't you heard? This city's one of the fastest-growing
I"T centres in the country. Software development, communications
technologies. Thought it was about time I came
and checked it out.'
Sarah hadn't known, but it didn't surprise her. Everything
happened somewhere. 'Doesn't make it any closer to
London, does it? What was it you could manage in three
hours? Roast a swan, orphan a trade unionist, and still
have time to fire the help?'
'Mmm, not much escapes you, does it?'
'Consistency was never your strong point.'
'Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.'
'Sounds like Wilde.'
'Everything sounds like Wilde if you declaim it rotundly
enough,' Gerard said. 'Though in this case, I'll grant you,
it's one of Oscar's. Anyway, I never claimed I was planning
on living here. I'm happy to let other people do that
for me.'
'Big of you.'
'Now now. Don't do the new North down. It's got lots
of things talented young professionals want, like big glassy
buildings full of rubbish modern art, and whacking great
angels on the motorway'
She really didn't want this conversation. 'It's too early
for lunch.' Where this knowledge came from, she wasn't
sure, but the clock in the lobby confirmed it: it wasn't long
past eleven. It was surprising how quickly big things
happened.
'Well, I didn't mean now, did I? I've a meeting first,
which is why I'm waiting for a taxi, which seems to be
operating on a different timescale to the one I'm used to.
And'
'Gerard, taxis everywhere are always 'and
afterwards I'll be going for lunch. What's your
mobile?'
Giving him her number seemed the fastest way of
removing herself from this situation. A taxi pulled up outside
as she did so. He was still tapping her into his Sony
as he went to meet it.
There was nobody on reception. Gerard's key lay on the
desk as she passed. There was something almost quaint in
that: a key, not a passcard. But it was of a piece with the
setting.
In her room, she lay on the bed. Her hangover had disappeared,
or gone into remission, but all she'd seen since
waking had filled the space it left, and her head was roaring.
Lying down didn't help. She had to do something.
She should have talked to those policemen about Alan
Talmadge. But Sarah knew nothing about him beyond the
little Zoe had told her, which amounted, in effect, to these
few facts: Talmadge killed women, Zoe had said; enjoyed
Motown music, Zoe had said; wasn't really called
Talmadge, Zoe had said; and some years back had walked
away with the jacket Sarah had just seen in the morgue.
Zoe had said. This would have involved admitting that
she'd identified Zoe's jacket rather than her body, which
would have made waves. Besides, Sarah had had unhappy
experiences with policemen. A part of her, quite a large
part, preferred their absence.
But there were things that could be done, and having so
decided, she did one of them. She made a call. 'Vicky?
Sarah Tucker.'
Vicky was Zoe's teen webhead, or that's what she'd used
to be - Sarah was pretty sure she was still in her teens, but
didn't know whether 'webhead' remained current. Zoe
had relied on her for years. No techno-slouch herself,
Zoe knew her limitations, and any time she hit a firewall
hotter than she could handle, turned to Vicky. Sarah had
once sent her a hard drive which had crunched three
weeks' work on the same day an ostrich had eaten her
back-up memory stick: Vicky had returned it inside
twenty-four hours, all its data unstuck. So Sarah had her
listed on her mobile.
'Have you heard from Zoe lately?' she asked.

(This was cowardice. She didn't want to be breaking bad
news to a teenager, over the phone.)
"I heard they pulled her out a river,' Vicky said.
So much for the soft approach.
'Oh. Oh, Vicky '
'Well, you don't think I believe it, do you? Zoe? In a
river? Like that's gunna happen.'
'There's a body,' Sarah said.
'There's always bodies. People die all the time.' But not
Zoe, apparently. 'Anyway, you don't believe it any more'n
me. Else you wouldn't be asking if I'd heard from her.'
It was no time to start deconstructing how much she'd
been prepared to divulge. Besides, the kid probably had a
polygraph wired to her phone. 'Either way, she hasn't been
in touch,' Sarah said. 'Don't you think, if she was able to,
she'd have let us know she was okay?'
Teenagers have a gift: they can shrug audibly, over a
mobile. "I said she wasn't dead, that's all. I dunno what's
happened to her.'
'You want to help me find out?'
Vicky said, 'Like for a job?'
'Like for a friend.'
To give her her due, Vicky didn't think about it long.
'Okay'
'You're sure?'
'Yeah. I'll just bump up the fee next time she needs me,
that's all.'
'That would be my approach.' Sarah shifted the phone
from one hand to the other. 'Can you access her computer?'
'Nothing easier. You got her door key?'
'Door key?'
Theatrical sigh. 'Zoe wouldn't go anywhere, least of all
a river, and leave her computer live. You want to know
what's on it, you need to go and plug it in.'
'Maybe she '
'Trust me.'
'Okay So short of breaking into her flat, what can you
tell me?'
'Anything that's out there. Anything in the air. I can fetch
you her e-mails. I can tell you anything she's ordered
online, and I can tell you her bank account details.
Actually, I can do that quite quickly, because she's always
trying to plead poverty when she wants a job done. So I
keep her records handy so I know when she's fibbing.'
Sarah reminded herself never to piss Vicky off.
'But anything on her desktop, forget it. And you want to
know what I think, I don't think Zoe's gunna leave anything
lying around for others to read. And when I say lying
around, I mean out there in the air. She knows about this
stuff, you get?'
'I get.'
'But I'll do what I can.'
'That would be great.'
For a moment they shared a silence. Silence is louder
over a phone.
'... Sarah?'
'Still here.'
'You don't believe it either, do you? About Zoe, I mean?'
She closed her eyes briefly: saw a white body on an overused
slab; a black leather jacket on a wire coat hanger. The
river at night lapped darkly beneath any number of dangerous
bridges. 'No, Vicky. Not for a moment.'
'Good. 'Cause I don't, either.'
'That's why I want to find her, actually To ask her who
she thinks she's kidding.'
'Yeah. And tell her what I said, won't you? That I'm like, that's gunna happen.'
'Oh, I'll tell her.'
They promised to talk later, then Sarah put her phone
away.
The roaring in her head had subsided, as if action had
reduced the pressure. That Vicky could do what she'd said,
Sarah had no doubt. That her efforts would reveal what
Zoe had been up to was less certain. On the other hand,
Sarah already had a pretty clear picture of what that had
been - Zoe had been looking for Alan Talmadge. Though
even as the thought occurred, Sarah picked it up, turned it
round, and set it down again. Perhaps Alan Talmadge had
been looking for Zoe. Perhaps Zoe hadn't known he was
here until it had been too late.
After a while, Sarah dozed. The body was capable of
making its own decisions whatever the mind was up to. It
wasn't a refreshing nap, more a bumpy ride through the
outer borders of sleep, and when she came fully awake
twenty minutes later she was in desperate need of coffee,
but also in possession of an idea.
Coffee could wait. The idea needed to be acted on
immediately.

In the lobby, Barry was back on reception, door keys hanging
neatly on the board behind him.
'Good morning, Ms Tucker. Afternoon, I should say'
'Hi, Barry. Barry, is that man still outside?'
'Man?'
'Some homeless guy. Selling Big Issues, except he didn't
have any to sell.'
'Was he bothering you?'
'He wanted change. Was pretty insistent.'
She felt dreadful, saying this. Made a mental note to
make amends.
"I'll take a look, shall I?'
The time it took him to cross the lobby and look outside
was all she needed. Gerard's key was in her pocket before
he'd turned.
'Over the road?'
'Yes.'
'He's still there. I'll move him on.'
'Oh - no. No, don't do that.'
'No worries. If he's been upsetting you '
'Not really Just startled me. No, leave him be. I'll avoid
him, that's all.'
'Well, if you're sure.'
'Thanks, Barry'
'And I'd put a coat on, I was you. If you're going out, I
mean.'
"I am. In a bit. And I will. Thanks, Barry'
On the landing she paused, before getting paranoid
about being caught on camera, pausing. Except the hotel
didn't have CCTV, did it? Though there were mirrors
everywhere - one on this landing, even - and it was possible
they were placed to allow whoever was on reception
a reflected view of every staircase, every corridor; a
Wizard-of-Oz perspective of every floor at once. But Get
real, she told herself, resuming her ascent. That wouldn't
be a security system, it would be an art installation.
On Gerard's floor, she checked the number on the key
fob: 37. There was nobody in the corridor. The key felt
fiddly in her hand, and wouldn't fit the lock on its first
attempt. Too late it occurred to her that she should have
knocked, in case Gerard had come back while she was
napping, but - get a grip. The door opened. If Gerard
had returned, his key wouldn't have been hanging on
the board. She slipped inside, closing the door softly
behind her.
The first thing that struck her was the smell; not an
unpleasant smell; not even, especially, a masculine smell,
and Sarah wondered if Gerard used his wife's soap when
he was away from her. The thought struck her with guilt.
Gerard was a friend, or at any rate, not a stranger. What
was she doing? Looking for clues, she answered. What was
Gerard doing, that was the question, at the same hotel Zoe
had stayed in before winding up in the river? If this was
coincidence, Sarah could live with it, because strange
things happened. But to believe it coincidence, she had to
lean on it first, to see if it broke.
Gerard wasn't Alan Talmadge, and maybe Talmadge
had followed Zoe here rather than the other way around.
But Sarah had to be sure there was nothing else happening.
If Gerard was hiding a connection to Zoe, his reasons
couldn't be good.
It was early afternoon now, but gloomy out, and the window
was a murky oblong. There seemed no reason not to
turn the light on. Once she'd done so, Sarah could see that
the room mirrored hers, but with enough of Gerard's stuff
in it that it might have beamed down from a different time
zone. His laptop sat on the chest of drawers, next to a
snake's nest of recharging cables: for a mobile phone, a
BlackBerry, and God knew what else - an electric wine
cooler, she wouldn't be surprised. A sandwich-thin,
moneymaker's briefcase lay on the bed, but it would be
locked: nobody with a case like that left it unlocked, the
same way no one with a Merc forgot to set the alarm. His
suitcase sat on a deckchair-arrangement in the corner. On
the dresser was a scatter of loose change, along with a
pocket-sized packet of tissues, a set of house keys, and
a small deck of business cards secured by a rubber band.
A pile of shirts, socks and boxer shorts lay on an armchair,
on whose back hung a bag named Laundry Service - this
gave Sarah pause. It was one thing eyeing up a locked
briefcase. That had a professional anonymity to it. Gerard's
dirty laundry was a different story.
But burglars aren't distracted by guilt pangs. Burglars
switch laptops on instead. While it hummed to life she
tried the briefcase, just to prove it was locked, then turned
to the suitcase, which opened. It didn't hold much - some
more recharging cables: for God's sake, Gerard, are you
powered by the grid? Along with an MS four-pack of redand-white
striped boxers, and an HMV bag containing, still
wrapped in cellophane, a DVD boxed-set of Buffy the
Vampire Slayer, Series 5 . . . Okay. Probably not germane. In
the case's side pocket was a buff folder, the kind that came
in ten-packs from Rymans, but a quick flip through it
revealed nothing relating to Zoe: just printoffs of Internet
downloads from newspapers, stories about orphanages.
Gerard's wife Paula had been orphanage-raised, she
remembered. The Arimathea Home. Gerard was a donor.
She replaced the folder, and closed the suitcase.
The laptop, meanwhile, had swum into life, and was
asking for a password. Sarah hit the return key, on the
offchance Gerard didn't actually use one, but the screen
blinked, then asked again. She closed it down. With any
luck, it wouldn't register the attempted intrusion.
Getting nowhere fast. There was a burglar's rule, she
thought, about spending time on invaded premises: Zoe
would have been able to quote it. A few more minutes,
though. She turned to the dresser, where - behind the loose
change, the packet of tissues, the keys, the business cards
- lay a letter, still in its envelope. The address - to Gerard,
here at the hotel - was handwritten, in what didn't look
like Zoe's writing, but Sarah picked the envelope up anyway;
aware as she did so that this was a line she wasn't
sure she was ready to cross. She turned it over. On the back
flap was the sender's name: Paula. Gerard's wife wrote
him letters when he was away. Definitely not a line to
cross, then. But the envelope had been lying on a folded
over sheet of paper, and this she did read. It was a
computer-generated list of names, headed by Jack
Gannon's, and including a couple of others she recognized
from last night. Invitees to Gerard's soiree. She refolded it,
replaced it, laid the envelope on top. Whatever that rule
was, it was time to obey it.
But first she looked around again, ignoring the contents
and absorbing the room; same wallpaper, same paint on
the ceiling; a one-storey-higher view from the same sash
window. Just like her room, only not. We could all sit in
identical boxes and we'd all make a different mess, she
supposed. Then came a footfall outside the room, and the
doorknob rattled.
Sarah didn't know she could move so fast. Wasn't really
sure why - there'd be no hiding from this - but moved
anyway; stepped into the bathroom, closed the door gently.
Slid the bolt across. The door to Gerard's room opened,
and someone stepped inside just as Sarah sank to the tiled
floor and put an eye to the keyhole.
Already she knew it wasn't Gerard, though didn't know
why she knew. Whoever it was had a key, or something
that worked as well as a key.
Silence. The somebody remained out of Sarah's eyeshot.
In the bathroom, what she was mostly conscious of was the
aftermath of a morning's ablutions: the towels piled on
the floor were damp; the shower curtain still dripped. The
smell of toothpaste lingered. So whoever had just come in
was the maid, right? The maid or whatever the male equivalent
was: this was no time for PC semantics. He, she, it:
they had a right to be here, and Sarah hadn't. And they
knew Gerard had left - except they couldn't, could they,
because his key was in her pocket. If it wasn't hanging on
the board at reception, the maid would assume he was in
his room.
The somebody moved. His hip - it was a he - passed
into her eyeline, then out again. Grey or black trousers: the
keyhole's dimness didn't allow for subtle variation. A hand
flashed into view. And then she might have been alone,
crouching by a bolted bathroom door; there was no noise
for almost a minute, as if whoever it was was simply standing,
taking in all the Gerard-junk - the nests of cables; the
laundry; the leather case.
And what if it's a sneak thief? she thought. What if
Gerard's about to be ripped off, while I hide here doing
nothing?
There was something amusing about two people breaking
into the same hotel room at the same time, but pardon
me, pardon me, if I don't appreciate the humour just yet.
Movement happened; the bed sighed as a weight
descended on it; there was the snick of a clasp as something,
probably Gerard's laptop, surrendered its lid. Of the
man himself, nothing .. . Not a sneak thief. A thief would
carry off the laptop without pausing to review its contents.
But someone versed in silent invasion all the same; someone
who could adjust to another's surroundings, and move
comfortably within their space: calibrate their possessions,
breathe their air, all without leaving any telltale scratches
on the atmosphere; no coughs or sighs; no rustle of clothing.
A ghost, playing with a machine. Sarah's mobile trilled
into life.
Da-da da-dah da-da da-dah-dah
She snatched it from her pocket, hitting buttons as she
did; a meaningless string of numbers threaded across its
screen and already a voice was barking tinny queries into
the damp air - she'd hit the wrong bloody button;
answered the call instead of killing its ring. Not that it
would have made a difference; the noise was out; had
slipped through the keyhole to dance round Gerard's
room. Any moment, whoever it was would batter the
bathroom door. An unfamiliar terror grabbed Sarah's
throat - she was in the wrong, caught where she shouldn't
be; it was the inverse of those nights you woke at a sudden
sound, wondering who was creeping about downstairs.
Wide-eyed she looked round, as if a disguise, or a
way of escape, or a cast-iron reason for being there would
present itself, but found only damp air and a dripping
shower curtain and a tinny voice repeating Sarah? until she
turned the phone off. From the bedroom, footsteps
approached the bathroom door, and then whoever it was
paused, as if listening intently, waiting for a password to
be called out: proof of friendship, or membership of the
same burglars' club. She held her breath. There were too
many films where this happened, and she had seen too
many of them; films where a woman cowered on one side
of a flimsy wooden door, while a man with a wolfish grin
crouched on the other, nostrils flaring. Axes were sometimes
involved. She heard a crack - a strangely organic,
splintery noise - and understood half a second later what
it was; not the first assault on the door, but the noise a
man's knees could make when he was straightening up
from a crouch . . . There were no footsteps. But a moment
later came the faint sound of a door opening, then closing.
She was alone. She was almost certain she was alone.
The curtain dripped. The damp air waited. The loudest
noise was her own heartbeat; a percussive lollop slowing
to a canter. She closed her eyes, and let her head fall into
her hands. Her brow was wet. Truth to tell, she felt clammy
all over. And what she really needed to do was get out of
here, and back to her own room.
Before she could move, her phone rang again.
Da-da da-dah da-da da-dah-dah
I want you back. A ringtone Russ had downloaded for her
after a minor row.
Her hand shook badly as she pressed the button to
receive the call.
'Sarah?'
'Gerard?'
'What just happened, you drop the phone or something?
Where are you?'
She allowed that question a moment or two to be forgotten
about, but his silence forced an answer. 'I'm at the
hotel, Gerard. Having a rest.'
'Yes, well, it's lunchtime. How long'll it take you to get
to the city centre?'
'Gerard '
'Only we're famished. So you really ought to get a
move on.'
He gave her a street name, a restaurant, and was gone,
leaving her sitting on his bathroom floor, looking at the
damp heap of towels he'd abandoned earlier.
She stood. If she allowed her nerves to have their way,
she'd remain rooted to the spot, unable to open the door in
case the exiting noises had been a ruse, and he - whoever
he was - was still out there, waiting. Paralysis, though,
wasn't a sensible choice, so she threw back the bolt and
emerged like a legitimate tenant, to find the room empty
She released the breath she'd not been aware of holding.
Nothing looked different. The prowler had left everything
the way he'd found it.
While she herself, of course, was empty-handed.
It seemed a paltry return. There must be something she
could salvage, to convince herself this hadn't been a pointless
breach of trust . . . 'Well, all right, then,' she said out
loud. Sheer bravado. But all right, then. One last look.
The laptop remained tempting, but was hopeless; the
suitcase, she'd already searched. On the dresser was the
same scatter of loose change, tissues, house keys, and business
cards - she picked these up, and slipped them from
their elastic band. Topmost was one Brian Harper: a name
and two numbers; landline and mobile. The name was
vaguely familiar, but too ordinary for her to be sure. She
thrummed the deck as if it were one of those flickbooks,
with little stickmen dancing under her thumb, and surveyed
the room. The wardrobe - she hadn't checked the
wardrobe. This didn't take long to rectify, but it held

nothing to grab her attention: shirts and suits on hangers,
a spare blanket on a shelf. Sarah dropped to peer under the
bed. Nothing there either, bar a flock of dust bunnies. She
rose slowly, brushed her knees with her free hand, used
the other to steady herself on the bed, and dropped the
business cards, which hit the floor and fanned out wide: bugger, she thought, stooping to gather them up. He
wouldn't have memorized their order, surely? Brian
Harper was topmost; the rest she stacked as they came to
hand. One or two had landed face down. She turned them
over. The first was Zoe's.
Sarah rewrapped the cards in their elastic band and put
them back where she found them. Then turned the light off
and left the room.


The restaurant, tucked off one of the main shopping
arteries, had mirrors lining the walls on which the day's
specials had been scrawled in red crayon. This rendered
them illegible, but the effect was nice. Half a dozen pairs
of lunchers provided ambient chatter, while over in a
corner two tables had been pushed together. She could see
Gerard, his back to her. With him were three others. 'We're famished,' he'd said. She hadn't noticed at the time.
She faltered at the doorway, and might have turned and
slipped away if one of Gerard's companions hadn't spotted
her first.
Jack Gannon waved; mimed over here.
There was no turning back. As she approached the table
Jack stood, and pulled a chair out.
'Thank you.'
'Fruitful morning?'
"I did what needed doing. I'm sorry, I didn't realize
you were having a business lunch. Gerard, you should
have said.'
He really should have.
'All done and dusted,' he replied. 'I've been wandering
round. Taking in the sights.' He put invisible quote marks
round the word.
'By yourself?'
'These chaps had better things to do. We've just reconvened.
Did you meet Harper last night? Brian Harper,
Sarah Tucker.'
Harper was the white-haired man from the party. 'We
weren't introduced.' He shook Sarah's hand. 'But I saw
you of course. Brightening the room.'
'Token woman,' John M. Wright offered. A beat or two
after the other men, he too had made it to his feet.
'Does that charm school do refunds?' Gerard asked Jack.
Then said to Sarah, 'You met Mr Wright, I think. And
Jack Gannon.'
They sat. Harper poured Sarah a glass of wine. Jack
handed her a menu. Wright stared, lips pursed. Perhaps he
was worried she'd eat his share of lunch.
Eat? Drink wine? After the morning she'd had? It would
be like picnicking over a grave. But she was hungry
She glanced at Gerard, who was studying his menu. He
had Zoe's business card among his collection, and coincidence's
lease had just expired.
'So,' she said. 'Successful meeting?'
'Could be,' Gerard said.
'Mr Inchon is very interested in my research,' Wright said.
Jack said, 'I'm sure Ms Tucker doesn't want to hear about
a business meeting.'
Ms Tucker was pretty sure she did. Anything that might
cast light on what Gerard was up to.
Brian Harper asked her, 'Have you visited the Baltic yet?'
Small talk. It was like hitting a sharp curve in a road.
'The gallery? Not yet, no. Not this time, I mean. I've been
before.'
'How about the Laing?'
The Laing?'
'More art. Less modern.'
Jack Gannon leaned across. 'They have a number of John
Martins. Do you know his work?'
'The name rings a bell. I might be thinking of someone
else.'
A waiter came, took their orders, collected menus.
'Local artist,' Jack went on. 'Nineteenth century. He
painted these big biblical extravaganzas, full of sound and
fury. Very popular in his day, but he's fallen from favour
since.'
'Story goes, they used to need crowd control when he
exhibited new work,' Harper said. 'He was the Hollywood
blockbuster of his time.'
"I don't see the point of art,' Wright said.
'Well,' Gerard said after the moment of silence that followed
this. 'That's admirably focused of you.'
"I just don't see its use.'
'Which doesn't mean it has nothing to teach us,' Gerard
said smoothly He picked up his glass; revolved it by
rolling the stem between finger and thumb. Light splintered
off its contents. 'This Martin chap. Didn't he paint the
destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah?'
Harper nodded. 'Yes. He did.'
'There you go,' Gerard told Wright. 'The terrible vengeance
of a righteous God. We can all learn something
from that.'
Gerard, Sarah decided, would only surprise her when he
stopped being surprising. It didn't look like their current
encounter was going to include that development.
When the waiter brought their starters, she had to be
reminded what she'd ordered.
All of this had a surreal quality, as if she'd wandered
from one story into another. If she looked at her watch,
she'd know to the minute how long it had been since she'd
borne witness to that body on the slab; how long since
she'd cowered in Gerard's bathroom, listening to breathing
on the other side of a locked door. And now there was
duck salad, and conversation in a well-lit restaurant with
three men she didn't know and a fourth who was hiding
something. The impulse came to heave cutlery to the floor.
But she couldn't. Partly, of course, this was social training.
But underneath was the awareness that both stories were
part of a whole; that whatever had brought Zoe to
Newcastle was bound up with what Gerard was doing
here . .. There'd been a soggy clump of business cards in
Zoe's drowned wallet; a single pristine example in
Gerard's collection. It would be difficult to ask him about
this without revealing that she'd been in among his things.
Conversation had slipped back Gerard's way.
'First advice I give about taking over a company,' Gerard
said, 'is sack the HR and PR departments.'
'How very broad-minded of you,' she said.
'Not really' Sarcasm bothered him the way kittens
bother tanks. 'It's like buying a second-hand car. Before
you do anything else, you knock the rust off.'
'You've never bought a second-hand car in your life.'
'But I'm capable of making that imaginative leap.'
"I thought we were staying off business?' Brian Harper
reminded them.
John M. Wright's knife scraped against his plate, making
everyone else jump.
Jack Gannon said, 'Well, we'd better steer clear of religion
and politics too. How about family You got a son and
heir waiting to take up the reins, Gerard?'
He seemed to lose focus. 'I'm sorry?'
'You have children?'
'Never been blessed, old man.' He picked up the wine
bottle and waggled it in the air, indicating its emptiness to
the waiter. 'How about you?'
'A daughter. She lives with her mother.'
Harper had two children: one of each, both grown.
Wright offered no information.
The waiter delivered another bottle, sparing Sarah's contribution
to the topic.
'Aye, thanks,' Brian Harper said. His accent was thicker
addressing the waiter than it was when talking to her or
Gerard.
But there was nothing unusual about that. Most people
adjusted their social face depending on who they were
talking to. And she liked the Geordie voice; was collecting
specimens of it. How, man, woman, man, she'd heard an
exasperated male address a female companion: Sarah
hadn't parsed that yet, but 'man' was obviously doing
two jobs. She'd also divined that 'wuh' meant both 'us'
and 'our', and also The' and 'mine'. And possibly other
things too
Harper asked Gerard, 'How long are you here?'
'Plan to be back in civilization day after tomorrow at
the latest.'
'Well, we'd hate to keep you longer than you're
comfortable.'
'No danger of that, old man.' He'd finished his first glass
from the new bottle already. Sarah, who'd never dream of
tallying anyone else's drinks, wondered if she'd seen him
quaffing at this rate before. 'So if you want me to look at
this place of yours, this afternoon might be the time.'
'Works for me.'
'Mind if we tag along?' Jack Gannon asked.
The we presumably covered John M. Wright, who'd
finished eating, and whose abstracted expression suggested
he was remembering something more interesting
that happened to him once somewhere else.
'What place is this?' she asked.
'A property,' Gerard said abruptly
'It's a cinema,' Harper told her.
'You own a cinema?'
'Not quite. But I have an interest in a concern that owns
a building that used to be a cinema. On a pretty prime site,
in fact, but legal wrangles have kept it in development
limbo for some time.'
'But it's still a cinema?'
'A fleapit,' Jack said. 'One of your actual local picture
houses, exactly like you don't get any more. Only it hasn't
shown a film in, what, ten years?'
'More than,' Harper said. 'But if you mean, does it still
have an auditorium and all the rest, then yes, it does. Bit
dilapidated, mind.'
"I saw The Italian Job there,' Jack offered. 'And The
Magnificent Seven.'
'Ah, sweet bird of youth,' Gerard said.
He's drunk, Sarah thought. Maybe I am, too. She'd had
just one glass, but added to what she'd put away last night,
it had probably tipped her back into the ditch.
She said, 'Moving into the entertainment biz, Gerard?'
He looked aghast, as if she'd suggested he was planning
a chain of brothels. 'It's a property,' he repeated, slowly. 'It used to be a cinema.'
Wright said, 'It might be just the place I've been looking
for.'
'For a research lab?' She couldn't see it, somehow.
'We're a long way off that,' Gerard said. 'A very long way'
This, too, was said slowly.
Wright's eyes turned flinty, but he didn't reply.
Harper said, 'Well, like I say, I'm free this afternoon. We
could go and have a look now.'
'Let's finish eating, first.'
'Of course. I didn't '
Gerard grinned evilly.
Sarah looked at Harper, and decided it was quite an
effort for him to swallow a response.
They ate, and another bottle of wine was drunk. Sarah
switched to fizzy water. But whenever the conversation
stalled, whenever the ring of cutlery echoed round the
restaurant, she was dragged back to her morning's viewing:
a white body, with curly black hair, stretched out on a
slab like cold meat.
'Are you all right?' Jack asked her.
'I'm - yes, I'm fine. Thanks. I'm all right.'
'You look a bit out of it.'
'Probably train lag.'
Over coffee, Gerard regaled them with tales of business
triumph. She suspected there were various hidden messages
here, not least of which was that he wanted them to
think him the kind of bore who would blather on about his
business triumphs; while at the same time letting them
know about some of his business triumphs. The suspicion
forced her to revise her opinion of how drunk he was.
When the last refill had been seen off, and Gerard had
settled the bill without even pretending there was any
chance he wouldn't, they gathered outside on the pavement.
It had grown colder, and the wind had picked up. A
lost seagull swam across the sky.
'So how do we get to this place of yours?'
It seemed Sarah was part of this excursion. That was
okay She wanted to stick to Gerard for the moment.
'We can take the Metro.'
'The Metro?'
'It's a good service.'
But Gerard was looking puzzled. 'Is there a taxi strike?'
'When was the last time you took the tube?' Sarah asked.
'Can't recall. It was full of Bay City Rollers fans, if that
helps.'
'Seriously, Inchon, it'll take half the time.'
'Oh, well. If we must.'
Sarah suspected that all he'd wanted was the Lady
Bracknell moment.
The nearest station was round the corner, and Brian
Harper took charge: bought tickets, ushered them down
the escalator, positioned them at the optimum point on the
clean and tidy platform. 'It's not so much like the tube, is
it?' he asked.
'More like Barcelona,' Sarah offered.
Harper liked that, she could tell. 'Feels like it, some
days,' he said. 'Number of foreign students we get.'
Probably not the way to impress Gerard, Sarah thought
but didn't say. Then an emerging wind from the tunnel
heralded the arrival of the train.
She was delighted to find that you could sit at the front
of a Metro and look out of the window. She'd never seen
a train tunnel unwind in front of her before; didn't get
much of a chance to do that now, because the train pulled
overground all too soon. And then they were in the northern
suburbs; the train riding through a small valley whose
edges were lined by scrabbly bushes. The next stop was
theirs.
'Told you it wouldn't take long,' Harper said.
'Probably full of drunks in the evening,' Gerard said.
'And some lunchtimes too,' Sarah suggested.
They crossed the tracks on the pedestrian bridge, and
already they could see it. The cinema - it called itself a
picture house; the words painted across its upper storey in
large letters - sat on a corner diagonally opposite the station
entrance, and had evidently been closed for years.
Bare brick oblongs on its whitewashed walls indicated where posters for future attractions had hung, but that
future seemed used up. No windows were visible, barring
a row of blackened, book-sized panes at attic-level. The
shelter covering its doorway might once have kept rain off
the queues, but now resembled the lowered eyelid of a
building just barely conscious.
'You called it a fleapit,' she said to Jack.
'And I don't think I can be accused of talking it up.'
John M. Wright said, as if answering a question, 'Lack of
natural light is actually an advantage when you're trying
to maintain a controlled environment.'
Harper and Gerard reached the foot of the steps and
crossed the road first. There were parked cars, but few
people in sight. The shape of the junction suggested that
there'd once been a station car park, perhaps occupying the
space where a housing development now stood.
Undramatic residential streets fed away somewhere more
central, that lay out of sight. The whole place seemed to be
holding its breath.
The cinema, on the other hand, seemed to have breathed
its last.
Flanked by Gannon and Wright, she joined Gerard and
Harper on the opposite pavement. Heavy metal security
panels were bolted in place across the doors. From one
hung a padlock the size of Sarah's hand. Even as she
noticed this Brian Harper was approaching it, taking from
his pocket a key twice the size of Sarah's finger.
"I can't help feeling there'll be spiders,' Sarah said.
'There'll be no spiders,' Gerard promised.
'What makes you so sure? There's bound to be spiders.'
The word spiders had dropped from a web in Sarah's mind
and was scuttling round, enjoying a sticky purchase on her
imagination. Spiders.
'Sarah.' Gerald looked at her, all seriousness. 'This place has been closed for years. Any spiders will have been eaten
by the rats long ago.'
The creak of the door as Harper pushed it open might
have been an escaping sound effect.
'Ladies first?' Gerard offered.
Die screaming, she conveyed with a glance.
Harper said, 'Allow me,' and produced a pencil-thin
torch.
Did he always carry that? she wondered. And the keys
- had he known they'd be coming here? And then thought:
well, he was always going to suggest it. Given which, he'd
have been foolish not to bring key and torch.
Gannon stepped inside on Harper's heels and said,
'Careful. There's steps, and some broken glass.'
He was talking to her, she thought.
Gerard waved her ahead, and she went with the flow.
Better than being stranded outside with John M. Wright. As
she stepped inside, Harper's torch beam played on the
floor in front of her like a spotlight. It took a moment for
her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
In the centre of the lobby sat what had presumably been
the ticket booth and was now half a shell, in whose lee a
slew of broken glass and plaster crumbs sheltered. The surrounding
walls remained upright, if tatty and peeling, with
empty poster frames at intervals - she was imagining
Hollywood heyday fare, Gone with the Wind and Road to
Morocco, but this place had functioned up until the mid
nineties; had probably sold its last box of popcorn to a
Tarantino fan.
The booth's remains sat at the top of a flight of shallow
steps, beyond which, from one corner, steeper stairs led up
to the circle. Access to the stalls was to Sarah's right. A pair
of doors used to hang there, and the empty space now
beckoned them into an even darker arena where the air
smelt fungally damp. Was this anywhere Sarah wanted to
be, after a trip to the morgue?
Gerard, at her back, was breathing heavily, as if he'd
walked here. Wright hung behind, silhouetted in the doorway.
The world outside felt years away, as if all the time
that had gone to waste in here had swallowed them once
they'd entered. Her throat was dry She tried to swallow,
but couldn't.
'You might want to wait a moment,' Harper said.
His torch beam skittered across the wall and located a
row of switches. When he threw them, a watery light filtered
down; just enough, it seemed to Sarah, to frighten the
smaller shadows away.
Gerard leaned in close. 'Did you hear that?' he asked.
'What? Did I hear what?'
'Oh,' he said. 'It was probably nothing.'
If I kill him now, and these others don't tell, his body
might never be found, Sarah thought.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say she'd wait outside
- that she really didn't like this - when something in what
Gerard had said struck her. Not the words, but a slight
quaver. Was he frightened? It might have been fear; might
have been excitement. Excitement at knowing she was
afraid? There'd been a time when she'd have believed that
of him, but now she was less confident. He'd make jokes
about spiders and unseen beasties, sure, but she was pretty
sure he'd stamp on either if it came too close to her. But a
frightened Gerard was a new thing. She'd have to stay.
Jack Gannon took her arm as she walked up the steps.
'There've been exterminators here a time or two. Besides,
any rats'll have disappeared under the floorboards the
moment we opened the door.'
She lived in the country She knew about rats. They'd
disappear under the floorboards when it damn well suited
them and not a moment sooner. But she didn't want to
worry him, so kept this to herself.
Besides, it wasn't rats that bothered her. It was spiders.
They had them in the country too, which was the single
worst thing about it. Including the hunting lobby.
Harper threw more switches. 'The auditorium's through
here. Well, you'd probably guessed that.' Lights went on
in the big arena. 'It's a bit musty, but really nothing to
worry about.'
Gerard said, 'Well, I want to see it. Damn waste of time
otherwise.'
Sarah mentally added a What! to that.
Jack said, 'Sarah? We can wait outside if you'd rather.'
'I've always liked going to the pictures,' she said.
Behind them, Wright moved away from the doorway,
and closed it.
Harper led the way into the auditorium.
The first thing Sarah noticed was the way the floor felt
under her feet; then she forgot about that and took in the
view. It was a cinema, yes: the floor sloped towards the
front, and there was a stage, atop of which a screen used
to hang, though there was no screen any more - just a dark
space whose depth she couldn't gauge, on one side of
which a red curtain still hung. A dim pile on the other suggested
that its partner had collapsed some while ago. But
the screen, or its absence, wasn't what grabbed her attention;
it was everything else - it was the rest of the place.
Again, she tried to swallow. Again, she couldn't.
Maybe half of the seats had been ripped out, with no
apparent logic dictating which, and over the remaining
rows bridal veils had been laid, or that was how it
appeared at first - grand thick lacy veils had been dropped
over the cinema furniture, forming silvery-grey canopies
between the armrests of adjoining seats; making sheiks'
tents in the gaps between rows. And hammocks of it were
slung from one broken sconce to the next; there were traces
of it hanging from the balcony, drifting in the draught that
blew through the missing doors behind her. All of it spider
web. It was as if she'd had a nightmare, and here it was:
upholstered. It was everywhere, or everywhere except on
this aisle that led towards the stage, like a path through a
jungle. To her left, to her right; above her - if there were
light enough to penetrate the upper darkness, she knew
she'd see more of it up there, hanging over this huge space
like a marquee over a crypt, its sticky canvas studded with
the raisin-like corpses of spiders, and the well-wrapped
parcels of their prey. Hidden in the corners would be nests
of shiny eggs, pulsing to an arachnid beat. A high-pitched
spider music that crawled through your hair, and made
your scalp itch.
The floor was sticky. That was the first thing she'd
noticed, and she noticed it again now.
Harper said, 'As you can see, it's a bit of a mess.'
Gerard laughed a big booming laugh, which went shivering
round the empty space. 'You have a gift for understatement
he said.
Nothing about his demeanour suggested he'd ever heard
the word fear. She wondered what it was she'd noticed
thrill through him earlier, then had to suppress a shudder
of her own. 'Are you sure this place is safe?' Her voice
didn't ring true to her own ears. If it had been a glass, she'd
have held it to the light to check for cracks.
Brian Harper said, 'The structure's sound, don't worry.
The furnishings aren't, though. I wouldn't sit down.'
"That's not going to be a problem,' she assured him tightly
Jack Gannon was right behind her. He said again, 'We
can wait outside, if you'd rather.'
'I'm okay. Thanks.'
'It's not you I'm worried about.'
She glanced at him, but he smiled: joke. It was okay for
men to make such jokes, provided everyone knew it was a
joke, and they weren't actually afraid of, say, spiders.
Gerard said, 'Square footage?'
Harper started talking numbers; mentioned the graded
floor, which levelling off wouldn't be a problem. The building
would take three storeys. Wright had stepped past
Sarah to listen to this, or at least to be quite near it while
it was being delivered. She wasn't sure he listened to
much, unless it lay precisely within the sphere of his interest.
Though perhaps he was hoping this would turn out
that way.
Gerard didn't look at him, she noticed. Gerard didn't
appear to like him, which was understandable. But if
Gerard decided that John M. Wright was a blue-chip
investment, he'd probably find a way to get over his
dislike.
Sarah felt something crawl across her cheek.
She yelped, slapped at herself, and everyone turned to
look. Gannon reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.
'Sarah ?'
'It's nothing, it's okay' The draught had brushed her
cheek, that was all. "I thought '
She didn't need to tell them what she'd thought. It was
screamingly obvious.
'You thought what?' Wright asked.
'Oh, for God's sake,' Gannon said.
There were no spiders: not on her cheek, nor anywhere
near. That was what she told herself.
Gerard said, 'What's the stage area like? I can't see it
from here.'
'You go on and look,' Gannon said. 'Sarah and I'll wait
outside.'
All of this she was hearing as if through a bottle held to
her ear.
. . . Once, she'd been prone to panics; wild moments at
which reason threatened to escape her, and she'd have to
bite down on reality - clench her nails into her palms - to
prevent her mind revisiting an appalling episode: the step
she'd taken, armed only with gravity, from the roof of a
four-storey dwelling. This had happened when she was
little more than an adolescent, and she'd had waking visitations
for years afterwards, with the capacity to reduce
her to a whispering wreck. There were any number of triggers,
most of which occurred in public - sudden loud
noises; sudden fast movement: these could conjure up
those brief moments which had taught her she'd never fly.
And here was another: in this dim-lit spidery palace, she
was having that waking nightmare all over again, in which
she skydived from the roof of a high terraced house, city
lights cartwheeling in her head as she turned over and
over, and never hit the ground.
'. . . You okay yet?'
They were outside. She had no memory of the last
minute.
'Sarah?'
Deep breath. 'Jack. Thank you. Yes, I'm okay now.'
And she was - she more or less was.
They were on the wide apron of pavement on the cinema's
doorstep. Gerard, Harper and Wright were still
inside. Part of her curdled with embarrassment at the
thought that she hadn't been able to hack it - already, she
was starting to find her own fears ridiculous - but they'd
been real at the time, and would be again, if she set foot in
that place once more. A warmth at her elbow suggested
that Jack's hand had guided her out. She shut her eyes;
made herself as aware as she could be of her body. And
there was nothing there. She was nearly positive about this.
No eight-legged passengers had smuggled themselves out
in her folds or crevices - or if they had, they were keeping
very still - NO! No. There was nothing there. She was
spider-free, and staying that way. She opened her eyes and
Jack quickly looked away, as if he'd just seen someone he
knew crossing the bridge over the railway line.
'Really,' she said. 'I'm fine.'
'Not much of a place for a post-prandial wander.'
'I'm not big on spiders.'
Gerard, she thought, would have jumped on that;
twisted it round to place big and spiders next to each other.
'Who is?' He produced a packet of cigarettes. 'Want one
of these?'
She was tempted, but shook her head.
He said, "I shouldn't either, you know? But once in a blue
moon, what harm can it do?'
A small man-made cloud drifted down the road.
She looked behind her, at the door into the dark they'd
just come through, and said, 'A research facility?'
He said, 'You're seeing the cinema. The auditorium, the
tapered floor. The rows of seats.'
'I'm seeing the spiders.'
'We'll come to an arrangement with the spiders. What
Gerard's looking at, what Brian's showing him, is square
footage. Lots of space in there.'
'The right kind of space?'
'I'm not an expert. I think Brian's got a few other places.'
Sarah nodded absently. A Metro was pulling up at the
station. She said, 'Your Mr Wright's a strange one.'
'Because he's a scientist?'
'Because he's a strange one.'
'He's very focused.'
'That's one way of putting it.'
Jack smiled and blew out smoke. 'He's worked for years
on his research. I think he tends to see things in terms of,
will this help the project or not?'
'Things?'
'Okay. People.'
The Metro pulled away.
'And he doesn't go anywhere without you holding his
hand?'
'I'm not his keeper. But if Inchon's going to invest in
Wright's research, then we'll be partners, more or less. I'm
just keeping an eye on what develops.'
'But he's only one plum in your pie.'
'Ha! If you want to put it like that.'
Da-da da-dah da-da da-dah-dah
He blinked.
'My phone. Excuse me.'
Sarah took a step away from him to answer it, in line
with the developing etiquette. It was Vicky, Zoe's web
wizard - web: she shuddered. 'Vicky Hi.'
"I got into her e-mails.'
'Ah.'
'You want to start with the earliest?'
She glanced at Jack. 'Now's not a great moment. Can I
call you back?'
"I suppose.'
'It won't be long. Thanks.'
Jack said, 'Nice ringtone. The Jacksons?'
""I Want You Back".'
'Innocent days.'
For the world, or just for Michael, she wondered.
'Motown fan?'
'Used to be. Don't listen to music much any more.'
Her hand had tightened round her mobile phone, and
she deliberately relaxed it, so the whitening of her knuckles
didn't betray her tension.
Harper, Gerard and John M. Wright emerged from the
cinema, and stood blinking for a moment in the cold air.
Gerard said, 'Makes it feel like you've got them in your
hair, doesn't it? Place like that.'
Sarah said, 'Those of us who've got hair, sure.'
Everyone laughed, and she pretended to join in. But she
was thinking Motown fan.
Alan Talmadge was a Motown fan.

They took the Metro back into the city centre, and went
their separate ways at Monument. Al-an Tal-madge had
been the rattling of the rails all the way. Al-an Tal-madge
Al-an Tal-madge. It rang so clearly through the carriage,
Sarah was surprised no one remarked on it; she kept waiting
for Jack Gannon's reaction - except he couldn't be
Talmadge, could he? Talmadge had come from nowhere,
and was no one. Zoe had said so: trying to get a handle on
Talmadge had been like making a fist around smoke. He'd
simply passed through various women's lives, taking those
lives with him when he left. If he'd come from anywhere
real, Zoe would have tracked him down - if Talmadge
hadn't been smoke, she'd have had him. And Gannon
wasn't smoke. He had family. Roots. And lots of people
liked Motown.
This was the point, and this calmed her down. Lots of
people liked Motown. Once you removed that from the
equation, there was nothing to link Gannon to Talmadge or
to Zoe. Sarah had met him in the hotel Zoe had stayed in,
and that was all. The Motown ringtone hadn't even been
his: it had been Sarah's own, loaded by Russell. It made
more sense to think Russ was Talmadge.
'You weren't really attacked by a spider, were you?'
Gerard asked her once they were alone.
'No. But thanks for your concern.'
"I think Gannon would have come to your rescue.'
That wasn't a line she wanted him pursuing. 'So long as
I wasn't depending on Wright.'
If Gerard had been drunk before, he was over it now.
'Shall we walk down through town?' he asked.
'If you like. Where are we, exactly?'
He gave her a long-suffering look. 'Don't worry. We're
not lost.'
There were plenty of people around. There was no reason
for this to surprise her - it was a big city - but her day
had long passed normal: bodies, burglary, spiders ... It
would have felt fitting if the streets were deserted, in the
aftermath of something namelessly huge. Also, it was cold.
She checked her coat's buttons. She loved its cut and its
length, but today would be a good day for it to be longer,
thicker, warmer.
She also hoped there was no spiderweb stuck to it.
She said, 'A research facility?', aware that it was the
second time she'd framed that question.
Gerard said, 'Time will tell.'
'Bit out of your usual line, isn't it?'
'The usual lines in business,' he told her, 'come to sudden
ends.' He put a hand out to stop her crossing a road
just as a car flashed past. 'Nobody stays ahead without
changing their game when it's needed.'
'It's like listening to a motivational tape,' she said. 'What
are your rules for success?'
'Number one would be, don't step into the road without
looking.'
'Are you really planning on investing in that man?
Wright?'
'Do I get the impression you don't like him?'
'It's like he's just visiting earth,' Sarah said. 'And hasn't
got the hang of it yet.'
'I'm sure people said the same of Einstein.'
'You don't seriously put him in that league?'
'No,' said Gerard. 'I just couldn't think of any non
famous scientists.'
They'd walked down an impressive street: elegantly
curved, with tall graceful buildings, but left it now for a
side road. Gerard seemed to know where he was going.
She wondered how much of this was natural sense of
direction, and how much sitting down with a map beforehand.
That was the kind of preparation successful businessmen
did, she supposed, although she couldn't
remember seeing a map in his room - a thought that struck
her like a cartoon anvil, leaving a guilt-shaped dent in her
head. She had been in Gerard's room without his knowledge,
and now was pretending to be his friend. Or not
exactly pretending, perhaps, but this fact remained: he had
one of Zoe's business cards. There might be an innocent
reason for this, but none sprang immediately to mind.
Gerard had spoken again, but she'd missed whatever it
was, and made a non-committal noise. He looked at her
strangely, but didn't pursue it.
She should make an effort. Stay within the moment.
They passed a cosmetics shop; then a clothes store with
various brand names stencilled on its plate glass: Christian
Dior all the way down to Diesel. A good example of bets
being hedged, Sarah thought.
It caught Gerard's attention too. 'Clothing to die for,' he
said. 'Dolce et Gabbana est pro mori.'
'That's not the first time you've said that, is it?'
'It's the first time anyone's got it.'
There was a compliment in there, but it was aimed as
much at himself as at her. 'Does Paula take you shopping?'
'From designer labels to my wife. What a seamless shift.
You think she's shallow, don't you?'
That stung, largely because the answer was yes. 'It was
the Latin made me think of her. She has such classically
good looks.'
'Nice try'
Sarah said, "I don't feel I got to know her well.'
"I don't feel you made much of an effort.'
The shops dwindled into office blocks. They walked past
the cathedral, then under a metal railway bridge and on to
a cobbled square where the city keep stood. From there,
Gerard led her down into a minor labyrinth of alleyways
and stone steps and chunks of Hadrian's Wall.
'Is this a shortcut?'
'It's the scenic route.'
On a terrace overlooking the Tyne, in the shadow of the
High Level, he stopped to gaze upriver at a bunch of
grubby seagulls, fighting over scraps on the oil-flecked
water.
'Perhaps you're right,' she said. 'About Paula. I'm sorry'
He shrugged. 'Nothing to be sorry about. It's not like she
craved your friendship.'
Sarah deserved that. She watched the seagulls for a
while, wondering if their abrupt clattering had a personal
aspect, born of gull-on-gull enmity rather than a straightforward
tussling over food. Though if one bird didn't like
another, it could simply fly away . . . 'The Trophy Wife' was
how she'd characterized Paula. Who was a decade younger
than Gerard, and had been blonde when Sarah met her,
with a figure loaded with natural advantage, but doubtless
maintained in an expensive gym. And always draped,
whenever Sarah had met her, in seriously costly threads.
Even now, picturing her, it was with a copy of Hello! under
one arm. I am woman, see me shop. What was that joke
about a lifestyle being what the rich had, instead of a life?
But there she went again. Paula had a life. It was just that
Sarah wasn't privy to it.
Guilt, probably, led her to say, 'She was adopted,
wasn't she?'
That hit a nerve. 'Who on earth told you that?'
'You did.' He must have done. How else would she
know?
'Yes.' The word came out grudgingly. 'You paid some
attention, then.'
Oh, for God's sake. It wasn't like he'd asked about her
own life; her own partner. It made her wonder what was
wrong. Touchiness suggested bruising. 'You're different
when you're with her, I noticed that much. You'd do anything
for her, wouldn't you?'
He said, 'I'd kill for her, if that's what you mean. Quite
happily as a matter of fact.'
She didn't doubt it. When lists were compiled of motives
for violence, love and money topped the list. Not hatred
and money. 'Did you ever think about children?'
'There's really no need, Sarah.'
'I'm not sure I '
'All these questions. This interest. You're feeling guilty
about what I said earlier. About not making an effort. Well,
I absolve you.' He made a clumsy hand movement, and
she remembered he was Catholic. 'Let's not talk about it
any more.'
'Okay'
'And she doesn't, by the way. Take me shopping, I
mean.'
'No. That doesn't surprise me, somehow.'
"Men only shop twice a year,' he said. 'During sales.'
'If women did the same, we'd have a migrant retail
industry'
He laughed, a short sharp bark. "I might borrow that.'
They moved on. She wasn't sure where they were,
exactly, but they were presumably closing in on the hotel.
Where they might, for all she knew, be swept up into more
impromptu networking, perhaps culminating in an expedition
to - what - a deconsecrated church? A dried-out
aquarium? If she wanted to tackle him on Zoe, now was
the time.
Sometimes, the direct approach was best.
'You never met Zoe, did you?' she asked.
'Your friend? The one who helped you that time?'
'She saved my life,' Sarah said.
'Then it was a very good thing she did,' Gerard said. He
paused for a moment, perhaps unused to making such
statements. Certainly unused to making them in Sarah's
hearing. 'No. I never met her.'
A body on a slab: white face, dark hair. Bloated beyond
recognition, unless you knew what you were looking for.
Or expected to find it.
She said, 'She was here.'
'Newcastle?'

'Yes. She stayed in the Bolbec.'
'Ah. Is that why you chose it? Personal recommendation?
Hmph.' He produced a cigar from an inner pocket,
and unwrapped it. "I applaud her feats of derring-do,
obviously. But I don't think much of her taste in
accommodation.'
'Do you mind not smoking?'
'Not especially. I prefer smoking, though.' He lit up. 'For
God's sake, Sarah, we're in the open air. I'll bend to the
legislation where it's necessary, but .. .'
'They'll never take your freedom?'
'Precisely'
A waft of smoke drifted into Sarah's face, here in the
open air.
He said, 'Wait one moment. What was her surname?'
'Boehm.'
'Boehm? Good lord!'
'Gerard?'
"I found her business card. On the mantelpiece in the bar.
First night I was here.'
'Zoe's card?'
"I put it in my pocket. Force of habit. Never made the
connection, though. Don't think I knew her surname. Did
it say private eye on it? That's what she is, yes? A consulting
detective?'
'That's what she is, yes,' Sarah said slowly, trying to slot
this new information into what she already knew. Or subtract
it, rather. Subtract this new information from what
she'd thought she'd known. Which was like trying to
remove an ingredient from a blender, once she'd flipped its
switch.
'Doesn't say a lot for the staff, does it?' Gerard mused.
'Leaving former guests' cards lying around the place. Still,
makes you think, doesn't it? Weird coincidence. Of all the
gin-joints in all the cities in all the world. That sort of
thing.'
She looked at him.
'Casablanca,' he said. 'Sorry. Not Jane Austen.'
"I got the reference,' she said tightly.
He blew smoke. 'So, what was she doing here?'
"I don't know,' Sarah said.
"I suppose we can rule out pleasure. On a case, was she?'
"I don't know,' Sarah said again.
"I thought you were friends.'
'We weren't in each other's pockets.'
'Has something happened to her?'
'Why do you ask?'
'Because you're here,' Gerard said. "I assume that's not
coincidence.'
Coincidence, she thought. She might have to revise her
opinion on that subject.
They'd reached the railway arch, and turned left into it.
Cars were parked along its length, in metered spaces. At
the far end was the Big Issue seller, this time with an armful
of his wares. Sarah recalled the use she'd made of him
earlier, to distract Barry while she took Gerard's key, and
felt the need to make amends. Or make Gerard make them
for her, which would suit her mood.
'Buy your Big Issue, sir, lady? Yunno you wannoo.'
"I already have,' Sarah reminded him, though she
appeared to ring none of his bells. 'But my friend will
take one.'
Gerard looked at her. 'You're referring to me?'
'It's cold, Gerard. And it's already dark. Buy the
magazine.'
"I fail to see what the weather's got to do with it.'
The homeless man looked at him, then at Sarah. He
seemed about to say something, but thought better of it.
'Because this man's here until he's sold all these copies.'
'Lady's correck.' He obviously couldn't help himself.
'Need to sell the ress.'
'Do you mind? This is a private discussion.'
'Gerard! You can't '
'Sarah. Do you understand the economics of homelessness?
The cash-drink-drugs cycle? Now, I write cheques to
various '
It came on suddenly, born of everything the day had
shovelled her way so far, and she couldn't remember the
last time she'd been this angry. 'Gerard. Stop talking right
now. Buy the magazine. That's not a suggestion.'
Gerard flashed his evil smile, the one that showed the
points of his teeth. She was used to him getting a rise out
of her - would maintain that it was water off a duck's but
it was unforgivable to use this man for effect. 'Oh, I see.
We're doing things your way, are we?' He handed over a
fiver, took a magazine, and waved away the change. 'Don't
want to spoil the lady's day' He gave Sarah the Big Issue.
'Don't drink, guvnor,' the man said.
'You really should give it a bash,' Gerard assured him.
Magazine tucked under her arm, Sarah strode towards
the hotel, not waiting to see if he was following.
Though if she'd heard him struck by a lorry, she'd have
turned to watch.

In her room she flung the Big Issue at the wall, where it
made a comforting splat! before hitting the floor like a concussed
moth. If she'd been holding a bottle she'd have
flung that instead, she told herself, half believing it. Then,
as long as she was throwing things, she threw herself on the
bed, where she lay for a moment seething before getting
up and taking her coat off in case it creased. She put it on
a hanger, then occupied the bed again. Seethed more.
It occurred to her that he'd done that on purpose: lit her
blue touch paper just to watch her shoot sparks. There
were men who'd try that on for sexual reasons, obviously,
but with Gerard you could never overlook the profit
motive. There'd been something in it for him. Maybe it was
just that she'd ceased asking questions he didn't want to
answer. Except she hadn't got around to asking questions,
had she? Before she'd raised the issue of Zoe's business
card, he'd addressed it himself, and that pretty much left
her all out of questions. Or at the very least, left her unsure
it was Gerard she should be putting them to.
So think about that for a moment, Sarah. Think about
Gerard taking the wind from your sails. Had he simply
been trying to distract her attention?
She arranged herself into a more comfortable thinking
position. The distraction theory was a possibility, but it
would need working through. If Gerard had made up his
story about finding Zoe's business card, it had to be
because he knew Sarah had been in his room; had guessed
she'd seen the card; and figured he needed a reason for
having it. Except he couldn't know she'd been in his room
- could only speculate - and why would he do that?
Straightforward paranoia?
Well. You couldn't rule it out.
Because there was an aspect to their both being at the
Bolbec that only dawned on Sarah now: if it wasn't a coincidence,
then it must bother Gerard as much as it bothered
her. She remembered his reaction on first seeing her: that
flicker in his eyes. A hint of shock, or possibly fear. If it
wasn't a coincidence, then Zoe must be the point of connection,
because Sarah had no other reason for being here.
So maybe that was it: she'd brought up Zoe, and he'd
just headed her off at the pass. He was a businessman, after
all. They invented the contingency plan. And didn't have
to be sure a bad thing might happen before working out
ways of avoiding it.
A chain of reasoning which suggested one big shiny link:
that Gerard having Zoe's card in his possession was a bad
thing. Was something he needed an alibi for.
And then something else struck her. Gerard might have
known she'd been in his room because he'd been there too.
Sarah sat very still after having that thought, as if movement
would make her lose her mental footing. She became
aware of sounds she hadn't noticed until then - that not far
away, there was music playing; that the street outside was
not deserted; that hotel rooms always ticked, as if her very
presence were subject to a timer - but through all that, she
clung to the thread she'd just cast through the day's maze.
What if it had been Gerard himself who'd returned to his

room while she was inside it? One of those possibilities
which made you see the picture differently: now it was a
vase; now it was a cat on a pogo-stick.
First things first, she thought. Was it even possible? She
cast her mind back, and the timing worked. Gerard had
been in a meeting, that much was true. He'd left the hotel
when that taxi picked him up, and had headed off to join,
as it turned out, Gannon, Harper and Wright. After which,
they'd gone their separate ways. I've been wandering round,
taking in the sights. These chaps had better things to do. We've
just reconvened.
So he could have come back to the hotel.
Sarah shook her head; not because she was denying the
train of thought she'd just boarded, but because it was too
horribly plausible. Gerard had phoned her while she'd
been cowering in his bathroom, yes, but could easily have
done that from the other side of the door . . . She'd talked
to him, but not until after the man in the room had left. He
might have wandered no further than the floor below
before calling again. It could have happened. It could have
happened. She closed her eyes. The phone rang.
Jesus It
was the room phone, on her bedside table. She stared
at it a moment or two, as if it were an entirely unfamiliar
object, before picking up.
'Ms Tucker?'
That twang. She knew who that was. 'Barry?'
'Ah ... You've not checked out.'
'Oh, lord ...'
'Don't worry, no biggie '
Hotel rooms always ticked, as if your very presence were
subject to a timer. Which, of course, it was.
"I should have been gone by noon, shouldn't I?'
'We have a twelve o'clock punch-out, but you weren't
around. It's okay, Ms Tucker. Like I said, we're not exactly
choking for space. Do I take it you want to stay another
night?'
'Yes. Yes, I'd better. Look, I'll come down and '
'No need. I'll change your booking. No one's gonna turf
you out, don't worry'
'Thank you, Barry. That's really kind.'
'No problem, miss.'
'What time is it, anyway?'
It was dark outside - she'd drawn the curtain - but it
was February, it was Newcastle. It had been dark for ages.
'Just gone seven thirty'
'Thanks, Barry'
She hung up. His voice had brought her back to reality,
but she wasn't ready for great chunks of it yet. She didn't
want to think any more about Gerard, about Talmadge,
about Gannon, about spiders; she didn't want to eat again;
didn't want to drink. Didn't know what she wanted, except
maybe to sleep, but it was too early for that. She plucked
the Big Issue from the floor, and collapsed back on the bed.
Half-read an interview with a Hollywood star, whose
hobo-chic rendered him plausibly homeless himself, then
had to put it away when a have you seen this woman? box
brought Zoe too painfully to mind. She thought of the
river: how cold and black and heartless it ran; and how
hard it must feel, approached from a height. Being in there
for any length of time wouldn't do anyone good. The long
term effects would be dreadful, if the short-term effects
hadn't killed you.
It was no good. She had to do something. There was no
point being here otherwise.
Doing something without going anywhere meant her
mobile phone, of course. Vicky had called earlier: she'd forgotten
that. She dug her phone from her coat pocket.
'Vicky? It's me. Sorry about earlier.'
"I thought you were going to call straight back.'
'Well, like I say, I wasn't able to talk.'
'Only it's not like I'm not busy'
Sarah was about to apologize again, in standard Sarah
fashion, then recalled that Vicky was used to dealing with
Zoe. 'Vicky? I couldn't talk, okay? Get over it. Now, what
did you have for me?'
There was a pause, and she wondered if she'd hurt the
girl's feelings. But then Vicky laughed. 'You kind of sound
like her.'
'That's the effect I was aiming at,' she admitted.
'Okay,' Vicky said. 'Well, I've got Zoe's e-mails. She kept
her inbox pretty clean.'
Sarah could believe it. Paranoiacs make good housekeepers.
'And
she emptied her deleted folder regularly too. Not
much in there. I can retrieve it for you, of course, but it'll
take a little longer.'
Of course. 'What did you find?'
'What are you looking for?'
'Anything to do with a Gerard Inchon. G. Inchon. Or
anything like that.'
'Sec'
Sarah waited. Zoe Boehm - what an extraordinary thing. I
found her card, on the mantelpiece in the bar. So he said. So he
said. What are the chances? Billion to one.
'No. Nothing.'
'. . . Nothing at all?'
'Unless he's calling himself Mervyn Cleate. Nope, that's
viagra. Or Douglas Button. Nope, that's viagra.'
"I get the picture. Is that her inbox or her deleted stuff?'
'Both. I'm flipping between the two. The new mail in her
inbox, the last two weeks' worth, is mostly spam, plus a
couple that look like work offers. There's one from somewhere
called Roleseeker Services, saying they've invoiced
her for the names, whatever that means.'
Probably headhunters. Zoe did background checks for
headhunters, to weed out chancers with credentials downloaded
from the web. 'But nothing from Inchon.'
'There's an odd one, though. Just from at.'
'Just from at? What's that mean?'
'You know. At. The a with a little circle round it you get
in e-mail addresses.'
@, Sarah realized. 'What's it say?'
'"Missing you".'
'That's all?'
'That's all. No return address or anything. So it's not
been replied to.'
"I didn't know you could do that. Send an e-mail without
an address.'
'Yeah, well. You can.'
'When did it arrive?'
Vicky told her. It was the day after Zoe had checked out
of the hotel.
'And she'd read it?'
'Opened it, certainly. Didn't delete it, either.'
'But no reply'
'Nope.'
'You're sure?'
'You get this little arrow icon when '
'Right. Got you.'
'So she didn't, no. But hang on. I haven't checked her
sent items.'
Sarah could hear Vicky clicking the mouse, talking to her
computer. It didn't talk back. 'No, that's wiped too. I can
retrieve it from the server, but '
'It'll take time, I know. Thanks, Vicky'
'No problem. I'll get back to you.'
Sarah stood once the call was over. There wasn't a lot of
room for pacing, but she needed to be on her feet. She
walked to the window, pulled the curtain back. The street
below was lamplit, with not a soul in sight.
@, she thought. At. A.T. Alan Talmadge.


Down on that same street twenty minutes later Sarah felt
insubstantial herself, as if, in peering into the ether Zoe had
left behind her, she'd caused that ether to peer back into
her. It had hollowed her out. A walking shadow, she made
for the railway station; crossed the road upon reaching it,
then headed up a slantwise street flanked by a hideous
looking club and a kebab shop. A board outside a
newsagent's indicated that all was not well with the local
football team, and she couldn't help absorbing this information
even while more important things clamoured for
her attention. Because this was what your head did, when
it wasn't playing tricks. It stored information for later
retrieval, when it might be just what you needed to ace the
pub quiz.
Concentrate.
Of Talmadge's involvement, there could be no doubt.
First the jacket; then the e-mail. He was not merely leaving
his fingerprints at the scene, he was setting up flares
around it, to mark his location to passing aircraft. And Zoe
had known this; had either followed him here, or known
she was being followed.
If she had been following, it was because Alan Talmadge
had been leaving a trail. And the trail Alan Talmadge left
was dead women.
Without breaking stride, Sarah pinched the bridge of her
nose between finger and thumb. It was no simple task,
deconstructing Zoe's motives. What she needed was Zoe's
input. You kind of sound like her, Vicky had said . . . So,

Where would Zoe start? She'd start with Gerard. Gerard
was involved somehow; was Zoe-connected, but denying
it. And had acquired a list of names, at the top of which
was Gannon's. Whatever Sarah had thought earlier about
Gannon's roots - his substance; his family ties; all those
things that made him definitely not Alan Talmadge - he
still needed looking at. Which was why she was now
headed straight for the brightly lit Asian grocery looming
up on her left. Lots of cards taped to its windows, offering
cheap foreign phone calls and Bollywood DVDs. Secondhand
furniture for sale. And Internet connections, at 75p
an hour.

The man at the counter was sweet, thanking her profusely
for paying for the service he was providing, and pointing
out the vending machine, which offered too much choice
to tempt Sarah. Anything that produced coffee, cocoa, tea
and cola from one nozzle was for emergencies only But she
sat on a stool next to a young Chinese woman and opened
a browser. Instantly, she could have been anywhere. A
browser was a portal, sucking the user inside. There were
those who never emerged.
She Googled 'Jack Gannon', added 'Newcastle' to narrow
it down, then had a rethink when all she hit were
genealogical sites. Jack was a popular name, but wasn't it
short for something else? Jackson? James? She reduced it to
'J Gannon', which didn't help, then keyed 'storage', and
started getting hits on the family company. First up was its
website, which didn't mention Jack, but whose 'About us'
page named one Michael Gannon as the firm's founder,
originally Gannon Haulage of Walker. ReGoogling, she
skipped through a page or two and found her attention
snagged on a gobbet of text: acquitted on charges of kidnapping
and assault.
Sarah clicked the link.
It opened a page on the local newspaper's archive which
told her that Michael Gannon had been acquitted on
charges of kidnapping and assault. These related to
dealings he'd had with business rivals - rivals who'd since
gone out of business. Quotes from Michael Gannon's solicitor
indicated that all concerned were glad this ludicrous
matter had been dismissed out of hand, and that any further
suggestion that his client had been involved in the
unfortunate events would be rigorously dealt with. The
date was November '87. A photograph showed a man
much heavier than Jack, moustached, and with a look in
his eyes somewhere between triumph and contempt. It had
been taken as he emerged from the court building. If he'd
worn that expression during the trial, he'd probably have
come up guilty.
She had no notebook. The shop sold them, but she
wasn't sure there was any point. Jack Gannon's father had
once stood trial for assault. With the snap judgement
everyone's prey to, based on one photo, Sarah had decided
he'd probably been guilty, but what difference did that
make? So Jack's father was a local gangster: that didn't
make Jack a psychopath. She returned to the search engine.
With new terms to throw in the mix, she found more
references to Gannon senior, but nothing on Jack. She sat
back. Bit her lip. Thought hard. Got her phone out.
'Vicky?'
'Again?'
'Sorry. Are you in bed?'
'Course not. I'm imming with friends in LA. What's up?'
Instant messaging? She'd ask another time. 'Sorry It's
just something you said - Roleseeker Services?'
'They e-mailed Zoe, yes.'
'Did they say they'd received Zoe's invoice? Or invoiced
her?'
'Invoiced her, I think. Sec' She was tapping away:
imming fellow webheads? But no: she went on, 'Yep.
Please find attached invoices, terms and conditions, yada
yada.' More clicks. 'Hundred and twenty quid. No details,
just an invoice number. You want it?'
'No, that's okay.'

'Plus their address. Eldon Square, Newcastle.'
'. . . Right,' said Sarah.
'That means something, yeah? Zoe was in Newcastle, and
she wanted something from these people. Hang on.' She
was clicking away again: she must have a hands-free phone.
A teenage girl, in her bedroom on a school night, and so
wired into the world she needed a hands-free set, in case
anyone called while she was imming LA. Round a dinner
table, Sarah might have found that food for a state-of-the
nation address. As it was, it was kind of useful. 'Placements
and opportunities, their site says. You want the url?'
'I'll Google it. Thanks, Vicky. Sorry to disturb you.'
Ending the call, she found the firm's site: it offered, as
Vicky had said, placements and opportunities. She thought
about Gerard's list of names, Jack Gannon's at the top. The
rest, she was sure, made up the crowd Gerard had invited
to his soiree. What had he said? That she'd know what it
was like, being in a new town. You want to leave your marker
with the movers and the shakers. To do which, he'd needed to
know his target group, so he'd acquired a list of the city's
worthies from a local headhunter's. Except, of course, he
hadn't. Zoe had. So Zoe had been working for Gerard, and
everything Gerard had told Sarah was a lie. Why didn't
that surprise her?
She wondered what the job had been. It wasn't as if
Gerard needed a private eye to conjure a list of names; he
must have legions of PAs and office-bodies for jobs like
that. And this dropped into a growing list of other questions:
why was Gerard staying in, let's face it, a dump like
the Bolbec Hotel? Malmaison's full, he'd told her. Chelsea are
in town. Nice line, but it didn't ring true. No, Gerard was
staying at the Bolbec for the same reason he hadn't used
his staff to do his research: he didn't want them to know
what he was doing, or where he was. Which meant he was
up to something dodgy, Sarah decided; then had to revise
that a moment later. Would Zoe have involved herself in
something dodgy?
Well. You couldn't rule it out.
The screen-timer hit sixty minutes, and her browser
died. She considered buying another session, but decided
she had enough to think about, not that any of it had
drawn her closer to Alan Talmadge. Another thought
struck, and she closed her eyes, trying to visualize the list
of names she'd found in Gerard's room. Jack Gannon's had
been at the top, and it was unlikely that alphabetical sorting
would have left him there. Were the names ranked in
order of importance? John M. Wright's hadn't featured at
all. John's here with me, Gannon had told her. But maybe
Gannon was at the top because he'd been the reason for the
list in the first place. Find me some people to go with this man, the instruction might have run. Whatever Gerard was up
to, Gannon was at the heart of it, and Gannon came from
a family of crooks.
I'm a career criminal, he'd told her.
Sarah had thought he'd been joking.
Leaving, she wandered aimlessly for five minutes before
finding an alternative-looking restaurant and deciding she
was hungry One bowl of chunky lentil soup and a slab of
black bread later she was back on the street, trying to work
out what she'd forgotten to do, other than forgetting to let
the hotel know she was staying another day - oh Christ:
she was staying another day, and hadn't told Russ, who
must be crawling walls. Her hand was reaching for her
phone even as the thought formed.
People brushed past, their voices thick with beer. It
wasn't far off ten o'clock, and was cold, damp and dark,
but boys in short-sleeved shirts were just warming up.
Her home landline switched to voicemail, so she left a
quick message then tried Russ's mobile. When he answered
there was background noise: jukebox, voices, drink
being taken. 'Sarah?'
'You're in the pub.'
'I'm in the pub. Where are you?'
'Not in a pub. I'm still in Newcastle, though.'

'You're still what?'
'Still at the hotel.'

'Still? Why haven't you checked out? Jesus, sorry, I
should have - what happened? Was it her?'
"I don't know, Russ.'
'Sarah? What do you mean - you couldn't tell? Oh fuck,
I'm saying this wrong. I've had a few pints. Was it awful?
I'm so sorry, darling.'
She could feel tears starting, and didn't want to cry,
not here on the street. She swallowed. 'It was awful, yes.
Horrible. The woman - she'd been in the water, Russ. I
couldn't tell if it was Zoe or not.'
'But didn't they - wasn't there evidence? I mean, she
wasn't naked or anything, was she?'
'She was wearing Zoe's clothes. Or clothes that could
have been Zoe's. And she had Zoe's wallet and stuff. I told
them it was Zoe.'
'You told them that? But you're still not sure? Oh fuck,
look, give me a moment, I'll go outside where I can hear
you properly'
'No. No, don't. I'm all right, Russ. Don't worry. But I'm
going to stay another night, okay?'
'You're going to what?'
She couldn't tell if he hadn't heard, or just not liked what
he'd heard. 'I'm staying another night. I'll be back tomorrow
evening, Russ. Very soon. But I can't leave yet. Not
until I know what happened.'
There was a sudden squirt of noise: a collision of some
sort, a squawked apology
'Russ?'
'Jesus, look, I've just spilled this gentleman's drink, I'd
better - yes, yes, sorry, I'll get you another. Sarah? Call me
back, okay?'
'I'll call you tomorrow, Russ. I love you.'
'Sarah. Love you. Look, I'm really sorry, I'll just '
The apology wasn't for her. The phone cut off, and she
was still here, still in the cold damp night, still alone,
though surrounded by happy strangers.
Someone said, 'Grab a granny night, is it?'
She realized she was heading away from the hotel - into
clubland, by the look of it - so abruptly switched direction.
And it wasn't dark after all, she registered. There were
lights all around; the beautiful blurred runniness of city
neon, splashing reflections in windows and puddles. She'd
forgotten what this was like. Even when her eyes cleared the
tears not falling, but soaking back into her - the colours
remained a liquid rainbow in the air. She wished Zoe were
with her. She wished she could point these lights out to
Zoe, and dare her to find them less than beautiful.

In the dark the Bolbec resembled a trailer for one of those
films in which misguided travellers check into their last
night on earth. It was hard to dispel such thoughts once
they've occurred, but Sarah did her best. The lobby was
empty. It was after ten, and she was tired but not sleepy.
She decided to have a drink.
Two men were at the bar when she entered, and both
gave her appraising looks without bothering to pretend
they weren't. She almost turned and walked back out - in
some situations, too few men was as bad as too many - but
Barry was already reaching for the Sauvignon. She was
beginning to wonder how long his shifts were.
It wasn't clear how she scored on these men's charts, but
a drink was a drink. And the fire, she noted, was lit.
'Long day?' Barry asked. Then: 'I'm assuming you want
a white?'
'I'll get that for the lady,' one of the men said.
'Thank you. But I'd rather get my own.'
'Rubbish,' he said. A pile of change sat next to his whisky
glass, and he began fingering coins Barry's way. 'What's
the damage on a large white, Baz?'
'Behave, Derek,' Barry told him, pouring the wine. 'It's
on your room, Ms Tucker.' He slid the glass across.
'Thanks, Barry'
Derek's mate snorted, and Derek said, 'Now then, pet.
No need to burn your bra.'
Sarah opened her mouth to retort, but Barry got there first.
'That TV series where the guy falls asleep and wakes up
in '73? They got your life backwards, Derek. You should
write and complain.'
Derek's mate snorted again, and nearly fell off his stool.
Derek looked sheepish. 'No offence meant, pet.'
'None taken, lamb,' she assured him.
Barry was pretty good, though. Wringing a laugh and an
apology from a situation which might have turned nasty.
She told him, 'Put the next round on my room too, Barry.
Excuse me, gentlemen, I need a comfy seat.'
'Mind the dragon,' she thought she heard as she headed
for the sofa by the fireplace. Didn't get the reference, but
understood it once she arrived.
Slumped in one of the rattan chairs, hunkered so low he
couldn't be seen from behind, was Gerard. On the table
was a bottle of Macallan; its level below the label, its optic
plonked next to it like an amputated digit. At lunchtime,
she remembered, she'd wondered if he'd been drunk.
There was no doubting it now.
'Thought I told you to fuck off,' he said without looking
round.
'Told you the same once, I remember,' she said, lowering
herself on to the sofa. 'Didn't fucking work.'
'Sarah. Christ.' He nearly attempted to stand, but sensibly
gave up the idea. 'Thought you were somebody else.'
'Pleased to hear it.'
'No, really, I - oh, hell.' He swallowed what was left in
his glass. 'Those buggers by the bar still there?'
She didn't look round. 'Yes. Been making a nuisance of
themselves?'
'Seem to think I must want to join them. Seem to think
I'd rather listen to them than sit by myself.'
'I'm sure you put them wise.'
'Where are you going?'
Sarah had regained her feet. Now she laughed. 'Gerard?
You're definitely giving the vibe of someone who doesn't
want company'
'That's for their benefit. Stay a bit. Finish your drink.'
She sat, glad she hadn't needed to find her own reason
for doing so.
He said, 'Can't get over that coincidence. Picking up
your friend's card.'
'It's a biggie, all right.'
'What are the odds?'
He wasn't slurring, but was woollier than she'd known
him. She wondered if the bottle had been full when he'd
started. Then added what he'd drunk at lunchtime, multiplied
it by how much he'd put away last night, and
decided it didn't matter.
She said, 'Higher than I'm comfortable with.'
'You think there's something funny going on?'
She was about to reply, but had a sudden flashback to
the body on the slab, the leather jacket, the tray of possessions
that didn't matter any more. Her mouth filled, and
she had to swallow. She lifted her glass to disguise the
moment, but it didn't work.
Gerard said, 'What's the matter? Lost touch with her?'
She hadn't told Gerard that Zoe was dead. Events had
intervened when they'd discussed her. So he didn't know
. . . unless he did.
Either way, she wasn't about to tell him.
'You might say that,' she said.
She felt like she'd just made a dirty joke on her friend's
grave.
'What was she doing here?'
"I don't know.'
'And where is she now?'
Sarah shrugged.
'There's a lot you're not telling me, isn't there?'
"I think she stumbled over some of her own history'
'How very fascinating. Can you repeat that in English?'
'Would you like a refill?'
And this was Barry, who'd arrived so quietly he might
have been a butler. He had wine bottle in hand, and was
tilting it towards Sarah's glass; was pouring it before she
had the chance to reply.
'Sorry about the guys back there. They mean well.'
Gerard said, 'Was there ever a phrase so geared to have
you run away screaming?'
'But you know what I mean.'
'Thanks, Barry,' Sarah said. 'We do.'
'Shall I leave the bottle?' Sarah shook her head at the
same moment Gerard nodded, so he gave a rueful grin
and set it next to the whisky. 'You don't have to drink it
all,' he said.
'That ever happen?'
But he was heading back to the bar.
'He seems a nice bloke,' Sarah said.
'Naturally,' Gerard said. 'That's his job.' He leaned forward heavily, and replenished his glass with the precise
movements of the visually impaired. '"Stumbled over her
own history." Meaning what?'
'Something came out of her past. I think.'
'What kind of something?'
'There was a man. A couple of years ago.'
'Oh God. Not one of those stories, is it?'
'Gerard '
'Unmarried woman hitting the change. Then up rips
some young heartbreaker and '
'Gerard? Shut up.'
'Sorry,' he said, without really saying it. 'Floor's yours.'
'His name was Alan Talmadge. Some of the time anyway.
And he wasn't a heartbreaker, Gerard, he was a killer.
He killed two women Zoe knew of.'
Sarah reached for her glass, hand shaking. Zoe had never
adequately described Talmadge. Had referred to him,
instead, through the effect he'd had on other people; on
those women, not a million miles from Gerard's brutal
summing up, who'd allowed him to slip into their lives,
and fill a space previously reserved for their own desperation.
Lives he'd then ended.

Her wine felt colder, as if the temperature in the bar had
dropped.
Gerard said, 'Are you sure about this?'
'Zoe was.'
'His name doesn't ring a bell.'
'Should it?'
'Killed two women? That's as good as Big Brother for getting
your name in the papers. And if it was only a couple
of years '
'He was never caught.'
Gerard said, 'Ah.'
'Never even looked for, far as I know. The two women they
were thought to be accident victims. Zoe was sure
they were murdered. But they both looked like accidents.'
Gerard said 'Ah' again, at a different pitch.
"I believed her.'
'Well, of course you did. You're her friend.'
And oh joy, there it was: the male battle cry in all its
naked vigour. Not What would you know, bitch?; nor even Don't worry your pretty head about it. Just Well, of course you
did. Words to accompany a pat on the head.
'You'd have believed her too.'
"I dare say,' Gerard said. 'It doesn't take much to convince
me. Just hard, incontrovertible evidence.'
He made to drink, and looked down in surprise on finding
his glass empty.
She emptied her own. 'Did you really find her card?'
He looked left, then right, demonstrably wondering
where this was coming from. Then at her. "I can show you
if you like. 'Supstairs. In my room.'
'Really'
'It's upstairs,' he said more clearly.
'In your room, I heard you. That's not what I meant. Did
you really find it? Or did Zoe give it to you?'
'You think I've met your friend?'
'I'm asking if you did.'
'No, Sarah. I didn't meet her.'
Drunk or not, he gave her a solid, straight-eyed look saying
that. He was, of course, a very rich businessman, not
one of whom on this sweet earth ever got where he was
without lying. But she didn't think he lied.
She shook her head. Reached for the bottle, and splashed
more wine into her glass. Then excused herself, and
headed to the loo.
When she got back, Derek and his friend had gone. It
was past eleven. Barry was emptying the till. 'I'm supposed
to close. But if you want anything '
"I don't, thanks. And he shouldn't.'
'Well, if you need a hand . . .' He did something with his
eyebrows that conveyed the difficulty of steering heavy
objects upstairs without help.
'If it comes to that, he can sleep where he lands.'
Barry smiled a goodnight, and she returned to the
fireplace.
The fire was dying, but still radiating a steady glow. It
made the rest of the room feel darker, even more so when
Barry turned the light over the bar off before leaving. Sarah
picked up her glass. The wine stung her taste buds, as if
she'd eaten a strawberry since her last sip. She looked at
Gerard, who sat immobile, staring into the low flame. She
couldn't tell whether he'd drunk more in her absence.
'Are you all right?'
His gaze left the fire and locked on her. It held no
recognition.
'Gerard?'
Somewhere, a door closed with a bang. She started. He
didn't.
'Gerard?'
He said, "I have a son.'
She couldn't have heard that right. She stared.
'We have a son. He's eight months old.'
'Gerard.' Even as she spoke, she knew her words
would be wrong; that she was heading down a cul-de-sac
it wouldn't be easy to back out of. 'That's wonderful.
That's '
'He's called Zachary' She might have been background
static. Gerard wasn't talking to her; he was talking to his
glass, whose half-inch golden pool threw back images she
couldn't guess at. 'Sometimes when I stand over his . . . his
incubator, I imagine him smiling at me. Eight months,
you'd expect a smile, wouldn't you?'
The fire flickered, and shadows scampered into corners.
'Something bad happened,' Sarah said flatly.
'He has no arms,' Gerard said. 'But then, he has no legs,
either. You know what he looks like? He looks like a pingpong
ball balanced on a boiled egg. And I look at him, and
I know I'm supposed to love him. And I do. I love him. But
I want him to die. Because he's not living a life, not in any
sense you or I would recognize. He'll never know what it's
like to ... be ordinary. To walk by a river, or have a job, or
drink brandy, or ... or anything. Even stay in a crappy
hotel like this. Anything can seem like a pleasure, if you
compare it to a life utterly bereft of possibility'
He put his glass down, and emptied the bottle into it.
It was a measure beyond healthy. It was a measure on
steroids.
She said, 'Do they know ...'
'Do they know what?'
She'd never heard this from Gerard before: genuine
aggression. He lived his life - that part she'd witnessed
him living - wrongfooting the foolish and charming his
targets, but aggression was new. 'Why,' she said. 'Do they
know why?'
'It happens.'
'Yes, but '
'It happens.'
The male wall. Tell her about it. Beyond this point, we
don't discuss.
'I'm sorry,' she said again.
'If I thought you were responsible, that wouldn't be
enough.'
For some reason, she found herself recalling what he'd
said at lunchtime. There you go, he'd told John M. Wright.
The terrible vengeance of a righteous God. We can all learn something
from that.
She looked for more words she already knew wouldn't
help. 'There are '
'Don't. Don't tell me there are .. . benefits. Or procedures.
Or no way of knowing about quality of life. Don't tell me
any of that self-serving platitudinous bullshit.'
"I wasn't going to.'
'My son would be better off dead. That's not self-pitying
rationalization. He would be better. Off. Dead.'
His voice had risen, and for a moment afterwards an
echo ricocheted around the bar, stirring ghosts of ancient
conversations and long-forgotten sorrows.
Then he said, "I was a practising Catholic, did you know
that?'
She nodded, but he wasn't looking at her. 'Yes,' she said.
'Paula still is. That's the funny thing.'
'You've lost your faith?'
And now he looked at her, with eyes that were dark
absences. 'Lose it? No, I didn't lose it, Sarah. I nailed it to
a tree and set fire to it.'
'Gerard '
'I'd like to be alone now.'
She wanted to ask if he was sure, but he was sure. If she
was Gerard, she'd be sure too.
He raised his glass to his lips. Shadows from the dying
fire danced on the walls as she left.

Next morning she knocked on Gerard's door, quietly, so as
not to disturb him - why do we do that? She knocked
again loudly, but there was no reply. Perhaps his hangover
had woken him early, and he'd gone for a walk to shake it
off. Or he was still in the bar. Or he'd hanged himself in
his bathroom.
She'd never seen Gerard like he'd been last night. But
then, she had lots of friends she'd never seen in that state.
With Gerard, it was more a case of: she'd never imagined
him as other than full-on Gerard. Annoyed, irritated, condescending:
he could be all those things and still be Gerard
of Oz, larger than life and louder than loud. But heartbreak
turned out to be the man behind the curtain. She'd never
imagined anything so ordinary pulling Gerard's levers.
Not that his heartbreak took an ordinary shape - his poor
child, poor Zachary. Poor Paula. Poor all of them. But she
had to remember, too, that none of this meant there wasn't
something else going on. Gerard could be crippled by sorrow,
but that didn't wipe out the Zoe connection.
You think I've met your friend? No, Sarah. I didn't meet her.
But there was the list of names in his room; there was the
Roleseekers e-mail in Zoe's inbox. It was true Sarah had no
proof the two lists were the same, but how many coincidences
could one hotel hold?
I didn't meet your friend. But that didn't mean they'd not
been in contact.
She wondered how long it would take Vicky to unearth
Zoe's deleted correspondence.

She wondered other things too, as she made her way
downstairs.

The woman who'd checked her in was on reception. Sarah
still didn't know her name, and it felt too late to ask. She
said something about Barry instead. About how rare it was
not to see him here.
'He'll be in later. Did you want him for something?'
There might have been, Sarah thought, a touch of a leer
in that.
'I'm sure you can manage,' she said. 'I'll be staying
another night.'
There were three others having breakfast, at different
tables, so there was no conversation. Sarah ate a croissant,
drank a cup of coffee, then another while texting Russ.
She'd have called, but it would have felt like public speaking.
In the end, the text mostly became a promise to speak
to him later: there were too many words, too few abbreviations,
for all she needed to tell him.
If she had to break it down to words of one syllable,
though, it would be: I can't leave yet. That would be to bring
down the curtain before the stage business was over. It
would mean turning her back on whatever Zoe had been
caught up in, and while Zoe might have been elusive when
it came to the common currency of friendship - birthday
cards, phone calls; casual droppings-in - she'd have been
first on the scene when Sarah needed help. It had happened
before. Guns had been involved.
She hoped Russ would understand - she wasn't sure he
had last night, with beer under his belt. And there'd been
that moment back home, when he'd worried she'd be drawn into whatever Zoe had been involved in. She'd
feigned misunderstanding: what did drawn into mean? But
it meant this. This was what it had always meant. That
she'd be having breakfast alone in a last-chance hotel; texting
Russ to tell him she'd not be returning yet.
There were grounds in the bottom of her coffee cup, but
that was okay. That meant it was real. You couldn't argue
with proof like that.
Sarah put her phone away, returned to her room, and
took it out again. The thread she'd started tugging at last
night could do with another pull. She made the call
quickly, before she could change her mind.
It took a few minutes to get through.
'Ms Tucker? I thought you'd gone home.'
"I decided to stay on a while, Inspector.'
'So what can I do for you?'
Encouraging words, delivered in a guarded tone. This
wasn't an offer of help. It was an enquiry as to what she
was up to.
She said, 'Do you know anything about a family named
Gannon?'
'Do I what?'
'A family named Gannon. They run a storage firm, used
to be a haulage '
'Yes, I know what they run.'
She waited.
'Ms Tucker? What's this about, exactly?'
'It's just that I've met a man named Jack Gannon, and
I . . .' She paused. I what? "I heard he had some dodgy
connections.'
Fairfax said, 'You're aware I'm a police officer?'
'That's why I rang.'
'We get 999 calls from idiots whose TVs aren't working.
I don't remember being asked to check out a prospective
date before.'
'He's not '
'You've been of assistance, Ms Tucker, but that doesn't
put me at your beck and call. We'll be in touch if there are
developments in, in the other matter. Now excuse me, but
I'm busy' He disconnected.
She sat stunned for a moment, and then guilt and shame
flushed through her. Did he really think she'd called just to
check on a new acquaintance's standing, criminal or otherwise?
That she was some, Christ, some flibbertigibbet who
thought she had a hotline to the cops because she'd sat in
a police car?
Blood pounding in her ears, Sarah wanted something to
throw. But there was no big outdoors here; she couldn't
storm out and romp across the hillsides, kicking stones.
She made do with viciously turning her phone off: one
pointy stab of the finger. Then turned it on again, in case
anyone called. Then went back up another flight of stairs,
to knock on Gerard's door.
Which was ajar.
Someone was moving inside, but she could tell it wasn't
Gerard. No one who'd drunk the quantity Gerard had put
away last night would be capable of movement without
lumbering. They wouldn't be humming, either. Sarah
pushed the door gently. The humming stopped.
'Miss?'
'I'm sorry Sarah said.
A young Indian woman was stripping the bed.
'Ah . . . Did you want me to see to your room?'
'No. No, I was looking for '
But it was clear that the man she was looking for was no
longer there. Yesterday's clutter: those nests of charging
cables; the briefcase, suitcase, laundry bag - all of it had
gone. A vacuum cleaner stood by the bathroom door. The
maid held a pillow; had paused in the act of coaxing it
from its cotton slip.
'It doesn't matter,' Sarah said. "I have the wrong room.'
She returned to reception, where she rang the bell,
because the woman was nowhere to be seen. Ten seconds
later, she rang it again. She'd have rung it a third time, but
the woman appeared: a little flustered; a bit pissed off, too,
as if she didn't appreciate the summons. Sarah would care
about that later. Round about the time it occurred to her
she was taking out Fairfax's rebuff on an innocent party.
'Has Mr Inchon checked out?' she asked.
'I'm sorry?'
'Inchon. You haven't got that many guests. Has he
checked out?'
'Oh. Yes. Yes, he left early this morning.'
'How early?'
'Before I came on. I mean, pretty much the middle of the
night. I suppose he had a flight to catch.'
'A flight?'
"I can't think why else he'd leave at three thirty in the
morning.'
The woman had recovered some poise. Her tone suggested
she could actually think of a few good reasons, most
of them standing in front of her.
'Did he leave a message?'
'A message for you?'
'A message of any kind,' Sarah said through gritted teeth.
The woman took her time. Looked through the few
papers scattered on the desk; checked the pigeonholes
behind her. She all but whistled while doing so. 'I'm sorry,
Ms Tucker. There doesn't seem to be anything.'
"I see.'
'He didn't push a note beneath your door?'
'Well, if he had,' Sarah began, but could see it wasn't
worth it. 'No. Thanks.'
She left the desk, heading for the front door; realized
almost immediately she had no special need to be heading
that way, but couldn't face pulling a U-turn under the
receptionist's scornful gaze. I've given her quite enough
merriment for the moment, Sarah thought, and stepped on
to the street coatless, into the path of a withering wind.
This really is not my best morning . . .
Gerard had gone home, she supposed. Last night's conversation
had brought that about; Gerard, in the cold light
of morning, couldn't face seeing her with pity in her eyes.
Which was fair enough. Sarah was reasonably sure she'd
have been able to regard him without a trace of visible concern,
but it would have been there; the memory of a fireside
conversation in which he'd opened his heart, and
showed it in splinters. There were friendships which such
a moment would have strengthened, but not the kind she
and Gerard shared. She wasn't even sure 'friendship' was
the word. And while she was questioning terminology,
'cold light of morning' didn't work either: there'd have
been precious little light at three thirty. She was surprised
Gerard had been able to stand, let alone pack.
Cold, though. There'd have been cold enough to go
round. And plenty of it yet, come to that.
The Big Issue man was nowhere to be seen. Office hours,
though, didn't apply. As she stood there, a detail occurred
to her: Gerard had checked out before the woman had
come on duty. So who checked him out? It must have been
Barry. Poor guy. He'd closed the bar; probably hoped to see
his shift out having a nap in the office. But instead had to
deal with a drunken Gerard, who would no doubt have
had a complicated bill to deconstruct, and probably wasn't
in the best of moods.
What was it Barry had said about his job? It beats flipping
burgers. Probably he'd reconsidered that, back in the early
hours.
As she re-entered the hotel, her phone rang.

She answered it climbing the stairs.
'Ms Tucker?'
'Yes.'
'It's DS King. From yesterday morning.'
'Yes.' She felt her vocal cords tighten: what now? An official
reprimand for misuse of police time?
'The boss said you'd rung.'
'It's not important.'
"I doubt you'd have called if it wasn't. He goes off the
deep end sometimes, but, well, you know. It's a stressful
job.'
'Give him my commiserations.'
'So he mentioned it to me. That's his way of making sure
he wasn't too hasty'
'So why didn't he call back himself?'
'Now that, that's not his way. So. Jack Gannon. How'd
you come across him?'
She took a breath.
'Ms Tucker?'
"I met him at the hotel. In the bar.'
'That's the same hotel Ms Boehm was staying?'
'Yes.'
'And you don't think that's a coincidence.'
'You're aware that Zoe - that Ms Boehm was a private
detective?'
'We'd established that, yes.'
'Good for you. I think she was up here on a job of some
kind. I think that job involved Mr Gannon.'
'Who was her client?'
"I don't know.'
She could have given him Gerard - if Gannon was
involved, so was Gerard. But something held her back. Call
it loyalty; that plus the knowledge that she'd misjudged
Gerard in the past. He deserved a hearing before she threw
him to a wolf.
'She was investigating criminal activity?'
"I don't know what she was investigating.'
'Because the reason we have a police force in this
country '
"I know why we have a police force, Sergeant. I don't
know what Zoe was doing. But it seems likely that whatever
it was, it had something to do with Jack Gannon.'
'And you thought we should know.'
"I thought Inspector Fairfax might be interested. It
turned out he wasn't.'
'He gets a little uptight when he thinks people are trying
to do his job.'
'If I was interested in impersonating a police officer, I'd
wait till I was needed, then make myself scarce.'
He said, quite mildly, "I suspect your stereotype's out
of date.'
Sarah took a breath. She'd reached the landing, down the
corridor from her room. 'Whatever. The point is, I found
out what little I know inside five minutes on the web. It's
not as if I blundered into a top secret investigation.'
His silence sounded like a point conceded.
'Tell your boss I'm sorry I bothered him.'
He said, 'The Gannons are a well-known Walker firm.
I'm not talking about haulage. Back in the seventies and
eighties, when Michael Gannon was ruling the roost, they
were basically your North Tyneside crimelords. Mostly
robbery, mostly big delivery - if a lorryload of fags or
booze got knocked over, it was the Gannons behind it.
They also supplied fruit machines to local clubs, along with
door security and working girls. You didn't get involved in
after-hours entertainment from Wallsend to Benton without
rendering unto the Gannons, if you catch my drift. One
or two tried, and found out what the blunt end of a closed
shop feels like.'
'Gannon was tried for kidnapping and assault.'
'Among other things.'
'So that was then. What about now?'
'Michael G's still among the living, but he had a series
of strokes in the early nineties. The eldest son, Tony, tried
his shoes on, but was hampered by being a stupid dick
head, pardon my Dutch, and spent five years contemplating
his misdeeds in Durham. By the time he came out, the
other brothers had, ah, diversified their interests.
Gangstering's not the prospect it used to be. I like to pretend
that's not because I've joined the force since, but you
can't argue with the facts.'
'Your modesty does you credit. And Jack Gannon's
behind their shift into legitimate business?'
King said, 'He's never broken any laws we've found out
about. But the way I look at it, the money he's investing,
the business he's helping run - all that capital came out of
crime. Doesn't matter how often it's been washed, it's dirty
money'
'Have you met him?'
"I have, as a matter of fact. At a charity auction, raising
funds for a police cadets' gym. He bid large for a painting
my three-year-old nephew could have done. Only he'd
have called it colouring, not art.'
'What did you think of him?'
"I thought he was a charming man.'
'And?'
'And I don't like charming men. I always wonder what
they've got to hide.'
'That makes your boss an open book.'
He said, "I think that theme's run its course. Anyway, the Gannons. Like I say, Jack's never broken any laws we've
heard about.' He paused, giving himself room for a shrug.
'If Ms Boehm was investigating him, she knew something
we didn't.'
'Thanks for calling.'
'I'd like to know what you're planning.'
'I'm not planning anything. I just don't want ... I don't
want things to fade away. I guess.'
'They won't.'
"I got the impression you were regarding this as a
suicide.'
He didn't reply.
'Sergeant?' It sounded odd, saying that. But she could
hardly just call him King. 'Isn't that so?'
'Ms Tucker '
'Or an accident. But you didn't know Zoe. She didn't
have accidents.'
'This wasn't an accident,' he said at last.
'You're sure about that?'

'We're sure.'
He'd come this far, she thought. She only had to wait.
He'd give her the rest.
'She drowned,' he said.
"I know.'
'But it wasn't river water in her lungs.'
Sarah closed her eyes; tried to shut out the image this information provided.
'Ms Tucker?'
"I see. I see.' She saw. She saw Zoe being held down in
a bath; strong hands forcing her head underwater.
DS King fell silent.
Sarah had to say something - she couldn't just hang up.
So she said, 'Thank you,' though it came out more quietly
than she'd intended. She cleared her throat. 'Thank you for
telling me,' she said again. Then she ended the call, walked
down the corridor to her room, let herself in, and lay on
the bed.

Closing her eyes did not help. Sarah opened them, and
stared straight up. Thin cracks threaded outward from the
corners, forming a faint road map on the ceiling. It didn't
direct her anywhere she wanted to go.
But when she closed her eyes again, the view was worse:
was of Zoe, forcibly held underwater.
Zoe had always struck Sarah as the strongest person
she'd met, but strength wasn't necessarily a factor. Not for
a woman. A woman could be strong, and still be no match
for the wrong kind of man. Sarah hadn't allowed herself to
wonder about how Zoe had ended up in that river, but the
thought had sneaked up on her a time or two; catching her
off guard, like an unexpected car rounding a corner. What
she'd seen had been swift, and shrouded in darkness. Zoe
on a quayside or towpath; looking down towards water on
which starlight trembled. And something coming out of
nowhere behind her: a glancing blow on the head, then
more darkness.
In this version, Zoe entered the water without a ripple.
It happened swiftly, and the first Zoe would have known
about it was the last thing she'd ever know. But it hadn't
happened like that. Sarah closed her eyes again. And this
time it was all struggle and violence, with Zoe well aware
of what was happening, and doing her damnedest to make
it stop. And it happening anyway.
She'd have tried to shout; tried to fight. And she'd lost.
It happened anyway.
The road map to nowhere dissolved as Sarah's eyes
filled. For a moment she was teetering on a brink, and if
she let herself fall now, the landing would shatter her. She
had to pull back: a willed enaction of that involuntary
spasm found on the edge of sleep. Going to pieces was not
an option. Going to pieces would let Zoe down. She had to
be strong. If their roles were reversed, Zoe would have
grieved, might even have wept, but she would not have
fallen apart. Not before discovering what had happened.
I'll do my best, Sarah thought, as if Zoe were in the room
with her. Then she said it aloud. 'I'll do my best.'
She sat up. Dried her eyes. Planned her next move.
Of the fragments of information she'd gathered - she
supposed you could call them clues - none cast special
light. What she'd learned about Jack Gannon made it
clearer than ever that he couldn't be Talmadge: he couldn't
float around the country, assuming different guises, at
the same time as steering his criminal family into the legitimate
world. That Gannon was part of what happened to
Zoe, Sarah had no doubt. But she couldn't see where he fitted.
It was as if she'd been given something to glue back
together without having been told what it was. She had to
keep choosing pieces, testing their shape. Propelled into
action by the thought, she moved from the bed. In the bathroom,
she splashed water on her face.
Gerard had vanished for the time being, but he couldn't
simply disappear. She'd find him when she needed to. For
the moment, there were other threads to follow through
the maze.
There was Gannon, and then there was John M. Wright.
Wright might not matter in himself - he hadn't been on
Gerard's list; the one Zoe had produced - but he was a
close associate of Jack Gannon's; seemed to dog his footsteps.
On the other hand, he was so wrapped up in himself,
that might not count for much. It might be simpler to
tackle Gannon directly But tackling implied Sarah knew
what she was after, when the truth was, she was adrift. She
didn't know what she needed to know. She just knew she
didn't know enough. And she doubted she could pump
Gannon for information without him noticing
They got on, though. There was something of a spark,
there - not attraction, exactly, but you couldn't rule it out.
There was a phone book in the dressing-table drawer,
and she flicked through its Business section. Wright's
company had been mentioned at lunch yesterday:
Research Works. One word. She made a note of the address
then riffled through the pages again, looking for Gannon.
There were three separate entries, along with a box trumpeting
a storage facility She made a note of those too.
Wright or Gannon? Gannon or Wright?
A storage depot would be a big warehouse full of walk
in containers, and the man in charge would be jacketless,
biros lined up in his shirt's pocket protector. As soon as
Sarah had gone, he'd be on the phone, tipping Jack off.
Where Wright worked, on the other hand, would be a neat
square building where studious people worked in clean
white coats. A receptionist would offer coffee while chatting
about Nice Mr Gannon, who often dropped in . . .
It was the mental equivalent of whatever-you-called-it;
the practice of opening the Bible at random, and taking the
verse your eyes lit on as God-mail. It didn't matter what it
said because your brain would twist it so it read the way
you wanted. She had no idea what storage depots looked
like, but sometimes it was safest to go with the stereotypes.
And bearding Wright would at least have this advantage:
Sarah already knew she didn't like him. People you didn't
like could be easier to deal with. It wasn't necessary to
make space for them.
Sarah put her coat on, then checked in the mirror. The
coat looked good, but Sarah was not at her best. Her cheeks
lacked colour, and her eyes seemed different. Flintier.
Suicide, she had heard, left the bereft feeling grief with the
anger turned up. Murder had much the same effect.
She found her spectacles and put them on. Maybe they'd
soften the anger. Maybe not.



The map from the rack in the hotel lobby was for the city
centre only, so at the Central Station Sarah bought an A-Z,
then caught a Metro towards the coast. The train ran
mostly overland, but the outside world seemed painted
grey. Or maybe that was the natural colouring of
Palmersville, Shiremoor, West Monkseaton; names that fell
agreeably strangely on her ears, but would no doubt disappoint
if she ever walked their streets. A line from a half
forgotten poem stirred: People live here. You'd be amazed. And there was that whispered music again; a snatch of the
soundtrack to which unknown others spent their lives.
When her stop came, the station seemed awfully grand
for a two-track service. Once, it dispatched steam-trains
hither and yon, while mutton-chopped guards blew
whistles. Outside, the houses were large and imposing three-storey
Victorian villas - and the streetlamps vintage
Narnian. The air had a salty sting. Sarah was only a mile
or so inland, if she read her map aright.
And if she was doing that, she had a walk ahead of her.
She set off briskly, compulsively checking the A-Z at each
junction; confirmation that she hadn't gone astray. Twenty
minutes took her clear of the town; deposited her on the
fringe of an industrial estate where maps were no use, but
God or something sent a postman cycling past, and she
flagged him down.
'After a bakkie, pet?'
'Just directions, thanks.'
Research Works - one word - aye, he knew it.
"Gan past all them yellow vans, and it's next building
along. Research Work's on the upstairs. The stairs are on the
outside, like.'
Sometimes, events conspire to place you in a fairytale.
She thanked the nice postman, and set off on her way.
'Gan canny, pet.'
She mentally filed that. 'Thanks.' I think.
The yellow vans belonged to a courier service. The next
building looked like a warehouse, and so much for her
vision of a research facility: it was an old construction
with an iron-sheeting roof, its grimly stuccoed walls shadowed
by damp. The stairs indeed were on the outside,
like a fire escape, but made of wood. The sign on the door, ResearchWorks, was a laminated card drawing-pinned in
place.
She knocked, and there was no answer.
A minute or so later she knocked again, and this time the
door was flung open, as if someone had just happened to
be passing, and couldn't believe their ears. Student. Young,
anyway, with a shiny bald head and thick framed spectacles:
and if he hadn't been able to believe his ears, it
wasn't because they weren't big enough. They emerged
horizontally, like a giraffe's. He wasn't wearing a white
coat, but a big T-shirt and paint-spattered jeans, and was
waggling something between the fingers of his right hand
so quickly, it took her a moment to identify it as a pencil.
'I'm looking for Mr Wright?' she said.
The young man's failure to cash in on this opening pretty
much proved him a virgin.
'The doc?' he said.
She agreed that was possibly the same man.
'He's on the 'puter.'
'Could I disturb him?'
'He'll be another five minutes.'
That probably meant no. 'Well, is it all right if I wait?'
He shrugged. 'S'pose.'
Half a dozen heartbeats later she was being shown into
a tiny room with a sink in one corner, and a few plastic
chairs, and a formica-topped table on which a coffee
machine sat. Its jug was empty, but an open packet of coffee
was spilled next to it, and she was given to understand
that it would be acceptable for her to make a fresh brew.
She decided she'd be equally happy not doing so. The
student returned to whatever task he was busy with, and
she was left to contemplate the wisdom or otherwise of her
current course of action.
Perhaps not so wise. But being in a different city made
this easier. What they called the visiting-fireman approach:
it didn't matter what kind of idiot you made of yourself among people you'd never meet again. What goes on tour
stays on tour. She didn't have long to dwell on it anyway,
because John M. Wright came in three minutes later.
'Oh, it's, ah - you.'
It was difficult to tell whether he was disappointed or
just not very interested.
'Sarah,' she reminded him. 'Sarah Tucker.'
'What are you doing here?'
I was just passing was a tempting response. A ride on the
Metro, a twenty-minute walk, directions from a postie she
might just get away with it. But settled, instead, for, "I
wanted to see where you worked.'
'Why?'
'What you've been telling me, about your research - it's
interesting stuff.' Ms Tucker's in publishing. She owns her own
company, was how Jack Gannon had introduced her to
Wright. 'My company produces soft-science books. There
might be something in this.'
'A book?'
'A chapter,' she said, freewheeling like mad. 'Not so
much about the results of your research. More how you go
about doing it.'
'Did Inchon send you?'
Well, that might work too. "I know Gerard will be interested
in anything you have to say'
He scratched his beard. Marvellous, Sarah thought. Not
only does it look ridiculous, it feels uncomfortable too.
It's a wonder suspender belts aren't part of male formal
dress.
'Well,' he said at last. 'I've time for a chat, I suppose.'
It was the first thing he'd said that wasn't a question.
'Is there anywhere we can go?' Sarah asked. 'For lunch
or whatever?'
'There's a sort of canteen.'
She had visions of a room like this, but with ketchup
stains. 'You don't want to drive into town? I'm sure I
passed a Thai. My treat.'
"I don't eat that sort of food,' he said, as if she were offering
him the first apple. 'The canteen's for the whole estate,'
he added. 'It's quite good.'
He led her down the stairs and round the back of the
building, through a gap in a scruffy hedge, across a small
car park, and through a door in the side of a building
similar to the one they'd just left, and which turned out to
house the canteen. This was cleaner than Sarah had been
expecting, and brightly lit. Wright, mind, looked like he'd
successfully navigate it in the dark. From the self-service
area, he loaded a plate: steak, chips; five green beans. Sarah
chose a pre-wrapped Caesar salad, and followed him. At
the till she was about to offer to pay, when he saved her
the bother by telling the woman, 'She's got these.'
'Treating your boyfriend, pet?' Sarah was asked.
Wright was already off to a table.
'He's not my boyfriend,' Sarah said. 'I'm his probation
officer.'
He'd started eating by the time she sat. She peeled the
cellophane from her salad, and said, 'How long have you
been here?'
'At RW?'
ResearchWorks. 'Yes.'
"I set it up, you know.'
'So I gather.'
'In these premises, four years.'
'Right. And the Gannon family fund you, do they?'
'They're among my backers.'
'Because your research might one day be worth a lot of
money'
There's no "might" about it. It'll be worth millions. If
I'm allowed the resources to proceed with my work.'
'What kind of resources might they be?'
He sawed a wedge from his steak and delivered it to his
mouth. While he chewed he regarded her. Not so much as
he might a person, Sarah thought, as he might an unimportant
problem. A Sudoku, say. When he'd finished chewing
he swallowed, then said, 'Is this for your book?'
'Chapter,' she said. 'Yes. It's all background.'
"I need a more powerful computer system,' he said. "I get
to use the University's StarWheel once in a while. I really
need one of my own.'
'Starwheel . . .?'
He sighed. 'It operates some rather complicated software.'
Like someone explaining to a three-year-old what it
was that watches did. 'Which models gene behaviour. I use
it to replicate potential reactions in the respiratory system
to various stimuli. When I'm allowed near it.'
'That sounds . . . interesting.'
'Yes. Well. It's a tool, but a useful one. And if you don't
want the animal rights brigade on your case, you need some fairly sophisticated alternatives to .. .' He speared a
chip with his fork. 'Animals.'
'You don't use animals in your research?'
'You need a licence.'
She was pleased to hear it. 'So what about the new premises?
Why do you need those?'
Now she was really being moronic. 'Because it's a large
system. The StarWheel. And needs a purpose-built environment.'
'It's
a virtual reality device?' she guessed.
He directed his attention back to his plate. 'There are VR
elements involved, yes. Should I be getting paid for this?'
'For eating lunch?'
'For sharing my knowledge. A royalty'
'Royalties generally go to the writers,' Sarah explained.
'There might be a consultation fee. If the book goes ahead.'
'Chapter. You said.'
'In a book, yes. Tell me how you met Jack.'
'Why do you want to know?'
'Could be an interesting story'
'Don't see how.'
'He's a rich man, endowing a science project. You don't
think other scientists will be interested in hearing how that
came about?'
'It's not that big an endowment,' Wright said.
Somewhere on the Internet, there was a joke to which
that was the punchline.
'Did you ever hear him mention Gerard Inchon before
the other night?'
"I don't know.'
The name didn't ring a bell?'
'I'm not very interested in other people,' he said, dividing
the last of his steak into two equal pieces.

That was a compliment other people were no doubt
happy to repay. 'But you get on with Jack.'
"I suppose so.'
'Do you know his family at all?'
'His family?'
'Yes. You know - parents, brothers, that sort of thing.'
Wright said, without taking his eyes off his lunch, 'Why
on earth would I want to meet his parents?'
"I don't know. Because they're endowing your work?'
He shook his head. 'I've never met Mr Lloyds TSB
either,' he told her. 'But he gives me an overdraft.'
Her salad was limp and uninspired. She had a good idea
how it felt. She ate a few forkfuls, though, before returning
to the fray 'How far along are you with your research?'
Now he looked at her, but with detached irritation. 'Do
you know much about asthma - I've forgotten your name?'
'Sophie,' she said. 'No, not much. Apart from the obvious
stuff, which everyone knows.'
'Well, it affects over five million people in this country
alone. And nobody knows what causes it. So you can probably
work out that it's not a problem that's about to be
solved overnight.'
She said, "I don't remember suggesting it was. But Jack
described it as your life's work. So I presume you're further
along than just counting who's got it.'
'People think of it as just being short of breath.'
(She'd been starting to think it didn't matter what she
said, but a penny dropped now. He wasn't interested in
other people: okay. But he was interested in asthma.
Interested in it for what it was, not for how it made those
other people suffer.)
'But it has an interesting array of side-effects. Weight
gain. Osteoporosis. Cataracts.'
'From asthma?'
'From common forms of asthma treatment. Steroids.'
'They prescribe steroids for asthma?'
'You don't know anything about it at all, do you?'
'No,' she said. 'I'm a publisher, not a scientist.'
She was quite proud of herself, for remembering she was
a publisher.
'Well, trust me. It's not a small subject.'
And one she was getting interested in, despite herself.
Or despite John M. Wright, rather. Something he'd said
about his magic computer swam back into her mind.
Intelligence was largely careful listening. 'And what's your
approach? Gene treatment?'
'Not exactly'
'You don't think that's the way to go?'
'Ultimately. But gene treatment's way in the future, whatever you read in the papers. Oh, it'll be available for
the rich within our lifetime. But not for anyone else.'
'So you think a safer form of steroid treatment is what's
needed?'
He laid down his knife and fork. 'I'm not sure I want to
announce my aims through your book.'
'Chapter. But I take your point.'
A sudden draught announced the arrival of a crowd of
local workers, who came in laughing and chattering, and
generally feeling at home. A look of distaste curled
Wright's lip. 'I'm going back to work now.'
He stood.
Sarah hadn't got anywhere, she thought. She'd come all
this way, but learned nothing.
She said, 'How close are you to finishing?'
'That's not an easy question to answer.'
'But Jack Gannon's prepared to fund you until you are?'
'You'd have to ask him that. But you can tell Mr Inchon
that I'd be very happy to discuss how he can help. He
won't regret the investment.'
'And you don't think Jack would object to that?'
Wright said, 'Do you have any idea how much money
will result, once my research is successfully concluded?'
'None at all, no.'
'Jack Gannon won't be out of pocket.'
She said, 'Why aren't you working for big pharma? Then
you wouldn't have to scrub around for private backing.'
'That's not your concern.'
There was clatter, and more laughter, as tables were
colonized and plates deposited. Sarah's salad was only
half-finished, but it was clear that Wright's work here was
done. She stood, collected her bag from the back of her
chair, and followed him into the cold.
He surprised her then. He said, 'Were you wearing those
glasses last time we met?'
'Yesterday No. No, I wasn't.'

"I thought not. When will this chapter be written?'
She said, "I haven't commissioned the book yet. But
there's a lot of promising material here.'
He pursed his lips. 'I'll need a consultation fee. When I
speak to your writer.'
'Oh, it's all above board. Don't worry about that.'
He turned abruptly, and walked back the way they'd
come: across the small car park, through the gap in the
scruffy hedge. He didn't look back.
Sarah had the distinct feeling she'd been forgotten about
the moment she'd left his sight.

She took the Metro back into town; spent the journey staring
out of the window, weighing up the morning. She'd
learned something about John M. Wright, in whom she
was not interested, and nothing about Jack Gannon, in whom she was. And meanwhile, time was passing. She
was no nearer finding out what had happened to Zoe, and
had let Gerard, who might have had answers, slip through
her fingers. And she remained miles from home, and Russ
must be thinking she'd vanished down a rabbit hole. With
that thought she fished out her mobile, but couldn't get a
signal. She wrote a quick text anyway, stored it for later,
then resumed her window-watching. Heavy skies
stretched into the distance. Well, she thought. Obviously
the distance. Where else was the sky going to go?
It wasn't raining when the train dipped underground on
its way to the city centre, but it couldn't be long in coming.
Perhaps she should buy an umbrella. Accessorize before
the event.
Emerging at the Haymarket, she paused at an ATM, feeling
as she did so that little hint of validation - as if her PIN
were giving her a good reference - along with an equally
familiar resentment that life was now dependent on an
ability to remember bloody numbers. And as she tucked
the banknotes into her purse, she remembered Zoe's wallet,
fished out of the river, Zoe's plastic still tucked in its
pockets. All of whose numbers cried out that this was Zoe.
But before she could pursue that thought, she heard
music coming to meet her; a distant whisper, but growing
in volume. There was always music in city centres, most of
it unwelcome. This was different. As she approached the
cavernous entrance to the city's monstrous mall she saw
the musicians responsible: two young men and a woman,
playing fiddles and a guitar. The males were twins by the
look of them, and shared a joke as they played, while
the woman, surely their sister, began a solo. The music, a
reel of some sort, went swirling over the heads of the gathered
crowd, and despite the February chill and the heavy
grey sky, brought a touch of sunlight to the city street. The
tune was as much the sound of an English summer as a
lawn sprinkler, or Jonathan Agnew being more disappointed
than angry.
Sarah stood there, drinking it in. One tune finished and
another began: this one slower and haunting, conjuring a
cold and windswarmed beach on a northern coast. She
could have listened all day, but supposed she shouldn't. At
last she left, but not before finding out that they were
called XYZ. It wasn't a name she'd forget.
The rain was still holding off but she headed into the
mall anyway, and looked at micro-umbrellas in the first
clothing shop she came to. She'd scoffed, yesterday, at the
idea that shopping could ease pain, but the guilty truth
was that it could, a little. Force the mind to focus on making
a choice, and it eased its grip on other subjects. She
decided, at last, on a black design with a red pattern, then
browsed the rest of the floor, looking at shoes she didn't
need and jackets she couldn't afford. As if to rub it in that
it was winter, there were summer tops on display too, and
she fingered her way through a rack of them, their factory
fresh cotton a kiss on her fingertips.
A shop assistant approached. 'Can I be of any help at all?'
'Just looking. Thanks.'
'It's a very popular line, this. Especially in black. It's
dead slimming, the black.'
There were plenty of shops where such advice was a
challenge: you withdrew or got your plastic out. But this
girl offered it as if it were new information, the slimming
properties of black having lately been uncovered by the
sisterhood. For a moment, Sarah thought this was some
kind of northern innocence, then realized it was simply
that the girl was very young.
'It is,' she agreed. 'Very It doesn't perform miracles,
though.'

And they laughed, and the girl left her to her devices,
but as Sarah went to pay for the umbrella she mentally
kicked herself for making that moment happen: the one in
which women surrender to an image they were taught to
have. Sarah wasn't overweight. As for the girl in the shop,
you could stick a stamp on her and post her home. So why
did they do it?
Zoe wouldn't have joined in. Zoe wore black a lot - wore
a famous black jacket - but that had nothing to do with
wanting to appear slimmer. It was simply what she wore.
Red tops, too. Black and red, like Sarah's new umbrella.
And there was that thought again, the one that had
pricked her as she'd entered her PIN on the money
machine. Identity wasn't just the numbers you carried, and
clothes are not the woman. The body on the slab had Zoe's
possessions and Zoe's jacket, but did that mean it was
Zoe? It had looked enough like her for those things to seem
conclusive. But the convincer had been the jacket, not the
body - the jacket which long ago had been taken by Alan
Talmadge. Its presence proved Talmadge's involvement.
But had Sarah allowed that to cloud her identification?
Taking her change, she wandered from the shop. This
route into the heart of the mall was on a gradient, and she
walked up it. She seemed to have done a lot of walking
these past few days: less than she'd have done back home,
perhaps, but city walking was more of an effort. You had
to be wary of all the other people. There were always far
too many people.
An exit took her on to a walkway, which she followed
until it left her looking down on the square that gave the
mall its name, and was currently being developed. The
railing was spangled with moisture. She stood, still thinking
about Zoe's jacket. Okay, so it didn't prove Zoe was
dead. But in that case, why hadn't Zoe showed up, demonstrably
undead? She must have known she was thought to
have drowned. Apart from anything else, she'd be missing
her wallet. So if she was still alive, she had good reason for
staying hidden.
Or was being kept hidden, of course. That was another
possibility. That Zoe was still alive, but had no way of letting
the world know.
Sarah shivered. She'd ragged on Gerard yesterday for
smoking, but the truth was, she'd been known to take the
odd cigarette herself. She could do with one now.
Down below, on the far side of the square, a woman
rushed to catch a bus. It had started pulling away, but
slowed for her, opened its doors, let her on. Then it
shunted off on its journey. A happy ending, Sarah thought.
Except, of course, that it was only an ending from Sarah's
point of view. On that moving bus, the story continued.
But for someone else, it was well past over. Zoe or not,
there'd been a woman on that slab; perhaps murdered in
Zoe's place. Fresh water in her lungs, and a river for a
grave. Somewhere, a woman was missing. And Sarah
thought of the Big Issue Gerard had paid for, with its
columns of absent faces, and its enquiries hurled into the
dark: Have you seen this woman? Have you seen this man? If
the body wasn't Zoe's, there was a void somewhere else; a
life that had been lived, and now wasn't. There must surely
be people with questions. Though Alan Talmadge, of
course, had preyed on those least likely to be missed.
If anything could chill the heart, it was this: that there
were those who wouldn't be missed.
It was something else to tug on. Another loose thread.
What she needed now was a session on the web.
As Sarah made her way towards the stairs that would
take her to the street below, she thought she caught a
snatch of that music again; of the young band on the far
side of the shopping centre. But she couldn't have done.
There were too many buildings in the way. She must be
carrying the music in her head, she decided. But that was
a good place to carry it.
The rain was holding off as she made her way river
wards once more, new umbrella tightly folded in her hand.


Last night's Internet cafe seemed the right destination,
though Sarah had second thoughts before she'd gone a
hundred yards. What were her chances of Googling a likely
candidate for the body on the slab? Wouldn't the police
have found the woman first? What made Sarah think she
could do better?
Only that the police hadn't been looking. The body had
been carrying Zoe Boehm's ID, and Sarah had identified it
- her - as Zoe. So why would the police have looked elsewhere?
All the evidence pointed in the same direction. And
it wasn't like Zoe had appeared anywhere else.
Put that bluntly, what made Sarah think it wasn't Zoe?
She found herself at a junction she didn't remember, and
had to rustle through her bag for her A-Z. Being in a city
was taking a toll; living in a room was fraying too. Her
guide told her the hotel wasn't far: drab, unwelcoming,
cold and poorly lit. It would be easy to give up.
Sarah allowed the thought to roost. If she left now, she
could be home by supper: a brightly lit fire, a bottle of
wine; Russ on the sofa. The knowledge that her own roof
was over her head; that her office contained all she needed
for her working life; that the two ostriches were outside,
roaming their pen. Everything she'd made into a life, these
past years. But the thought didn't last. Russ would want to
know what happened in the end, and there wasn't an end
yet. And while he would willingly trade that for her safe
return, Sarah couldn't.
But still - that drab hotel room. Its unsatisfactory bathroom.
Its paltry array of toiletries.
She would stay, but would treat herself to a pampering.
After a stint on the web she'd have a long warm soak in
that unsatisfactory bath, and first she'd acquire the wherewithal
to make that soak worthwhile.
It must have been a memory that prompted that decision,
because here was the cosmetics shop she'd noticed
yesterday with Gerard. It was one of those animal-friendly
franchises with Technicolor packaging, and prices scrawled
in chalk on blackboards; the sort of place you wouldn't be
surprised to find had morphed into a female-friendly sex
shop since your last visit. Returning the smile of the blonde
in the smock at the till, Sarah went to browse the soaps,
which enjoyed a back room to themselves: down two steps
and through a bead curtain, like entering Ayesha's cave.
More soaps than you could wave a loofah at. All shapes
and sizes, including a huge block for shaving slices off, like
a cheese. And any colour you liked, so long as it glowed in
the dark.
Heaven.
There was an ethic to this. There were two kinds of shopping.
You came in armed and dangerous and bought
everything in sight, or you restricted yourself to a single
item, which took longer, but was peculiarly rewarding.
This was one of the latter trips. A clock on the wall said
2.45. Okay, thought Sarah. Fifteen minutes. Let's forget
everything for fifteen minutes and choose ourselves some
soap.
She was absorbed in this task when the bell jangled in
the outer half of the shop: someone coming in. She heard
the smocked blonde's bright greeting, and a man's reply:
'I'm after some moisturizer.' Pause. 'Not for me, like. For
me girlfriend.'
It was an odd thing about the Geordie lilt: lots of folk
could imitate it, but almost no one faking it could catch its
genuine warmth. Smiling, Sarah returned to her task. She'd
almost decided on tangerine. It wasn't exactly an out-there
choice - not when guava-jelly soap was available - but she
only had herself to please. One last scout round and, failing
a message from on high, she'd go with what she was
holding. Passing the bead curtain, she looked through it at
the new customer. He had his back to her, examining something
the assistant had produced. Moisturizer. He spoke
again: she didn't catch the words. Then he half turned,
pulling his wallet from a pocket and he was Barry, from
the hotel.
Barry, who'd told her that everywhere you went, you
found a Geordie and an Australian. And who appeared to
be both himself.
Sarah dropped her umbrella, dropped the soap, and
Barry looked round as they hit the floor. She sank to her
knees, retrieved the oblong block with her back to the
curtain, and the blonde called out, 'Everything all right in
there?'
'Oh, yeah, no, I was just -' What did her voice sound
like? To herself, it sounded strained: but would he recognize
it? "I just dropped - it's okay. I'm fine.'
Another pause, followed by the mumble of a transaction
being completed. The bell above the shop door jangled
again, and then the blonde was there, professional concern
on her face. 'Can I help, like?'
Numbly, Sarah showed her the dropped soap. It had a
flattened edge where one curve should be.
'Oh, put it back on the stand, man. Pick another one.'
'This is fine,' Sarah said. 'It'll be fine.'
Somehow she paid; somehow she left. Out on the pavement,
her new suspicions hit her like a headwind, and
kicked the breath out of her. She had to lean against a wall.
Alan Talmadge, Zoe had told her, wasn't an easy man to
build a picture of. A man who smuggled himself into the
lives of older women; bringing them love, Zoe had speculated.
And because love doesn't last forever, or perhaps
simply because there were other lonely women waiting, he
had to move on after a while, and rather than leave broken
hearts behind him, Alan Talmadge had ended lives.
'If he can't make a happy ending, he can at least make
an ending.'
This had happened twice that Zoe had known of, and
nothing about those events suggested they were his first
adventures. A woman had fallen from a crowded underground
platform. Another had slipped into a ditch on a
stormy night. It was pure accident, Zoe had told her, that
she'd found a connection between the two deaths; the
connection being Alan Talmadge, though he'd been using
different names. And Zoe had encountered him in the
flesh eventually, though she hadn't known it at the time.
She'd been looking for a fastidious man with longish hair,
who would twist it round his finger when lost in thought.
She'd encountered a buzz-cut matey type instead, who'd
been following her for longer than she'd been looking
for him.
Not long after, Alan Talmadge had slipped off the map.
Or so Zoe had thought at the time.
Sarah was gripping her left hand in her right; digging
her nails in as if that was all that was keeping her from
falling over some unseen edge. And she had dropped the
bag holding her soap.
She scooped it up. Opened it briefly, and took a deep
breath. The scent of tangerine whipped her away from a
Tyneside street for a moment, then dumped her back.
Escape wasn't that simple.
Barry was Alan Talmadge. It didn't matter which side
you looked at it from, that was the only answer.
Slowly, Sarah started walking; barely aware she was
doing so, much less conscious of where she was headed.
Talmadge had slipped off everyone's map but his own.
Meanwhile, Zoe had always been on his. He'd followed
her here; had taken a job at the Bolbec Hotel. . . She was my
first customer, he'd told Sarah. Well, of course she was.
So why hadn't Zoe recognized him?
Her steps faltered, stopped. Picked up.
Of course Zoe had recognized him . . .
He was - what was he? He wasn't a master of disguise;
that gave the wrong impression, Zoe had said. No, he was
anonymous. The kind of man you looked through.
But Zoe had encountered him before, Sarah thought.
There was no way she could have looked him in the eye
and not known him. No one was that anonymous.

We talked a bit. She drank what you're drinking.
No, Zoe would have pegged him before he'd poured a
drop. She'd have known who he was, word one.
He'd wiped the counter as if he were method acting,
Sarah remembered. Had been full of gestures a little too
perfect; a little too studied.
Except they hadn't worried Sarah, had they? She'd
noticed them, but they hadn't worried her.
And he spoke like an Australian - Wallaby Springs? except
when he was buying moisturizer with only a
Geordie girl in earshot. Then he was northern too; so much
so, Sarah had found herself thinking about the Geordie
lilt's genuine warmth.
He was good, there was no denying it. But not good
enough to fool Zoe twice.
No: whatever had happened to Zoe - whether she was
the woman in the water or not - she'd known what she'd
got herself into. And it was more important to her than
what she was doing for Gerard, or with Gerard, or despite
Gerard . .. Here was a knot Sarah hadn't yet untied. But
for Zoe, it had been sliced through. Whatever had brought
her here had faded into insignificance once Alan Talmadge
reared his head. He was her unfinished business. He was
the one who'd got away.
And here was Sarah, turning under the railway arch; and
there was the hotel up ahead.

When she stepped into the lobby Barry was on reception,
not the woman she'd been expecting, and this caused her
heart to lose a beat - she stumbled, but caught her balance
in time. Steady, she warned herself. Steady.
'Afternoon there, Ms Tucker.'
That antipodean twang again, which seemed to take a
bite out of Tucker.
'Barry'
'Been taking a wander?'
'Yes. Just - here and there.'
How about you? she almost asked. Popped out to do a little
shopping?
'Having a nice holiday?'

'Could I have my key?'
'But sure.' He'd already plucked it from the rack. 'You
know, when you came in there, it was like a breath of
spring.'
"I don't '
'Tangerines,' he said. "I distinctly smelt tangerines.' He
nodded at her bag. It was plain brown paper, and could
have come from anywhere. 'Pick up some fruit on your
wanderings?'
'No,' she said. 'No. Not really'
And this must be what it was like when you were a
mouse, and the cat had a paw either side of you. Big
bright smile on its face, as if it intended you nothing but
pleasure.
'Oh,' he said. "I meant to ask.'
She'd already taken the key, and was measuring the distance
between here and the stairs. 'Ask what?'
'About your friend. Zoe, right?'
Something cold shifted position between Sarah's shoulder
blades. 'What about her?'
'The other night. You were wondering what we were
discussing.'
Sarah said, 'It's not important. It was just something to
say, that's all.'
'Well, I was wondering, why don't you ask her?'
She stared.
He shrugged. 'Women have better memories for that sort
of thing.'
'You've seen her?'
'Why? Is she still around?'
"I - I'm not sure. Have you seen her?'
'Not since she checked out,' Barry said. 'Not since that
evening we chatted.' He picked up a pen, and rolled it
between finger and thumb, but didn't take his eyes from
Sarah. 'But I presume you're in touch with her. Friends,
right?'
'Yes,' Sarah said.
'So give her a call.' He winked. 'Send her my regards,
yeah?' The phone rang then, as if it had heard its name
mentioned. 'Bolbec Hotel, can I help you?'
The stairs welcomed Sarah like an old friend.

In her room, she dropped the keys on the bed; put the bag
of soap on the dresser. Barry hadn't been wrong. Just carrying
it in had charged the atmosphere: it was a small zesty
bomb. But he must have known it wasn't fruit. Real fruit
didn't smell like that: not in this half of the world.
Give her a call. Send her my regards, yeah?
Had he known it was Sarah in the shop?
He hadn't come through the bead curtain, and hadn't
been in sight when she'd left. But he'd heard her voice,
even if she'd tried to sound different. And she was carrying
this brown bag, which must have been like the one he'd
been given for his moisturizer.
Not for me, like. For me girlfriend.
That Geordie lilt, with its genuine warmth.
But had he known it was Sarah in the shop?
It would be foolish to assume he hadn't. Isn't that what
Zoe would tell her? It would be exceedingly unwise to
imagine that everything was okay.
But more than that, there was something in what he'd
said.
Give her a call. Send her my regards, yeah?
Yes: if a cat could talk with a mouse between its paws,
that's the kind of thing it would say.
You've got a friend? Give her a call.
It would then lick its lips.





146
147

mm

: i
Send her my regards. Yeah?
And there it was: the something hidden in his words.
Sarah sat on the bed and closed her eyes. Screwed them
tightly at first, in the effort of memory, then loosened up as
the images flowed.
There was a game she'd played as a child: Kim's Game.
She had a vague notion its name came from Kipling. Eyes
shut, she played it now; imagined a tray hovering in front
of her and then, one by one, placed these objects neatly
upon it.
Keys. A watch. A lipstick. Zoe's hairbrush. A wallet.
Things that were in the wallet - a clump of till receipts and
credit card slips. The credit cards themselves, of course,
and some coins and notes . . . Some other things. But she
couldn't bring them to mind.
She opened her eyes. The room remained as it had been;
same dull pattern marching up and down its walls; same
dusty lamp in the corner. There was no tray hovering in
front of her. But when she closed her eyes again, it came
back:
Keys, a watch, a lipstick, a hairbrush, a wallet, till
receipts, credit card slips, credit cards, coins, notes. A pen.
That was one of the other things, but there was more, too
-	the jewellery. A silver chain she couldn't remember Zoe
wearing, but had no difficulty picturing her doing so, and
a ring, a plain gold band, which was probably her wedding
ring but which she now wore on a different finger.
What else?
The clothing, the jacket, the belt. But this wasn't about
what Zoe had been wearing; it was about what she'd been
carrying.
What else?
Keys, watch, lipstick, hairbrush, wallet, till receipts,
credit card slips, credit cards, coins, notes, pen, chain, ring
-	she thought that was all. She was sure of it.
In her mind, she went through them again: laid these
objects out on the tray she'd conjured up, which left no
more room upon it. The tray was as full as the slab the
body had lain upon.
So she sat up, opened her eyes, and turned on the bedside
lamp. Immediately the room took on a different configuration.
Shadows rearranged themselves. Fresh ones
sprang to life.
Sarah reached for her mobile, and pressed a familiar
sequence of buttons; waited while the numbers negotiated
with the ether, and made bells ring.
Rang once, twice, three times. And then the recorded
voice kicked in:
You've reached Zoe Boehm. Leave a message.

She couldn't stay The room had grown smaller; the whole
hotel had, as if bowing to the inevitability of its coming
closure. If she remained, she'd be trapped inside an ever
shrinking space; a box she was forced to share with Alan
Talmadge.
When she replayed his words, they came out the same:
Why don't you call her? Give her my regards.
Which meant what? That he knew Zoe was dead? Or
knew she was alive?
Or maybe he was just telling her that he knew that the
body pulled from the water was missing a mobile phone.
And that Zoe never went anywhere without her mobile.
Sarah grabbed her purse, opened the door and paused
on the threshold. The corridor was empty. The only sound
came from downstairs; a coughing, chugging noise it took
her a while to identify as a vacuum cleaner. The other night
she'd wondered if the mirrors were arranged so you could
sit at reception and spy on every floor. But that couldn't be
possible, could it? Not outside a creepy film.
She wished Gerard hadn't checked out. His viewpoint
might have been useful right now. This is nonsense. You're
in a large hotel in a big city. Alan Talmadge? If he ever existed,
he doesn't now.
But too many details were conspiring to suggest that he
did. And Gerard wasn't here.
Though only Barry had seen him check out, of course.
It was just another detail, but it led down a corridor
as empty as this one. What if Gerard had never checked
out at all? What if Barry had lied about that too? Gerard
might still be around; strapped up in one of the utility
cupboards, or 'No,'
she said aloud. No. That was seriously outside the
realm of possibility.
Except that, now the thought had formed, there was no
dismissing it.
Closing the door behind her, she moved towards the
staircase just as the asthmatic vacuuming choked into
silence. The air continued humming for a beat, as if it
missed the company. Sarah paused again, then caught herself
in the mirror on the landing, and moved in a hurry.
One flight. Another landing. Another flight.
Reception was unattended, but any moment, he'd be
back. Pop his head out from the office: Did you speak to your
friend yet? Zoe, right?
His accent breaking like a wave on a faraway beach . . .
Sarah got as far as the front door before she heard the
voice behind her 'Ms
Tucker?'
- but it was the woman. The one whose name she'd
never got hold of.
'Will you be here for supper?'
"I - no. I mean yes.'
'That's a yes, right?'
'That's a yes.'
'Thank you.'
'Is, ah - I thought Barry was on duty?'
'He's taking a break. Another break.'
'Oh.'
'He's already been out this afternoon. But I owe him a
favour.'
Words accompanied by a hint of smirk.
Sarah left. The skies had darkened further; already, it felt
like evening. And Barry could be yards away, watching
from round a corner. He'd known she'd been in the shop:
she'd convinced herself of that now. He'd known she'd
been there from the moment she'd walked up to the
reception desk, carrying the brown bag with its scent of
tangerines.
But the only watching man she could see was the Big
Issue seller at his post by the parking meters.
It made no difference. Alan Talmadge was a watcher, a
hider. If he didn't want to be seen, she wouldn't see him.
The Big Issue man gave her a wave. But she didn't have
time, she didn't have time. She began hurrying towards the
railway station.
A crowd, she had decided. She needed to be near a
crowd. At the Central Station, there would be a crowd.
She'd feel safer there. And that would give her the chance
to work out what to say when she rang DS King. She had
to be able to explain it so he'd understand: the things she
hadn't told him about Zoe - about Zoe's jacket - about the
man who'd taken it from her. About why she was frightened
now.
The other one, Fairfax, she didn't want to speak to. The
best she could expect from him would be another outburst.
Why was she wasting his time?
The sky grumbled, and she walked faster.
But before she'd got as far as the Lit  Phil, she found
herself reaching for her mobile, and then reaching again,
checking one pocket after the other, in confirmation of
what she already knew: that she'd left her phone in the
hotel. She should go back. But that would be like the fly
returning to the spider's web because - . . . But she
couldn't think of anything a fly might leave behind. Which
didn't change the situation. Barry - Talmadge - might be
following her even now, and if he wasn't, it would be
stupid to give him the chance. She didn't have King's number,
but she knew where the damn police station was.
With the thought came another rumble from above, and
this time it wasn't kidding. The skies grew darker still. And
then brightened suddenly, as if they'd been ripped apart to
reveal the light behind.
The first spats hit the pavement like footballs, bouncing.
Along with her mobile phone, she'd abandoned her new
umbrella. She had no idea where.
'That'll be the rain starting up,' someone behind her said,
as if it were always the same rain, and generally began
about now. It fell hard, from long practice, and among a
crowd of others Sarah rushed for the station portico.
Within seconds, the rain was lashing the road, turning traffic
amphibious. An overhead gutter became a tap, directing
a thick stream on to the pavement.
A wheeled suitcase overturned on the nearby zebra
crossing. Its owner struggled to right it in the downpour,
while waiting cars were carpet-bombed by rain.
'It can't last.'
'It'll never last.'
Voices off.
She'd have called this idle chatter, were it not for the effort needed to make it. At high volume, to be heard
above the rain, a consensus formed: this will never last. But
the skies didn't brighten, and the rain didn't stop.
Sarah stood among a crowd of strangers, in this large
porch, and felt afraid.
People were anonymous in the rain. Hoods came up;
umbrellas unfolded; disguises were unpacked and artfully
donned. Barry had gone AWOL just as she'd left the hotel,
and could be anywhere. Could be one of those soaked rats
trying to crush themselves against the wall over there, as
if the slim ledge above might shelter them. Could be one
of those sinners still striding the pavements; faces obscured
by the melting newspapers they used for hats.
And the rain fell like a curtain. This area Sarah had
fetched up in, a place for taxis to pull into, was like the
secret space behind a waterfall, but more crowded. People
streamed in and out of the station, catching trains or just
released from them; heading for the Metro or one of the
concourse bars, to wait the weather out with a cup of
coffee. She thought about joining them, but wouldn't be
able to sit still. And couldn't face the Metro, with its escalators
and subterranean platforms. But knew she wanted to
be on the move.
Barry was not among these close-at-hand strangers. But
he could be close, veiled by rain. Could be in the newsagent's
over the road, watching through a steamed-up
window.
Her hand curled into a fist. Her nails dug into her palm.
A bus was arriving at a stop over the road. Without consciously
deciding to do so, Sarah moved; sprinted from her
shelter and across the zebra, earning an angry squonk from
a car, but making it over in one piece; making it to the bus
stop too, just in time.
'In a hurry, pet?' the driver asked as Sarah fumbled for
her fare.
Sarah said something. She wasn't sure what.
'Sooner get there in one piece, myself. There's another
bus just after.'
As she sat, she saw it pulling up behind: another yellow
double-decker, monstrous in the rain. Its screen-wiper
slashing to and fro like a blade. A man was jumping
aboard. He had his collar turned up, and his head averted.
Wet city traffic was a fractious thing. Tyres slapped the
tarmac, and horns blared disgust. Raindrops smacked like
bullets off car roofs. Outside, pedestrians waded from one
doorway to the next. And then, with a jerk, the bus arrived
at an unclogged channel and forged ahead, carrying Sarah
into unknown country: a land of wet streets and fogged
up shop windows.
The bus behind splashed along in their wake.
She became aware of conversation around her: strangers
exchanging bulletins on how their day was going. Owa' wet was the general verdict.
All of these people, and were any of them who they
appeared to be?
Sarah's palm ached.
Barry was the barman at the Bolbec Hotel: he doubled as
receptionist, and goodness knows what else. She didn't
even know his surname. He was from 'Wallaby Springs'.
But he wasn't from Wallaby Springs, and he hadn't been
anything at the Bolbec Hotel for more than two weeks. All
those tricks of his trade - the tea-towel over the shoulder;
the counter-wiping while he talked - sang Look at me. I'm a
barman. But in the soap shop, his accent had been northern.
Details that bounced around her head again, faster than
the first time.
Barry was Alan Talmadge. And he knew she knew.
You want to talk to Zoe? Why don't you give her a ring?
The bus pulled up: people got on, people got off. The air
cleared when the doors opened, but fogged again immediately
they closed. The bus behind also stopped to disgorge
passengers. Through the runny windows she could make
out furry shapes, the blooming of umbrellas. There was
nobody following her. It was not possible for anyone to be
following her. Least of all was it possible for that person to
be Alan Talmadge. But still she looked, in case a shape took
form, and boarded this bus.
If he does, I'll know him, she thought. If it's Barry. He
might be able to shift his shape - might be different things
to different people - but he couldn't be different things to
the same person, could he? Geordie Barry was also Barry
from Oz. She'd not have known him otherwise.
And he was not, she told herself, he was not he was not
he was not on this bus.
Stop. Calm down. Take deep breaths.
The voice in her head was not her own.
It was Zoe's. For just one moment, she thought it was
Zoe on the bus, but it was only Zoe in her head: Calm down.
Take deep breaths. She didn't remember Zoe ever saying
those things, but it was possible. They'd shared tense
moments.
Tears stung her, and her vision fogged like the bus's
windows.
She wished she'd spoken to Russ today.
She wished she had her phone.
Through the window to her right the land fell away, perhaps
down to the river. Sarah could make out what might
be the roofs of allotment huts, but it was raining too hard
to be sure. And then the gap was filled by a row of terraced
housing, with each and every door and window covered
by metal sheeting.
At the end of this row was a Metro sign.
The bus stopped a hundred yards further on. Sarah
slipped out the middle door, where the weather hit her like
a dustbin lid, and hurried back down the road. The second
bus splashed her as it passed.
But the sign was for an off-licence, not the Metro.
She turned in time to see the second bus disappearing.
There was no telling if anyone had emerged from it. A man
- collar up; indistinct in the rain and the gathering dark waited
to cross the road, twenty yards away. A couple of
lads were gaining ground, but split round her like water
on a rock. Their voices blurred in passing, as if she'd
spun the dial on a radio. She looked for a street sign, but
couldn't see one.
Rain continued to fall.
It had been a while since smoking was legal in pubs, but
here was a temple to its memory: the walls still nicotine
tinged; the tin sheet screwed into the door advising Senior
Service Satisfy.
Sarah dripped in the doorway. Everyone in the room had
turned to look at her, or that's what it felt like.
A sofa ran round the wall, hemmed in place by tables
and wooden stools, most of them occupied. It seemed early
for a bar to be full, but if the alternative was being outside,
she could see the argument. There was drink being taken,
and enough noise to go round. Some of it poured from a
wall-mounted TV, tuned to sports coverage.
A gas fire banged out heat so hard, Sarah could almost
see it warp. The air was heavy with damp from drying
clothes. It was like attending a wet-dog conference.
She headed for the bar. She was the only woman there,
she thought, then realized that no, there was another; an
old woman on a stool at the counter, the shape and approximate
colour of a postbox.
The barman asked, 'What can I get you?'
Sarah had no idea. Didn't seem like a good moment to
say so, though.
She'd come through that door because it was the first
she'd found which looked like it would open when
pushed. There were no shops, or none that were functioning.
Even that off-licence had been locked. If another bus
had come she'd have been on it in a flash, but none
appeared. The pub offered shelter, at least.
'Just a water. Thanks. Mineral water. If you have it.'
He stared, and she wondered if she'd mortally offended
him. Then his face broke into a smear she took for a grin.
'You've not had enough of that yet?'
'Maybe you're right. Make it a whisky'
'Bells?'
She nodded. Whatever.
In a western, there'd have been a general release of tension
with that.
The nearest stool was free, so she sat. There was nowhere
to drape her coat. She wondered if it was ruined. What a
stupid thing to do: buy an umbrella then immediately lose
it. But not the worst thing that had happened today. Elbow
on the bar, she rested her head on her hand. That man
who'd hopped off the bus behind her. That couldn't have
been Talmadge, could it? She couldn't be positive. She was
starting to think of Talmadge as a phantom; able to move
at will through obstacles. Mostly unseen. Only ever
glimpsed. When she wrenched her mind back to his other
identity, Barry the barman, she was unable to summon up
his features. It was as if her new knowledge of him had
obscured his previous self.
Her drink was placed in front of her, and she raised her
head. 'Thanks.' She almost knocked the glass over, reaching
for her purse.
'When you're ready, pet.'
She flushed. But before she could retrieve her money,
someone spoke. 'Ah'll buy the lady's drink.'
A clatter of coins accompanied this.
Sarah said, 'No. Really'
'It's done, love.'
The barman scooped the payment up, and it was indeed
done.
'See?'
Looking at her gallant, Sarah saw a fiftyish-looking man
with a well-lined face and greying curls that fizzed into
sideburns. He wore damp denims over a T-shirt that did
nothing to hide his paunch. If you had to itemize a stranger
you didn't want buying you a drink, this one ticked all
the boxes.
She placed three pound coins in front of him. 'Thank
you. But there's no need. I'll pay for my own drinks.'
'Now that's not polite. Turning down an honest gift.'
He pushed the money back her way.
Something similar had happened the other evening, in
the hotel bar. A drunk had tried to buy a piece of her attention.
And even if Barry - Talmadge! - hadn't smoothed him
away, Sarah wouldn't have been worried. You took this
sort of thing in your stride. Accepted the drink or refused
it, and tried not to give offence. Not because you didn't
want to give offence, but because you didn't want a scene.
It wasn't like you didn't get the practice.
But that had been somewhere else; somewhere similar to
places she knew and felt comfortable in. Here, she was on
foreign ground. She'd known pubs like this in her youth,
but only as part of a crowd. Force of numbers, plus teenage
invulnerability, had rendered her oblivious to threat. Now,
though, she was alone, off balance, and - she was beginning
to suspect - down the wrong end of the city.
'You're kind. But I'm fine. Really'
He stared, as though she were speaking a different
language.
The barman had retreated to the far end of the counter.
He knew damn well what was happening: he just didn't
care. There was a sly awareness to his posture; a trapped
laugh he wasn't releasing yet.
Her unwelcome benefactor said, 'Ye divvent want to be
perched on a stool like a parrot, pet. Come away and sit on
the sofa, like.'
'I'm fine where I am.'
'Just being friendly' His fist was wrapped round a gassy
pint, its rim laced with froth. He smiled at Sarah as he
raised it to his lips. The two events - the smile, the swallow
- merged into a single ugly act.
From where she sat, Sarah could see the door. The afternoon
accordioned in her memory, its events squeezing into
a single long mistake: from buying her lost umbrella to
shopping for soap to taking that bus ride through the dark
rain, whose every shadow belonged to Alan Talmadge.
Somehow, all this had brought her through that door and
dumped her on this stool. Somehow she'd wound up at the
mercy of an export-swilling Lothario.
She should get up and walk back out, but where would
that leave her? In the rain again, lost among those
shadows.
As if to underscore her thoughts the weather made an
assault on the pub's windows, and the sound of rattling
frames joined the clinking of drinks, the sharing of jokes,
the TV's mutterings; all the communal noise surrounding
her, but which Sarah wasn't part of. She felt trapped
behind a pane of glass herself. Something preventing her
from raising her voice to say: Take this man away. I came in
here for shelter. Something whispering that even if she did
so, nobody would hear, or take action.
This man clearly wasn't Alan Talmadge. But he was from
the same tribe, even if he didn't know it. He was further
down the chain, that was all.
'So what brings ye doon here?'
"I got caught in the rain.'
'Aye, it's fockin' brutal out.'
She hadn't tasted her drink yet. She picked it up now;
mentally formed the words Please. Go away but didn't say
them. The whisky bit her throat. She didn't drink spirits
often. It wasn't a pub, though, where you asked for a
Sauvignon.
She drank what you're drinking, Barry had said. Always a
good basis for friendship.
In the absence of anything else . . .
Zoe, she thought. What were you doing?
'Come on, then. See that off, and wuh'll have another.'
'Please,' she said. 'No offence. I just don't want company
right now.'
'But Ah've paid for your drink, like.'
The coins were still on the counter in front of her. Wordlessly,
she slid them his way.
'Ah divvent want your money, pet.' This with an air of
irritated explanation: a teacher faced with a dunce. 'Just a
smile and a chat. Is that too much to ask, like?'
She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them
again, he was still there.
'Or are ye too fockin' posh to smile?'
He pushed the money back towards her - pushed it
deliberately roughly. A coin dropped to the floor and rolled
under a table. Sarah bit her lip.
'Ye want it, ye'd better pick it up. Hadn't ye?'
She looked at him. That was a mistake. It didn't matter
how much you wanted to pacify, the straight look could be
a threat to some men. Especially grey and frazzled men,
stuck in a pub before the working day was out.
'Gan on. Ah divvent mind watching ye crawl roond
the floor.'
There was a noise behind Sarah; a throaty rattle. Half a
cough. Followed by words. 'Trev? You've had your fun. Off
you fuck, now. There's a good lad.'
It was the old woman on the next stool along, and she
wasn't even looking Trev's way. Didn't have to.
He said, 'Ah was just '
'The lady's not interested. She stopped in out the rain.
Pick her pound up and go sit down. I won't ask twice.'
And it was his turn to look at Sarah, and now he was the
one hoping for understanding - Can you believe these old
women get away with this? She didn't alter her expression.
But she looked away before he did, and took a sip of her
drink.

He slipped from his stool, and went foraging for the runaway
pound.
Sarah turned to the old woman, who hadn't raised her
head during the exchange. With a folded-over tabloid in
front of her, she was stuck into Sudoku. Before Sarah could
speak, a coin was pressed down into the space between

them. The thumb doing the pressing wanted to drill it
through the counter.
'Thank you,' she said.
'Don't . . . mention it.'
Don't fockin' mention it, he meant.
He removed himself to the corner he'd emerged from.
Slunk back, Sarah wanted to say, but he didn't; he swaggered,
rather, as if he'd won on points in a romantic
encounter.
She guessed a man like that did a lot of rewriting of
immediate history.
'He meant no harm,' the woman said.
'I'm sure he didn't.'
Rain still beat the windows, but she thought she'd be
leaving here regardless, just as soon as she'd finished her
drink.
'And it's not like he imagined you were going to fall for
him.' The woman still didn't look up from her paper. 'The
gap's as visible from his side as yours.'
Sarah put her glass down. 'You think I'm a tourist?'
"I think you came in out the rain.'
'Well, then.'
'Just not sure what brought you here in the first place.'
Sarah said, "I must have wandered across a checkpoint.
When I got on the bus, I was in the twenty-first century'
'There's your error. Walker's still suffering through the
twentieth.'
At last she looked up, and Sarah saw her eyes for the
first time: bright robin's eyes in a face that might have been
modelled from papier mache. Not well modelled, either.
Saggy lumps at her jaw and below her eyes looked like
mistakes. Sarah tried not to stare at her moustache.
She said, 'So, what would you have done? If you'd had
to ask twice?'
The woman said, 'Gary behind the bar there's stepping
out with our Derek's Carol. Trevor doesn't want to go
crossing me if he wants to keep his local.'
There was a family web Sarah didn't want to get
stuck on.
'And last thing Trevor wants to lose is his local. Lad's
lost pretty much everything else.'
The Tad' must have been in his fifties.
Sarah said, 'Is this where you tell me his sad story? So I
grasp what a noble soul he is?'
She might have saved her breath.
'Once Armstrong's went to the wall, that was his future
used up. His wife found a better prospect. He gets four
weeks a year at Christmas on the Post. Rest of the time,
he's in here.'
"I get the picture.'
'I'm not sure you do. What were you doing twenty
year ago?'
Those robin's eyes had shifted somehow. Still bright, but
predatory now.
'Buying your first house? Starting your first job?'
'Not quite,' she said. But not that far off, either.
'Trevor was in here. Where do you think you'll be twenty
year from now?'
'You've made your point,' Sarah said. 'Next time, I think
I'll just get wet.'
The woman smiled at last. 'Wouldn't be doing my job if
I didn't make you feel worse. Truth is, Trevor was an arse
hole when he had work and a wife. Where he'll be in
twenty years is his problem.'
'And what would your job be again?'
'I'm the local busybody, dear. I'd've thought you'd've
worked that out by now.'
She picked up her drink - something Coke-coloured,
that probably wasn't - and drained the glass. Then winked
at Sarah.
Feeling she'd wandered out of one situation straight into
another, Sarah suppressed a sigh. 'Same again?'
That'd be grand, pet.'
Not a freeloader, though. She bought her round.
She just liked to talk.
'Don't get me wrong, pet. They've rebuilt this city from
the ground up. They just forgot parts, that's all.'
Sarah said, 'It's a process. Not everything gets done at
once.'
She was on her third whisky. It was still raining. And the
bar was still full, though most of the background noise had
muffled to an ambient roar. Maybe that was the drink,
insulating her.
'And when they reach here, they'll build more fancy
housing where the yards used to be. But us who've lived
here these forty year'11 not be moving into riverside flats.'
'Ivy she said. 'Last thing you want is to be moving into
any fancy new riverside flat.'
'Aye. Be nice to be asked though, wouldn't it?'
She laughed a cackle of a laugh: raw and unabashed.
When Trev had been hassling her, Sarah had suspected
they'd had a secret audience. It wasn't so secret now. Ivy
played to a crowd.
The door had opened a dozen times: always someone
coming in; never anyone leaving. And every time, she'd
had to look, just to make sure. And it had never been Barry.
She was starting to believe it never would be.
Which didn't stop her looking.
Ivy said, 'You'll be having another.'
It wasn't a question.
Sarah said, "I should be going.'
But she'd got it right first time: it wasn't a question. Ivy
had already given the nod to Gary behind the bar, who was
stepping out with our Derek's Carol.
A warm fuzz was taking the edge off Sarah's next big
issue: what was she supposed to do now?
Okay, so she'd given Alan Talmadge the slip. But all she
had with her was her purse. She'd been going to call DS
King, but that was before the warm fuzz had wrapped her:
she'd need a good hard think before trying to outline
the details of the day to a policeman. And besides, so many
of those details remained shadows in the dark. Did she
need to take another look at the body on the slab? Did
she still think it was Zoe? Maybe it was. Maybe Talmadge
had taken her mobile phone at the same time he'd taken
her life.
The door opened with a now familiar scrape, and she
couldn't help herself: she had to look. She knew it
wouldn't be Barry but she had to look.
Ivy said, 'Are you sure it's just the rain you're sheltering
from?'
Sarah said, 'It's bound to stop soon. It can't keep this up
forever.'
'Only every time that door opens, you startle like a
fawn.'
Sarah couldn't help wondering how many fawns Ivy
had encountered on the streets of Walker. Even as she was
thinking that, a bell was ringing: Walker. Why was the
name familiar?
'Or is Trevor not the only one been making himself a
nuisance?'
'Any given day,' Sarah said, 'we can safely assume
Trevor'll not be the only one doing that.'
'You're married, then.'
She had to laugh. "I have been. Not any more.'
'Turned out not what you expected?'
Sarah said, 'Not so much being married. More the
husband.'
'Aye, that's a long road, once you start down it. Men
who aren't what they seem.'
She tapped her glass. Sarah still hadn't identified her
tipple; 'same again' had done the trick. But Ivy seemed
capable of drinking it forever without a visible twitch.
. . . Men who aren't what they seem, she thought. It certainly
was a long road. Mark, her ex-husband, lived somewhere
on it; along with, she sometimes thought, every man
she'd met since. Which wasn't always a bad thing. Russ
was a darling, though hadn't seemed so on first meeting,
while Gerard had struck her as a monster. And while that
was true enough - he was a monster - he was also human,
as it turned out. But they were the mild examples. Barry
loomed larger right now: a man who adopted the identity
of friendly Australian barman as easily as he tossed a tea
towel over one shoulder. Nor was she the first woman to
have been fooled. As Alan Talmadge, he had taken lives.
Was it any wonder Sarah startled every time the door
scraped open?
And then there was Jack Gannon. A nice guy at a party,
who turned out to be the son of the Godfather.
Which was the connection, of course. The Gannons were
a Walker family. This was their patch.
Ivy said, 'So that's who you're worried about?'
For a moment, Sarah thought the old woman had read
her mind and was talking about Jack. Then she respooled
the thread of their conversation, and realized Ivy thought
Sarah had an ex-husband on her tail.
She shook her head. 'He's long gone.'
'But someone isn't.'
Ivy wasn't the police. She was an old soak in a pub. On
the other hand, she had a pair of ears.
Sarah said, 'It's a long story'
Ivy called to Gary, 'When you're ready, hen.'
Their drinks arrived.

She wasn't sure how long her story took. All she knew was
that once she'd started there was no slowing; and that what
poured forth was pure narrative, drained of emotion. No
tears, not even when describing the body on the slab. But
as she spoke a valve loosened, and the strain she'd been
under since arriving in Newcastle eased. Even the rain
seemed to relax; its onslaught on the windows calming to
a patter that was mostly drowned by the hubbub inside.
It was the kind of story that brought itself to an obvious
conclusion. It ended with Sarah sitting on this barstool,
now.
For a while after she'd finished, the two women sat in
silence. Ivy had been an unexpected listener. Their conversation
so far had mostly involved her own story, which was
not so much a linear narrative as a collage of details whose
context Sarah had been expected to keep up with, the end
result being a sort of pointillist biography; various unconnected
dots adding up to a life, provided you viewed them
through half-shut eyes. Perhaps, Sarah thought, Ivy wasn't
used to things happening to other people. Or didn't accord
them importance. But that was an impertinent conclusion,
as well as a wrong one. Ivy listened. Ivy weighed things
up. Ivy didn't speak until she'd decided what she was
going to say.
Which was: 'Well, bugger me.'
Somehow, Sarah hadn't been expecting that.
'And every word of it gospel. Yes?'
Sarah said, tightly, 'Every word. Yes.'
'Now, then. It's a reasonable question.'
Ivy drained her glass. Sarah had long lost count of how
many that made. Her wallet was feeling light, though. As
was her head.
'This man, your Barry'
'He's not my Barry'
'Pet, you've got to lighten up.'
Which was the first time she'd been given that particular
piece of advice by an octogenarian.
'But he's also this Talmadge feller.'
'Yes,' Sarah said. "I think so,' she amended.
'Who's killed your women in the past.'
Zoe's women, she thought. Talmadge killed Zoe's
women, though Zoe never met them either.
She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them,
the bar swam in front of her. That's it, she thought. No
more to drink.
As ever, that awareness arrived ten minutes after it
might have been useful.
Ivy, though. Ivy looked like she could keep drinking
until the birthday after next.
'And he knows I know,' Sarah said. 'Know who he is.'

This struck her with some force, and she turned to make
sure Barry hadn't sneaked in while she'd been spilling her
story. The room boomed before her eyes, then diminished
into a miniature version of itself, full of small happy
drinkers. She felt Ivy's hand patting her arm, and then her
vision was back to normal. She had the horrible feeling she
was about to throw up.
'Through the back, pet,' Ivy said. She was pointing with
an admirably straight arm. Back along the bar - near to
where Trev still sat - then through a door marked Toliets. Or probably Toilets. 'You'll feel better after. That's always
the way'
As Sarah tested her legs on the floor, she heard Ivy say,
'And there's nowt to worry about. Not in here. Your man'll
never dare show his face in here.'

The next five minutes were not among Sarah's finest.
When she re-showed herself in the bar, her face was white
and still damp. The dispenser had been out of paper towels,
and she'd had to do what she could with her hands.
The taste of vomit lingered, and she dreaded to think what
her breath smelled like. But there was a glass of water waiting
on the bar, next to a mug of black coffee, and while
she'd never subscribed to the idea that coffee was a cure
for being drunk, she welcomed both. The water helped
with the sour taste in her mouth, and the coffee scalded her
tongue, but made her feel better.
She began to say, 'Ivy, I'm '
'Hush, man. I'd had your day, they'd need a crane to lift
me off the floor.'
"I haven't eaten lately either, and '
'Well, I'd give that a while yet. Let's not run before we
can walk, eh?'
Good advice. Even the thought of food made Sarah's
stomach threaten to heave again. But she felt better, that
was true; and as drunken episodes go, she'd enacted
worse. Her memory was intact, and she knew she hadn't
danced on the bar or shrieked with laughter. Up until feeling
sick, she'd actually thought she was more or less sober.
Now all she wanted to do was close her eyes.
Ivy said, 'You've not called the polis?'
'The polis?'
'The polis.'
The police, Sarah translated. She drank more water.
Funny how having drunk too much made you thirsty. There
were sound chemical reasons for this, but still: funny.
She said, 'You know - right this minute? Right this
minute, the last thing I want to do is talk to anyone.'
It was so tempting to close her eyes, and lay her head
down on the bar. For all the noise and the heavy wet fug,
she'd sleep so peacefully . . .
'Maybe so, pet. But you can't just leave it at that, can you
now?' Ivy seemed to be in charge of Sarah's immediate
future. 'Not that I'm recommending the polis, like. We've
little love round here for the blue.' A fresh glass of her
Coke-coloured drink had materialized in front of her. Gary
was evidently under a standing instruction. 'For all our
Eileen's youngest took the shilling ten years back. He's a
sergeant now.'
'Ivy '
'So I made a phone call while you were freshening up.
It's clear you're in more trouble than you know what to do
with. And this Barry fella - I'd give him a good clip if he
showed his face round here. But he's not likely to do that
now, is he?'
A good clip. One way of dealing with him. But other facts
were struggling for clarification: 'Ivy? You called who?'
'Someone who'll know what to do.'
Not Eileen's youngest, by the sound of it. Maybe our
Derek's Carol. Sarah reached for her water, but she'd finished
it last time, so picked up the coffee instead. It was
still too hot to drink. The pub door opened, but Sarah
didn't turn. A more urgent question had occurred to her,
having weaved its way through the whisky-smoke in her
mind. 'Ivy? What does "gan canny" mean?'
If Ivy were discombobulated by the change of direction,
she didn't show it. 'Learning the lingo?'
"I like,' said Sarah, 'to make the effort.'
Ivy said, 'Our Derek's pal Tezza, on the buses, he was
from St Kitts. He used to say, "Be careful as you walk."
Instead of goodbye, like.'
'Be careful as you walk,' Sarah repeated.
'Aye,' Ivy told her. 'That's what "gan canny" means, pet.'
'Be careful as you walk,' she said again.
There was a man right behind her now, but it wasn't
Barry. Wasn't Alan Talmadge. Looking at his reflection in
the bar mirror, Sarah could say with some certainty that
she'd never laid eyes on him in her life.
'He'll see you all right, pet Ivy said. 'No need to worry'
'I'm not,' Sarah said.
Which was true. Whatever Ivy had in mind, Sarah knew
it didn't involve doing Sarah harm.
'Gan canny, pet,' Ivy said.
'This the lassie?' the man asked.
Ivy nodded.
'Had away, then,' he said, or something like it.
Sarah got to her feet, none too steadily. The man let her
lead the way out of the bar. It was hard not to notice that
everyone watched them leave, or that they stopped talking
while they did so.
Outside it was dark and still wet. A car was parked at
the kerb, hazards flashing. The man opened the door, and
Sarah climbed into the back. Then he got into the front,
and drove away.
'More water?'
'Thanks.'
He poured it from a jug. She was a world away from
dead-end Walker. The armchair embraced her like a feather
bed. She could easily close her eyes and swim into sleep.
'Another Nurofen?'
'Better not. Shouldn't have had that first one.' Her words
stumbled. 'Not after whisky'
Jack Gannon said, 'You'll be fine. They put that warning
stuff on the packets to cover themselves.'
The drive across town was already a blur. Her chauffeur
had barely uttered a word, once he'd established that nothing
he said met with comprehension. Sarah's attempts at
learning the lingo had juddered to a halt.
But there was quite some distance between here and
where Jack had grown up, that was clear. This street was
quiet, suburban, tree-lined; included, across the road, what
was either a school or a convent, with ivy creeping in and
out of the diamond pattern of its mesh fence. Tidy strips of
grass lined both pavements.
Jack said, 'Why go to Walker? Why drop my name in a
pub? You could have called.'
"I didn't drop your name.' She half-laughed. 'Didn't
even know I was in Walker till I got there. And didn't
know you were someone whose name would be picked up
that easily'
'No?'
She looked up. He was obviously sober; he came into
focus within a second. His living room was a long uncluttered
space, knocked through front to back, but he was
close at hand, in the matching armchair. 'Okay. I knew
more about you than you revealed on first meeting. Or
second.'
He said, 'None of us can help our ancestry'
'Ivy asked me my story. I told her. You came into it,
that's all.'
Jack nodded. There was something different about him
tonight. He was still tall and the same kind of thin steel
cables were; still had neatly styled dark hair and acne
patched cheeks. But there was something different. Maybe
it was to do with being on his own territory.
He said, 'The Internet's a sort of jungle pond, don't you
think? Jump into it, you never know what you're going to
find. Or what's going to find you.'
You wouldn't have to bend that too far out of shape to
make it a threat. But he didn't look threatening. More
rueful, if anything. As if he was all too aware of the details
an Internet trawl might drag into the light.
Sarah said, "I take everything I find on it with a pinch
of salt.'
The image threatened to make her gag. Hurriedly, she
took another gulp of water.
'But you found some interesting facts nevertheless.'
'About your father. Not about you.'
'There's always someone'll tell you the apple doesn't fall
far from the tree.'
Sarah remembered the photograph of Michael Gannon
she'd found: heavier than Jack, with an out-of-date moustache.
One look, and she'd been sure he was guilty of all
he'd been acquitted of.
Jack, though . . . First meeting, she'd liked Jack.
But did she like him enough to be alone with him in his
house?
Things had happened too fast. She'd been too startled by
what she'd learned about Barry; had backed into a corner
she'd tried to drink herself out of. And now she was here,
looking for safety. She could almost hear Zoe's voice: Safety? You don't know the meaning of the word. She should
ask if she could make a phone call. She should speak to
Russell; start organizing her departure from this city.
The time it took to think all this, the glass had grown
heavy in her hand.
There was nothing spooky about this, though. Nothing
underhand in the water. She was tired, that was all. Tired
and still drunk.
Jack said, 'That aside. This man Barry From the hotel.'
'Yes,' she said.
'What I heard from Ivy was a bit garbled.'
'You know Ivy?'
"I know a thousand like her. Grew up among them.
Basically,' he said, 'they're all my gran.'
She nodded. She could see how that worked.
'He's not who he seems to be Jack said. 'That much
I got.'
'He isn't,' Sarah said. 'He's not Australian, for a start.'

'He's not from Wallaby Springs?' Jack said. 'That's
disappointing.'
'You didn't believe that anyway,' Sarah remembered.
'But how bad does that make him? Maybe he just
wanted to be interesting.'
'Ivy didn't tell you the rest?'
'She said some stuff. I'd like to hear more.'
Sarah took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. The armchair
wanted her to fall asleep: that was clear. 'There was a man.
A few years ago. He was killing women.' She stopped. That
seemed enough for now. More than enough, even.
After a moment Jack said, 'And this is Barry?'
'Yes.'
'You're sure?'
She paused. 'No. No, I'm not sure.'
'But it's possible enough for you to be seriously worried
about it.'
'Yes,' she said. 'Seriously That's the word all right.'
Seriously seriously seriously. It threatened to follow her
down through the plughole that was even now sucking
her in.
Jack put his glass down. She hadn't even noticed he'd
been drinking. 'You look like you could do with some
sleep.'
'What time is it?' she asked.
'Early' He looked at his watch and nodded, as if pleased
that it agreed. 'But you definitely need an hour's kip.
Come on. I'll show you the spare.'
Maybe something showed on her face, because he gave
her a thin-lipped smile. 'It locks on the inside.'
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean '
'That's all right. You've had a rough time.'
But she said it again. 'I'm sorry'
He led her upstairs, into what was recognizably a spare;
was too neat to be anything else. A candlestick fitted with
clean candles sat on the mantelpiece, and nothing at all sat
on the dresser. Best of all, though, it had a bed in it. She
turned to thank him, but Jack was already closing the door.
Sarah didn't lock it. Nor did she bother getting undressed.
Kicking her shoes off, she lay on top of the covers. She
closed her eyes. When she opened them again, three hours
had passed, and the house was empty.

In the kitchen, she filled a glass from the tap, drained it,
then filled it again. Ominously, she had no headache. In
most circumstances, a free pass from a hangover would be
a blessing, but it felt now like a pain postponed, as if
Sarah's future were laying traps. To counteract this, she
acted as if the hangover had already arrived. So she drank
three glasses of water, and took another pair of Nurofen
from the pack on the counter. Then had another look for
the note Jack had left, explaining where he'd gone. But it
remained invisible.
Sarah found the phone, though, largely because it was
unhidden. Sitting, she picked out three-quarters of her
home number before pausing, then gently replacing the
receiver. She desperately wanted to speak to Russ. But she
couldn't do so here, in a strange man's house, with no
explanation that wouldn't leave Russ screaming with
anxiety .. . She couldn't cope with that. She'd talk to him
once she'd left, which she'd do as soon as she'd worked
out where to go.
Her bag was at the hotel, but she had her purse, which
held her credit card. She'd go to the station. She'd leave the
city. But as soon as she'd had the thought, she had a second,
which was that leaving would give Barry all the time
in the world to do exactly the same.
And one thing Alan Talmadge was good at was disappearing.
She
was still by the phone when the hallway grew
bright. Headlights crawled up the walls, collided on the
ceiling, then abruptly died. Jack, she thought. The car had
come right into the drive. It could hardly be anyone else.
But the engine choked away, and nothing happened: no
feet crunched on the path; no one came through the door.
Her hand curled into a fist. Her nails bit into her palm.
Then she shook her head, to clear it of interference.
There was a car outside. That was all. She wasn't about to
hide under a table. Before she could change her mind,
she opened the front door. The car's side window rolled
down at her approach. Her reflection sank into the window's
recess, revealing the man who'd collected her from
the pub.
'Hello,' she said.
He nodded.
'Where's Jack?'
'Oot.'
Oot?
Out.
'Did he .. . Did he say where?'
He nodded.
This was going to be a long conversation.
'And could you tell me?'
He could and he did. She had to make him say it three
times, though. It was unforgivably rude, but she could
barely penetrate his accent. And he was making no concessions.
Why should he?
At length, in possession of as much information as she
was likely to glean, she thanked him and returned to the
house. Should she have asked him in? It wasn't her invitation
to give. Anyway, he seemed happy enough in the car;
like a bear in a mobile cave. And besides, in a sudden
access of self-consciousness, she remembered how drunk
she'd been when he'd collected her from the pub.
Communication difficulties aside, she didn't want that
topic taking up space between them.
Front door closed, she leaned against it, treasuring its
barrier-like properties. How did she feel? First things first:
she felt better for sleep and painkillers. She wouldn't call
herself one hundred per cent. But then she hadn't felt that
since learning about Zoe; even less so since seeing that
body on the slab.
Oot. On a message. A word that carried a wealth of meaning
up these parts: anything from nipping round the shops
to undertaking a quest. Not be long, like. Which might mean
five minutes or might mean an hour. What was Sarah supposed
to do in the meantime? Grab something to eat, she
thought.
Good answer.
In the fridge she found cold chicken and a jar of mayonnaise,
and made herself a sandwich. Jack wouldn't
mind. Ten minutes later, she was considering making
another, but that would involve finishing the chicken:
maybe Jack would mind after all. So she went back into the
sitting room, then got worried she could be seen from
the car in the drive. She didn't know the driver's name also
unforgivably rude, come to think of it - and didn't like
the idea of being observed by him, so wandered into the
adjoining room, where there was no possibility of observation.
This turned out to be a study. Bookshelves naturally
attracted Sarah, but a few moments with these let her
down: rows of volumes called Project Management and
Deal-making Done Right weren't anything she wanted to
browse. But there was a computer on a desk by the window.
A light on the monitor indicated it was sleeping, and
while it would have been pushing the boundaries to turn
the thing on herself, if it was already on, that made a difference,
yes? Besides, everyone knew you should shut a
machine down when you weren't using it. Standby was
just another word for environmental damage.
When she moved the mouse, the screen came to life. No
fancy image, either: just the generic Windows blue, and a
few familiar icons.
She wasn't here to creep his private folders, she told herself.
She had no intention of doing that. She woke his
Internet browser instead, and opened her e-mail account:
work-related messages had come pouring in while she'd
been away, not to mention a fair amount of spam, but nothing
that couldn't wait. Ignoring them, she sent off a message
of her own: a quick one to Russ, telling him not to worry,
that everything was okay. When the words were on the
screen, they didn't look enough. But she didn't have time to
polish: she pressed send, and hurled them into the void.
Then closed her account down, and opened a search engine.
This was what she'd planned to do before her encounter
with Barry derailed her. If that hadn't been Zoe on the slab,
it had been somebody else. And Sarah refused to believe
this could happen - that you could be dumped and poured
into a river - without causing ripples somewhere.
These days, somewhere was the Internet. If you couldn't
drag a body to the surface of the web, there was nothing
left of it to drag.
The first few minutes were spent narrowing down
search terms. Missing and woman were too broad; threw up
too much bad poetry, too many Amazon pages. Zoe would
have done this better, Sarah thought ruefully. Zoe would
have aced this. After ten minutes she wandered into Jack's
kitchen and made a cup of coffee. The clock on the wall
said it was coming up to eleven. The clock in her body
shrugged, and accepted it. You had to accept the ruling of
a higher power. Come to think of it, that was one of the
rules for those regretting alcohol abuse.
She shook her head. Concentrate on the task in hand.
Back at the screen she found a site dedicated to missing
persons, and trawled it for giveaway words; words relating
to middle-age. But it was mostly children who went
missing; teenagers or younger, who'd gone off-reservation.
They'd turn up, if ever, in runaway hostels, or when police
sweeps netted underage prostitutes. She drank some coffee.
It had gone cold: how long had she been sitting here?
Time operated differently in front of a screen. Another link
dragged her on to an archived news page, and she clattered
her search terms into this one too, because she was too far
down the rabbit hole to claw her way back to the surface.
That was what the web really was. The rabbit hole. It
turned us all into Alice: almost everything encountered
there was weirdly familiar, but at a tangent to reality It was
a paranoid playground; a Hang
on.
She'd ploughed through a screen which had triggered
something, and had to backbutton to discover what it was.
A news story from mid-January, from one of the nationals:
Concern is growing about the whereabouts of Madeleine
Irving, 47, of Moseley, Birmingham, who has not returned from
holiday. Ms Irving, who is single, is believed by neighbours to
have been travelling in the Lake District over the New Year
period. It remains unclear whether she was accompanied.
The photograph took a moment to manifest, as if the
ether itself were struggling to recall Madeleine's image. Is
believed by neighbours. There was nothing wrong with keeping
your travel plans to yourself. The picture shimmered
into being; unfocused at first, then sharper, like a memory
nudged into the light. Madeleine Irving had a pale face and
dark curly hair, though a black-and-white headshot tended
to exaggerate such distinctions; she wore thick glasses in
a heavy frame that looked as much designed to hide
behind as see through. It remains unclear whether she was
accompanied. She was forty-seven and single: just the type
Alan Talmadge favoured. If you took the glasses away, she
looked enough like Zoe to be taken for her in the right
circumstances. If she'd been left in the water for a while,
for example.
Sarah was heading back to Google, armed with this new
name, when she heard the front door open.

The streets were mostly empty, and the rain had stopped,
but the side window was still freckled with raindrops,
which made a blurry miasma of the streetlights. Puddles
were pools of light by the roadsides. A wet night was a science
fiction film.
'Where are we going?' she asked.
'Back to Walker, like,' he said.
She was pretty sure that's what he said.
Jack had called him: she'd got that much. It was worse
than being abroad and not speaking the language - abroad,
it didn't matter if you were thought stupid. Ivy, back in the
pub, had had enough of an accent that Sarah had needed
her to repeat herself a few times, and some of her responses
had relied on Ivy's body language and raucous laugh. But
this man, Jack's driver: every time he opened his mouth,
Sarah was lost. He had no trouble understanding her. But
then, to hear someone speaking like Sarah, you only had
to turn on the TV. To hear someone speaking like Jack's
driver, you had to get in the car.
Which she presumed was returning to Walker, but the
route rang no bells. She had, of course, been plastered last
time. Now she was in that heightened state of not only
being aware that she'd sobered up, but proud enough of
the fact to be taking in minor details. They passed a large
building with dozens of massive bobbin-like articles in its
yard, miles of cable wrapped round them. Then another:
this one with boarded-up windows.
'Are we nearly there yet?' she found herself asking.
His grunt was affirmative, she was nearly sure.
Confirmation arrived within the minute. They turned off
the industrial estate and came to a halt by a pair of iron
gates set in a high fence which guarded no structure she
could see. Low points of light to her left trembled as if
frightened; they were, Sarah realized, reflections on the
river. Higher lights were static. She was near the Tyne;
could see clean across it. This must have been where a
shipyard stood. Now it was a darkling plain of muddy
roughland, at the far reaches of which stood four huge
cranes and two smaller ones. More lights strung across
their arms picked out ladders in the sky.
The larger cranes took down the buildings, she thought.
And now the smaller cranes take down the big ones. Like
vultures turning on each other, once the carcass has been
stripped clean.
Small flames flickered, a few hundred yards away.
'Jack's in there?' she asked.
He nodded.
The gates had a section missing, where an entrance had
been made with a crowbar. She crouched, and squeezed
through the gap. He didn't follow. On the other side she
hesitated for a moment. Like a candle in a cathedral, the
flickering campfire made everything darker.
'Jack?'
'Over here.'
Her boots weren't made for terrain like this. They were
designed to be worn in wine bars, not for stumbling over
rubble in a derelict shipyard. Even as she had the thought,
she tripped and nearly fell, but caught herself in time.
'You okay?'
Jack, in front of the campfire, assumed alien proportions:
his limbs made stringy and indistinct.
'I'm okay,' she said.
The air was cold and damp. The sky was far away, and
the river too near. Sarah's breath made clouds that the
wind tore away. As she approached Jack, he resumed his
normal dimensions. Behind him lurked a squat boxy
shape, and her heart beat faster as it twitched.
'Jack?' she said. 'What's going on? Why are we here?'
'All will be clear,' he said.
Afterwards, she'd ask herself why she hadn't been
frightened. And the only answer she could come up with
was that her day had taken on a momentum all its own,
and she had no option but to be carried along. She was a
passenger of ongoing events. The fact that she'd set them
in motion herself was a detail, that was all.
The shape behind Jack was a wooden chair, part of an
ordinary kitchen set. On it sat Barry. He was naked, and
whiter than milk.
'Jack ?'
'Barry and I have been having words.'
'What have you done to him?'
"I haven't done anything to him. Have I, Barry?'
'N - no.'
'Haven't laid a finger on him.'
Sarah took another step forward. Barry wouldn't look at
her. Instead he stared straight ahead, as if there were something
lurking in the darkness he was keen to focus on.
'Where are his clothes?'
'Where are your clothes, Barry?'
'The ... the ...'
'Take your time.'
'There. Over there. Where we came in.'
No Australian twang here. This was local. This might
never have travelled more than yards from the chair where
it now sat.
'Would you like me to fetch them for you?' Jack asked.
'I'm - no. No. I'm okay'
'Let him go,' Sarah said.
'You can go now, Barry'
'I'm okay,' he said again.
There wasn't a mark on him Sarah could see. The firelight
dancing on his body revealed no obvious breaks
or bruises. And nothing pinned him to the chair. He just
sat, not looking at her. Not looking at anything. He was
shivering, but so would anyone: naked, in this cold air.

'Barry wants to tell you a bit about himself.'
'Jack, I '
'Don't you, Barry?'
Barry said, 'Yes.'
From a distance, Sarah thought, they must look like they
were fixed in a bubble. A bubble of firelight, its reach
barely extending a yard from Barry's chair.
'Go on, then.'
Barry said, 'My name's Barry Malone. Born in Gateshead.
Been from there all my life.'
No faulting his logic.
'Been in London, though. Past few years.'
His voice shivered too. If he made his sentences any
longer, words would break off.
'Bar work mostly'
He still wouldn't look at Sarah; nor at Jack. Skin like
milk, Sarah thought again. His skin was white as milk.
She said, 'You're not Australian.'
He shook his head.
Jack said, 'Barry? What did we agree?'
'Answer out loud,' Barry said.
'So?'
'No,' he said. 'Never even been there. Australia.'
She couldn't help asking. She ought to be calling a stop
to this, but something about the last exchange suggested
Jack wouldn't hear of that. 'So why did you pretend?' she
asked. It was little more than a whisper, but he heard.
'Makes it easier,' he said.
'Makes what easier?'
'Getting the job he said.
Something skittered in the shadows, but Sarah barely
flinched. A mouse. Hell, no: a rat. But what was a rat in the
big scheme of things? She was talking to a naked man in a
derelict shipyard. Half an hour ago, she'd have said he was
a multiple murderer. But now he was just a naked man,
looking and sounding less like Alan Talmadge than anyone
else she'd met lately. John M. Wright, she thought. Was it
just today she'd had lunch with John M. Wright? She'd find
it easier to believe Wright was Talmadge than that this
frightened lump was.
In the circumstances, she wasn't fussed about a nearby
rat.
'It's easier,' she said, 'getting a job as a barman if they
think you're Australian?'
'Sometimes.'
'Why?'
He shrugged. 'Just is.'
Maybe this was what it was like with an actor you'd
admired on stage. Performing, he'd been full of life, shining
with every word. But catch him without a script, and
it was like talking to an empty bottle.
'You met Zoe,' she said.
He nodded.
'Barry,' Jack said softly.
'Yes,' Barry said. 'Yes, I met her.'
'Where?'
'Where I said. Bar. Bolbec Hotel.'
'And what happened?'
'Nothing.'
'What kind of nothing?'
'We talked. That's all.'
'What about?'
He glanced at her for the first time since she'd walked
into this circle of light. 'Can't remember. Nothing much.
Whatever I said we talked about.'
She tried to remember - the usual stuff? Something like
that. 'And she checked out next day'
"I think so. Yeah.'
'And you haven't seen her since.'
'No.'
'Or heard from her.'
'Nothing. No.'
'Has anyone been looking for her?'
'Only you.'
'Did you see her with anyone else?'
'No. But . . .'
'But what?'
'That night in the bar. It got busy'

'Doesn't sound like the Bolbec.'
'There was a crowd. Expecting free drinks. Don't know
what that was about.'
'So she might have been talking to someone else?'
'Might have. I was off my feet.'
Somewhere on the far side of the river a car alarm
sounded, its whoop whoop curving sudden circular slices out
of the night.
'But you didn't see her with anyone in particular.'
'No.'
'You're sure?'
'No. Yes. I'm sure.'
The alarm died mid-zvhoop.
Sarah said, 'Did you see me in the soap shop?'
And now he looked at her again, confused. 'Soap shop?'
"I was there. When you came in.'
'Oh.'
"I heard you talking to the girl on the counter.'
'Oh. Right.'
'Your accent slipped,' Sarah said.
'Didn't know you were there.'
'Obviously But when I came back into the hotel, you
were different.'
'Was I?'
'You acted different. Like I knew you were just pretending.'
He
shook his head. 'Didn't mean to.'
'You told me to ring Zoe.'

'So what?'
So what indeed. She remembered the policeman, Fairfax,
delivering something pompous and prepared: It wasn't
necessary to inform the staff that we'd found a body. If Barry
was telling the truth now, he hadn't known Zoe was dead.
Which meant he'd hit a target in the dark, that was all. One
stray comment about a phone call. The sort of thing anyone
might say.

She remembered sitting in her room, phone pressed to
her ear. You've reached Zoe Boehm. Leave a message. It had
convinced her Zoe was still out there, but it wasn't proof
of anything, was it? Maybe Zoe's mobile had slipped from
her pocket. Maybe it was lying at the bottom of the
Tyne. But if so, would her answering service kick in? Sarah
didn't know.
Barry said, 'It was just something to say'
She'd almost forgotten about Jack, but he was there,
hovering on the edge of darkness. It struck her that what
he'd done was kidnapping; then, with slightly more force,
that what they'd done was kidnapping. By asking these
questions, she'd made herself part of Jack's crime.
But it was done. That was the point. Barry was here,
however much he didn't want to be. And as long as she
was here too, she might as well find out what she needed
to know.
'What about Gerard? Gerard Inchon? Did he really check
out in the middle of the night?'
Barry nodded.
'Barry,' Jack said.
'Aye,' Barry said.
'Did he say why?'
'He just said he - said he was leaving, that's all.'
'But . . .' Sarah trailed away. Gerard had been drunk.
'But he was drunk,' she said. 'He could barely stand when
I left him.'
'Drunk, aye. But he could stand all right.'
The Geordie fell strangely on her ear. Sarah still half
expected Barry's voice to emerge all beach-body: tanned
and trunked.
A sudden gust blew sparks from the fire, and a scatter
landed on Barry's naked chest, where they died. He didn't
flinch. Perhaps he was glad of the warmth.
'.. . Did he have luggage?'
'He was already packed.'

'What do you mean?'
'His bags were downstairs. He'd left them at reception.'
Sarah stared. 'You're saying he planned it? When I spoke
to him, he already knew he was going?'
'Must've done.'
She tried to cast her mind back: what had Gerard been
like, apart from drunk? He'd been talking about Paula,
about their son. Had said something heart-rendingly ugly: he looks like a ping-pong ball, balanced on an egg. Had that
been just last night? It was like peering through a telescope
with a Vaselined lens. Nothing about their encounter had
suggested a man ready to take flight. She could accept that,
after his confession, he might have wanted to put distance
between them, but not that he'd already planned to do so.
That would have meant he had a whole different agenda
all along.
But then, Sarah already knew Gerard had lied to her,
didn't she? About finding Zoe's card. About not having
been in touch with her, when it was clear that Zoe had
drummed up the list of invitees to his soiree . . .
'Sarah?'
She blinked.
Jack said, 'Anything else?'
She said, 'Yesterday morning. Were you in his room?'
'What do you mean?'
'Did you sneak into Gerard's room when he was out?'
He shook his head.
She said, 'Last night. When he left. Did he say where he
was going?'
Barry said, 'No.'
'Did a taxi come for him?'
'He was in a car.'
'He was what?'
'He arrived in a car. It was parked under the arch.'
She said, 'You let him drive? In the state he was in?'
'How would I stop him?'
He had a point. But not a good one. Sure, Gerard would
have steamrollered anyone trying to prevent him doing
what he wanted, but it would have been the work of
seconds to pick up a phone once he'd gone. This wasn't
about tattling to the cops. It was about preventing a drunk
mowing down pedestrians.
Which hadn't happened, evidently. Or not round here
anyway.
Sarah looked at Barry. His voice had grown stronger,
though he shivered still. She wondered what he'd imagined
Jack had been prepared to do to him. Wondered at
the power of the Gannon name; that it cast such a shadow.
His wasn't the only one.
She said, 'Does the name Alan Talmadge mean anything
to you?'
'Who?'
'Talmadge. Alan Talmadge.'
He said, 'No. No, never heard of him.'
She waited, as if there were another answer within him,
aching to be heard. If so, it kept quiet. All of this, she
thought - her panic in the rain; this nightmare interlude it
all came down to a young man thinking an Aussie accent
would get him better bar work. Maybe attract better
women. It put him somewhere near the park where Alan
Talmadge liked to play. But it didn't make him a killer.
'I'm sorry,' she told him.
He shrugged.
Jack let him.
'You should go now,' she said. 'Find your clothes. It's
cold.'
Jack must have nodded at this, because Barry got to his
feet. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but changed
his mind. Without a backward glance, he walked barefoot
away from them, over the stony, muddy ground, towards
the gate where his clothes lay.
It was like watching a ghost dematerialize.
Jack said, 'Did that clear things up much?'


The wind whistled through an invisible gap. Off in the distance,
lights on cranes shimmered.
'Who are you?' Sarah said.
To give Jack credit, he didn't go coy.
'I'm who you thought I was. The one you came to for
help.'
'Is that what I did?'
'Aye,' he said. 'That's what you did.'
'And what about you, Jack? What did you do?'
He reached inside his jacket. For a moment, she thought
he was about to show her a weapon; an explanation of how
he'd brought Barry here. But all he produced was a pack
of cigarettes.
'You don't, do you?'
She shook her head.
'Sensible.' But not so much that he followed her
example.
'You haven't answered my question.'
"I didn't do anything to him, Sarah. He did it to himself.'
'What, he just stripped off his clothes and '
'Yes.'
'- sat down in that chair in the freezing cold, middle of
nowhere, and waited for me to '
'Yes.'
'- show up? What do you mean, yes?'
She spat the word. What did yes mean? And what kind
of man was Jack? He was worse than the one she'd been
running from.
Jack said, "I mean, he did it all to himself. Okay, I brought
him here. Collected him from the Bolbec. Tank drove. I sat
in the back with Barry'
'And he was happy to come along for the ride.'
'You know something? I'd not say happy. But he didn't
put up a fight.'
'What would have happened if he had?'
'He'd have lost.' Jack inhaled. 'But it didn't come to that.
All I had to do was tell him who I was.'
'And who are you?' she asked again.
He shrugged; showed his palms. That's what you did
when you were open: look. Nothing up the sleeves. Just a
cigarette burning between two fingers.
'Jack Gannon. That's who I am, Sarah. I make no secret
of that.'
'Son of Michael Gannon.'
'That's not a secret either.'
'Well-known local gangster.'
'Now then,' he said. 'He was never convicted of
anything.'
'Didn't have to be, did he?' Sarah said. "I walk into a pub
in Walker, drop your name, and your pet gorilla's there five
minutes later. You might be straight as the day's long, Jack,
but you know damn well what weight your family carries.'
Jack said, 'So, Barry might have jumped to a conclusion
or two.'
'Might?'
'What do you want me to say? That I told him I wouldn't
hurt him? You thought he was a killer, Sarah. You thought
he murdered at least three women.'
'Maybe he did.'
'Get real. You just saw him. You think that's a killer?'
'Talmadge is a chameleon, Jack. Maybe we just saw him
changing colour. You certainly provided quite a backdrop.'
'He wasn't faking that. He was scared stiff.'
'So? Alan Talmadge specializes in pushing middle-aged
women into ditches. Second-generation gangsters are out
of his league.'
Jack shook his head. 'You don't think he's Talmadge any
more than I do.'
'You pretended to be who he thought you were,' Sarah
told him. 'What makes you think he was doing any
different?'
'Sarah '
'There are ways of doing things, Jack. Okay, maybe I
don't think he's Talmadge. But that means we've just terrorized
an innocent man.'
'Everybody's guilty of something,' Jack said.
He dropped the cigarette half-smoked, and ground it
underfoot.
Sarah simmered. Everything that had just happened had
happened on her word. She'd shared her suspicions with
Jack, and this was what came of it: Barry naked in the open
air, scared for his life. Convinced the next thing coming his
way was a sharp knife or a blunt object.
If he had been Talmadge, would she have cared? She
didn't know. She didn't know. If he'd killed women then
surely he deserved everything he got. But Sarah didn't
want to be part of the punishment.
Jack said, 'Long and short of it, you were frightened of
him. Now you're not. That's a result. Shall we head for
the car?'
She said, 'It was you, wasn't it?'
'What was me?'

'In Gerard's room. This morning.'
Jack said, 'What makes you think that?'
'Because when I asked Barry if it had been him, he shook
his head. And you didn't tell him to answer properly'
He smiled. 'That's pretty sharp.'
'And I'm right, too. Aren't I?'
He said, 'When your phone went off, I nearly crapped
myself.'
'How do you think I felt?'

'At least you had the advantage of being in the
bathroom.'
'What were you doing there?'
"I could ask you the same.'
'But I asked first.'
He said, 'You think someone like Inchon turns up every
day? Threatening to chuck money around, asking if you
want any?'
'And that's a reason to break into his room?'
'Hell, yes.' He smiled again. She distrusted that smile.
Jack relied on it too much. 'So, okay, it's possible that I
picked up a few bad habits. A few family traits.'
'You think?'
"I wasn't there to steal.'
"I didn't imagine you were. You wanted to know what
he was really after, didn't you?'
'We'd just had a meeting, him and Brian Harper and I.
We were going to have lunch. But Brian had another
appointment first, so Gerard said he'd mooch around town
till we were all free. I knew his room would be empty. Or
thought it would.'
'So what did you find?'
He laughed. "I was interrupted. Remember?'
'How did Gerard get in touch in the first place?'
'He just did. He phoned. Said I might have heard his
name - which I had, of course - and asked if I wanted to
come to a gathering he was planning.'
'Because he was looking for investment opportunities.'
'So he said.' Jack shook his head. 'It's like he was playing
a part. You know, I'm a big investor. This is what I do.'
'It was strange,' she said.
'It was bloody weird. He can sit at home, open his post,
and get twenty-seven begging letters a day, all pointing out
rich investment potential. He doesn't have to go anywhere.
And certainly doesn't have to throw a party when he
gets there.'
'You were top of his list,' she said. 'Why would that be?'
'What list?'
'Trust me, there was a list. And you were at the top.'
He said, 'There's no list of businessmen in this city which
would have me up there. Unless you were starting at G. So
God only knows where it came from.'
God and Sarah. She said, 'Ever hear of a firm called
Roleseekers?'
'Local?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Sound like headhunters. I've never used them.'
She was starting to prefer answers that addressed the
question. 'So you've never heard of them.'
He said, 'No, Sarah, I've never heard of them.' He produced
his cigarettes again. For a supposedly once-in-a
blue-moon smoker, he was having a heavy night. 'Are we
through yet? Because there are better places to have a
conversation.'
'Oh, I think we're through,' she said.
She turned and walked back the way she'd come,
towards the faraway gate.
'Sarah?'
She kept walking.
'Sarah? Don't be silly. You've nowhere to go. It's the
middle of the night.'
"I know,' she said. But she didn't turn back.

Jack had called him Tank. He was by the gate, smoking.

'Where did he go?' Sarah asked.
Tank pointed up the road. She started walking. But Barry
was nowhere to be seen.
That was probably just as well. Out from under Jack's
gaze, he might not be so tractable. Might, in fact, be
pissed off.
Besides, what was she going to say to him? Sorry? She'd
already said that. It didn't seem enough.
Perhaps he'd go to the police. Any sane man would.
He'd been kidnapped, assaulted - whatever Jack said,
interrogating someone naked in a derelict shipyard had to
count as assault.
Sarah had lost all sense of time. When had Tank driven
her here? After midnight? What did that make it now - one
o'clock? Later?
The air was still damp, and the streetlamps were haloed
with mist.
He wouldn't go to the police, she decided. Because it
wasn't what any sane man would do. Or at least, not what
any sane man who spent half his life pretending to be
Australian would do.
Besides, Jack had stripped him naked. How was that
going to look?
And you're sure this was against your will, sir?
She'd come to a halt, which was not a sensible thing to
do on an unknown industrial estate at night. There was
nobody around she could see, but that meant nothing. Jack
and Tank weren't far away - any moment now, that sharky
car would ease past - and she didn't want to be here then.
She hurried to the next junction. There was a car not far
up the road, engine running. People were piling out of it;
crowding into a lit building. Heading away from it, she
walked faster.
Tap tap said her heels to the pavement. Tap tap. So much
louder at night.
A sudden burst of sound made her jump. The wind,
sending a dustbin lid surfing.
Up ahead, traffic lights hung out their colours.
That noise advancing on her was a car. She didn't look
round.
It eased to match her walking pace. A voice called out.
'I'm for the city centre, lady. Any use to you?'
It was a taxi. Not in itself a guarantee of safe transport,
but the driver's round black face beamed at her like a
grandfather's.
'Thanks,' she said. 'That would be good.'

In her room at the Bolbec, she packed her bag. She'd had
to ring a bell to get in, and the young man who opened the
door wasn't familiar. A last-minute sub for Barry, she
presumed. She wasn't about to get into a conversation
about it.
First thing she did was turn her phone on, making it
buzz crossly. She had three voicemail messages, all from
Russ. The first was puzzled and anxious; the second angry.
The third anxious again. She rang him, reached voicemail,
and left a loving, apologetic message, or hoped she did. It
was always possible she'd left an incoherent, half-crazed
one. She'd call again when it was light. With luck, she'd be
nearly home by then.
Lying on the floor was the Big Issue she'd made Gerard
buy. Picking it up, she riffled its pages. Maybe the name
would leap out at her: Madeleine Irving. 47 Missing. But
who would think to announce to the world that Madeleine
wasn't where she ought to be? Sarah's impression had been
that nobody much noticed her even when she was there.
Which was exactly the target Alan Talmadge preferred, of
course. And if it was indeed Madeleine, or someone like
her, on that slab, then Zoe was somewhere else.
Sarah knew that the odds of having identified a missing
woman by chance were slim. But the possibility that Zoe
wasn't dead had taken root in her brain.
The room phone rang.
It would be Russ. But it wasn't.
'Sarah?'
'What do you want?'
'Just making sure you're safe. You wandered off in a bad
part of town.'
'I'm fine. Packing.'
'That was the other thing I wanted. For us not to part on
bad terms.'
She said, 'You kidnapped him, Jack. We kidnapped him.
And making him strip like that, putting him on that chair
in the open air - that was torture. You're aware of that,
aren't you?'
'He's not going to report it.'
"I think you're missing my point.'
'No, I get your point. But you made a convincing case
for him being a serial killer, Sarah. I think that entitled us
to a little leeway'
"I should have just called the police.'
'At the time, you had pretty sound reasons for not
doing that.'
At the time, she'd had too much to drink.
She said, "I was wrong about him. Whatever I said afterwards.
He's not the person I was afraid he was.'
'Which means someone else is.'
There was little point disputing that. Whoever Talmadge
was, it was clear he was no one Sarah had encountered.
She said, 'I'm sure you were trying to do me a favour.'
'I'm glad you get that.'
'But don't do me any more.'
He said, 'People aren't always who you think they are.'
She shook her head. It was the middle of the night. She
didn't need life-lessons from gangsters.
'Goodbye, Jack.'
'Goodbye, Sarah.'
'And tell your friend Wright - tell him he's a lousy lunch
guest.'
"I will. When he turns up.'
Sarah said, 'What do you mean, turns up?'
'Well,' Jack told her. 'Before the evening went topsyturvy,
he was supposed to be meeting me for a drink. But
he never showed.'
"I assume you'd have been buying the drink.'
'That's the pattern.'
'Sounds odd, certainly' It was nice, having a target for
venom. 'First time I laid eyes on him, he was freeloading.
Can't imagine he'd pass up the chance.'
'How do you mean, freeloading?'
'At Gerard's do. You brought him along, right?'
Jack said, 'Well, sort of.'
'What do you mean?'
'He came with me, that's true enough. But Inchon asked
me to bring him.'
'Gerard did?'
'That's right.'
'I'd got the impression he was there on your coat-tails.'
'Aye, well. That's not how it was.'
Sarah shook her head. What kind of sense did that
make? Though it didn't have to. It had happened, that was
all. Making sense wasn't part of the deal.
'Sarah?'
She said, 'Goodnight, Jack.'
Cutting him off, she sat on the bed. Did what she'd just
learned make any difference? It had to. She wasn't sure
how, but it had to.
She cast her mind back to the paper she'd found in
Gerard's room: the Roleseekers list Zoe acquired for him.
John M. Wright hadn't appeared on it, and for that reason
she'd dismissed him except as a means of discovering
more about Jack. Because Jack had been top of the list. She
remembered that for sure.
But maybe Jack had only been there because his presence
could guarantee Wright's.
So the difference was that everything had just turned
upside down. Wright wasn't peripheral to the events
Gerard had orchestrated: he was the reason for them. And
why was that? Because Gerard really believed Wright was
on the brink of a major medical breakthrough?
Sarah thought about Wright: stuck out on a trading
estate near electrical superstores. She couldn't see a breakthrough
happening there. She could believe Wright was
some kind of idiot genius - the idiot part took no faith but
not that he was about to come up with a cure for anything.
Not in premises like that.
Okay - that was shallow. Genius made its own rules. Or
so it would have lesser mortals believe.
And maybe the rubbish premises, the lack of assistance,
the below-par computers, were all part of the point. Maybe
Gerard had recognized that if he could put these elements
right - which only took money - then Wright would flourish
and asthma be vanquished.





194
195

A victory which would bring, in its wake, a lot more
money.
All of which left open the question of how Gerard knew
about Wright in the first place. And why he'd approached
him with subterfuge. Maybe that had been to avoid alienating
Jack Gannon, the only other backer Wright had. But
if so, why involve Jack at all? Gerard wouldn't care about
alienating someone he never had to meet - he didn't give
a noticeable toss about alienating those he was in daily
contact with. And Wright wasn't burdened with scruple. If
Gerard had waved a cheque book, he'd have come running.
Would have forgotten Jack's name before the ink
was dry.
No, Gerard could have waltzed in, set Wright up in a
dream-factory, then headed back south and waited for
good news. There was no need for any of it. No need to
have involved Zoe.
And if he hadn't, she'd not have disappeared. Maybe
died.
Perhaps she needed to reconsider John M. Wright. She'd
written him off as Talmadge; couldn't see any way he
might fit. But maybe that was the point. Talmadge didn't
fit anywhere, which was why he was able to switch
identities so easily.
For maybe a minute, probably less, she gave this due
consideration. Then tossed the idea away John M. Wright,
ladykiller? Whichever sense you allotted the word, that
could never have happened.
Which meant there was something Sarah was missing.
Or something she'd never seen. Either seemed plausible.
Jack's call had interrupted her packing, which she
should get on with. Last thing she wanted was to have
Barry return before she'd left. If she had to place a bet, it
would be that Barry wouldn't come back here today, but
she'd lost bets before. There wasn't much to pack. She'd
not been planning to stay this long.
The tangerine soap lay on the dressing table, in its
paper bag. Instead of trying to fit it into her overpacked
washbag, she unzipped her holdall's side pocket to slip it
in there, and as she did so flashed back to the last time
she'd done this - nothing to do with soap; something to do
with a suitcase. Gerard's suitcase. A hot flush of shame
washed over her that she tried to hold at bay with rational
justification. She'd been trying to find out what had happened
to her friend. Searching Gerard's room had been
wrong, but she'd do it again. She might have found a clue.
What she'd found had been a DVD of Buffy. And a collection
of Internet clippings about orphanages.
Gerard's wife Paula had been orphanage-raised. Sarah
had even been, once, to the orphanage in question. That
had been another false trail on a different quest; cause for
a new flush of shame.
Poor Paula, she thought. Poor Paula, with her poor baby.

'He's called Zachary,' Gerard had said. 'He has no arms.
But then, he has no legs either.'
There would be a reason for this. Jumbos don't fall out
of clear blue skies. When children are born missing parts,
there's a cause, and it's usually discovered.
She thought about Gerard drinking himself into oblivion.
And then coming out of it, evidently, before leaving on a
mission of some sort. Had he been as drunk as all that? He
couldn't have been. Nobody could have been as drunk as
she'd thought him and survived a drive anywhere.
And if he hadn't been drunk, why had he told her about
Zachary?
She was still holding the soap. She tucked it into the
holdall, and sat on the bed again.
Gerard's telling her about his son was one of the reasons
she'd thought him so wasted. She couldn't imagine him
opening up like that without an alcoholic excuse. But
maybe she was approaching this from the wrong direction.
Maybe Gerard had needed Sarah to think he was drunk
before he could open up. Protective colouring. That
sounded male enough to be convincing.
As to why he'd felt the need to open up in the first
place . ..
Again, this required male thinking. A woman wouldn't
have needed a reason to share; only the opportunity.
Gerard, on the other hand, had a motive for everything he
did. But even with that track record, he surely couldn't
have had a benefit in mind when he told her about Zachary.
It must have been something else. Something he couldn't
be honest about, but needed to express.
She thought: yeah, no, great. That narrows it down,
Sarah.
Except, of course, whatever the reason, it all boiled down
to the same set of circumstances: Gerard being here, the
people he'd met, the things he'd done.
It made no difference. It was too late, in every possible
sense. She was going to the station. The first possible train
that would take her anywhere near home, she'd be on it.
The next move she came up with, she'd manage from
there.

The Asian grocery was open; same cards taped to its windows;
same Internet connections offered, at 75p an hour.
Any city worth the name called itself 247, though it
remained a hollow boast outside the hotspots. Here, only
that same sweet shopkeeper was to be seen, sitting at one
of his own monitors, reading an online newspaper in a
foreign alphabet. He smiled as she came in.
'You're up early'
'So are you.'
'Ah. I've not been to bed yet.'
They could have spent a while, she imagined, trading
tales of sleeplessness. 'Do you have a connection available?'
He laughed. 'Pick a stool. Would you like some coffee?'
She'd die for some, but remembered it came from an all
purpose vending machine. But before she could shake her
head, he said: 'There's a cafetiere in the office. I'll bring
some out.'
She could have kissed him, but even in the hotspots, that
might have been cause for concern. So she just smiled and
thanked him, put her holdall down by one of the machines,
and sat and booted up.
Five minutes later, he returned to put a beautiful
smelling mug at her elbow. 'You're catching a train?' he
asked, nodding at her bag.
'That was the plan,' she said.
'But you've changed your mind?'
She looked at the screen she'd found. 'I've had it
changed for me,' she said.

There'd be no left-luggage facilities open. Not at this time.
And few railway stations had lockers any more, for obvious
reasons. But her new friend was happy to keep an eye
on her bag, and wouldn't think of taking payment.
'But where are you going? How will you get there?'
"I don't suppose the Metro's awake yet?'
He smiled.
'Could you call me a taxi?'
'Call? I can whistle you one.'
'Give me a few minutes? I need to make a call.'
'Please. As long as you need.'
And he retreated into his back room, so she could talk
in private.

He was as good as his word. A whistle was all it took. The
taxi driver, an Irishman, was a friend of his, which meant
Sarah was the taxi driver's friend too. Perhaps she'd had it
wrong about the 247 city. Perhaps whole communities
were rubbing along in undetected harmony.
'I'll be back later. For my bag. And thank you.'
'It's no problem.'
It was dark as they headed out of the city centre, but the
promise of light to come was painted on the sky. She
thought: I can't remember the last time I've seen this side
of a morning. Though she could remember being drunk
earlier, which went some way towards explaining the
growling sensations in her stomach.
The streets were empty, and the journey took no time.
'And you're sure this is where you want to be, now?'
'I'm sure,' she said, paying the fare.
'It's awfully quiet.'
'There'll be someone to meet me. Really. I'll be fine.'

'If you're sure, pet.'
It wasn't Irish, that pet. It must have rubbed off in his
time behind the wheel.
"I am. But thank you.'
She watched while he did a three-point turn, and waved
as he drove away. His car disappeared round a corner.
Then she looked at the building over the road.
Sarah had specified the Metro station as her destination.
But it was the cinema she'd had in mind.
At this time of morning, it looked no more inviting. The
same security panels were bolted across its entrance; the
same peeling whitewash daubed its walls. It still called
itself a picture house. And from the row of blackened,
book-sized windows at attic-level, no lights showed.
Probably it was empty, she told herself. She kind of hoped
so. But still, she crossed the road. Pushing the panel from
which the padlock hung, she found little give to it. The
noise - a hollow clang familiar from prison movies echoed
between cinema and station for a moment.
If she tried that again, it wouldn't be long before someone
appeared to complain. That wouldn't help.
Circling the building seemed an idea. There was a back
lane to the left; reaching it, she saw a car parked halfway
down. It turned out to be one of those hearse-shaped cars
with a capacious boot. She had no idea what make Gerard
drove, and wouldn't have picked this out of a line-up.
Something dashed from a shadow, and her heart leaped.
But it was a cat, or that's what she told herself. It was gone
before she could be sure, but still: it was only a cat.
The car was next to a pair of fire-exit doors which had no
handles on this side. But they didn't seem flush. Kneeling,
Sarah found a glove wedged at the foot of the left-hand
door, preventing it from locking. She pushed, and let herself
into the cinema; into a corridor leading to another set
of doors, presumably to the auditorium. And then the fire
door closed, and what little light had filtered in from outside
was gone.
Quiet, too. Absolute silence. She reached for her mobile
phone. This cast a feeble blue glow which was better than
nothing. Its light didn't reach as far as the walls, on which
anything might be crawling. But it was best not to think
about things that might be crawling.
I could turn and walk out of here right now. Cross the
road, and sit on a bench until the first Metro arrives. Ride
it to the Central Station, then leave the city behind.
Sarah thought, I could do all of that. But it would involve
forgetting that the fire door had been propped open with
a glove.
She reached the door to the auditorium, and pushed it
open.
When it crashed to the floor, she almost wet herself.


The echo explored the dark spaces. It disturbed the spiders,
and woke the ghosts.
The other noise, a sudden shriek, Sarah made herself.
Dust rose when the door hit the ground: an old filthiness
that made her want to spit. So she spat. The light her
mobile cast was useless now. All it illuminated were the
tips of her own fingers; making them translucent, as if she
were one of the woken ghosts.
As the echoes clattered away silence returned, except for
the noises her body made. Her breathing. The rustle of her
clothes.
Careful not to trip on the fallen door, she stepped into
the pitch-black auditorium. The light switches Brian
Harper had thrown the other day were in the lobby. There
weren't any nearby, or none her mobile's glow could find.
She could walk up to the lobby. The aisle couldn't be
more than a few feet away. Her eyes would grow accustomed
to the gloom, and then she could make her way
up there.
Past those hammocks of spiderweb. Past the dark ranks
of seats, where grey things scuttled.
It was useless. She couldn't do it. She wouldn't step further
into the dark.
A muddled noise, halfway between a bump and a whisper,
slithered across the auditorium.
'Gerard?'
Her voice startled her. It was an unexpected visitor in
this damp palace.
There was no reply Gerard, if he was here, didn't want
her to know.
'Gerard!' she called again.
And this time there was an answering scuttle, which
didn't sound human.
Something fluttered past her face, and she yelped a
curse, and swatted - it must have been a moth. But it had
felt large, and she couldn't stop the picture of a bat forming
in her mind. In this picture, the bat had large pointy
teeth.
Okay. Enough. There was nothing keeping her here. If
Gerard was hiding in this darkness, he was welcome to it.
Though it wasn't simply a matter of hiding. That was the
trouble.
But there were other, better ways of dealing with this
than stumbling into a spiders' lair. She could find Brian
Harper, and bring him along with his key and a torch.
Which might have awkward consequences if what she
suspected were true, but that wasn't her problem. Her
problem was that she was nowhere she wanted to be, and
that her mobile couldn't keep the dark at bay.
Her mobile . . . She was holding her mobile.
Tchahl
It was the work of seconds to call the number up. For
another few moments her thumb hovered over the call
button. Perhaps walking away was the best option after all.
But the phone was in her hand, and her thumb had its own
ideas. It made the call before she'd finished the argument.
Almost immediately, in the darkness on the other side of
the auditorium, a phone began to ring.

She jumped: couldn't help it. She'd been half expecting
it, but still: she jumped.
The ringing phone switched off midway through its
second tone; but not before Sarah had caught the flash of
light from its screen. It illuminated a vague shape, halfway
up what must have been the furthest aisle. And then there
was quiet again, except this time it was bracketed by interruptions.
There'd been one noise. There'd soon be more.
She said, 'It's a bit pointless pretending you're not there,
isn't it?'
A sigh made its way across the darkness. As soon as she
heard it, she wondered he'd been able to remain silent for
so long.
'Do you have a light?' she asked.
A torch snapped on. Pointing upwards, it momentarily
turned Gerard's features into a goblin mask. Then he
aimed it at the floor, and used its beam to trace a path to
where Sarah stood.
In the fringes of its wavering light she could see the web
draped over the collapsed seating, and the scuttling inside
it. She swallowed, hard. A moment later, Gerard was in
front of her.
'Do you know,' he said, "I can't say I'm surprised.'
'You pretty much invited me.'
'Don't be ridiculous. The last thing I wanted was
company'
'You're not going to pretend you're here by yourself?'
'I'm past pretending anything,' he said. 'This is where it
all stops.'
It was hard to tell with just the torch, but he looked
slighter, somehow. A Gerard anything less than larger than
life was strange to contemplate, but here he was: trembling
like the light. His face a pale idea of its normal self.
Into this face, he now inserted a cigar.
'You're not going to light that?'
'What else do you imagine I'm about to do with it?'
She bit back a suggestion. 'Gerard, this place could go up
like a pack of cards.'
'Now there's an interesting possibility'
'Where's Wright?'
'Who's to say?' Gerard asked. 'Where's right, where's
wrong? It's so very confusing, this world of moral complexities,
isn't it?'
'It doesn't suit you.'
'What doesn't?'
'Philosophy. Even the Christmas cracker kind.'
He plucked the cigar from his mouth and returned it
to his breast pocket. His suit must be filthy, she thought.
No one upright could help but be a magnet for dirt in this
place.
No one upright.
She said, 'What have you done with him?'
'I'm supposed to understand what you're talking about?'
'Don't bother, Gerard. Like I said, I'd not be here if you
didn't want me.'
'There's something about a woman being so unequivocally
sure of herself that just naturally makes me want to
contradict her.'
'You pretended you were drunk. Or drunker than you
were. So you could tell me things you couldn't bring yourself
to say otherwise.'
'Cheap psychology, Sarah. I'd expect better of you.'
'It's not cheap. It's free.'
He rolled his eyes. In the torchlight, the effect was
straight out of Hammer.
'I'm here, aren't I?' she said. 'You think that's chance?
I'm here because you brought me with you the other day'
"I thought you'd enjoy a trip to the cinema.'
'Now who's making unworthy comments?'
'Please,' he said.
He sounded tired. She wondered how long he'd been
here, in this dead pleasure dome, and why he hadn't left
hours ago. What was keeping him? What had he done?
She had the awful feeling she was going to find out. That
she'd arrived too late . . . That whatever had happened had
happened hours ago, while she'd been in that pub, drinking
her fears away.
"I know,' she said.
'Well of course you do,' he said. 'You wouldn't be here
otherwise. Remember?'
'Gerard '
'So what did you plan to do? Save him?'
"I hadn't got as far as having a plan.'
'Or did you hope to save me from myself? That sounds
more like you, now I think of it. Little Sarah Tucker. Saving
the world, one soul at a time.'
"I came because I thought you needed me, Gerard. I
couldn't make the bits fit together any other way'
'Isn't that sweet? Shame you're too late.'
'Is he dead?'
He shook his head. But she couldn't tell if that was a
response, or just a refusal to answer.
She wished they could sit. But she doubted the seats
would bear weight, even if they weren't shrouded in cobweb
and caked with dirt.
She said, "I found some stuff out.'
'Thank you. I'd got that far.'
'On the Internet. About Wright. About his . . . research.'
Gerard said, 'Mentioned by name?'
'Wright? No. No, he wasn't. But the orphanage was.'

"I forgot. You went there once, didn't you?'
She probably blushed, but it was too dark to tell. 'The
Arimathea Home. Not a name easily forgotten. You're
right, he wasn't mentioned by name. But I knew it must be
him. Asthma research? Using the children as . . .'
'You can say guinea pigs,' Gerard said. 'It's not like I'm
easily offended.'
'I'm so sorry, Gerard.'
'Do you know, I think the window for apologies closed
long ago.'
"I meant about the baby. About Paula. It was Wright's
fault, wasn't it? She was one of the children he treated.
With steroids, or .. . whatever.'
'Or, indeed, whatever. He's strangely reluctant to go
into detail.'
'Is he here?'
Gerard said, 'The Church claimed he was acting without
its - do you know, I'm going to have to say blessing. That
he was acting without its blessing. A claim that would
carry more weight if the Church didn't have form.'
Sarah said, "I found some other stories.'
'There's a place in New York. A home for orphans born
with HIV, run by Catholic charities. And there were
medical trials going on, on children as young as three
months, children with no traceable family - they were trialling
experimental drugs. And they justified this by - well,
fuck knows how.' The torch wavered in his hands, then
held firm. 'There were huge companies involved.
GlaxoSmithKline. Others.'
'And something similar happened at Arimathea,'
Sarah said.
'Something happened. But the story never broke like the
New York one did. There were fewer children involved,
and the drugs were less obviously . .. harmful. There was
a stopper on it before the press got wind. Trust funds for
the children. That was before any long-term issues came to
light, of course.' Gerard broke off; looked around, as if he
couldn't understand what he was doing here. Then he
turned back. 'There've been whispers since, but that's all.
Smoke and whispers. Nobody talks. The children - well,
they're in their thirties now. They could lose their trusts if
they started ringing bells. And you'd be surprised how few
of them married rich monsters like me.'
'So Wright got away with it.'
'Well, you won't find his name attached to any of the
rumours. But it was him. I showed Paula his photo. She
stopped breathing.'
'You could have taken it to the law.'
He laughed. 'Would you listen to yourself?'
'Well, if not you, who? Christ, Gerard, you've got the
money, you've got the weight, you've '
'She said no.'
Sarah, who'd been gathering a head of steam, felt it
whistle away into the darkness.
'No way was she appearing in a court. Or before an
inquiry. Or before anyone at all. And show pictures of our
child, as if he were a ... an exhibit.' Gerard took the cigar
from his pocket again. She wondered how many times he'd
done that already There was no taste of smoke in the
damp, earthy air.
'That was the first you knew of it, wasn't it?' she said,
some kind of light showing.
'What?'
'When Zachary was born.'
A clanking sound made her jump. Something, somewhere,
had rattled a pipe. But Gerard didn't bat an eye.
Perhaps he'd grown used to the building's conversation.
Nothing it said could surprise him any more.
At last he said, 'Paula hadn't told me about it before then.'
She found nothing to say in reply.
'Not even during the pregnancy. Of course, we knew
things had gone badly wrong.' A flash of the old Gerard
made itself felt: 'Even the NHS would have worked that
much out. If we'd gone NHS. Which we didn't.'
'But you didn't know why'
'You want to know what I thought? When I saw him,
when I first saw him, I thought it was my fault. I'm not
talking about God's punishment, or anything ridiculous
like that. I mean, quite simply, that it was my fault.'
His eyes bore into her. Even in the dark, they managed
that.
'I'm used to taking responsibility for my actions.'
"I know,' she said.
'And that's what this was. We'd put off having children.
I wanted to wait until I'd established myself. Does that
sound sane to you?'
'Thousands of people do it, Gerard. Everybody tries to
be in control of their own destiny'
'Don't tell me the crap you think I want to hear. You're
better than that.'
"I don't have children, Gerard. You think I'm going to
cast stones? Anyway, it wasn't your fault, was it?'
He continued as if she hadn't spoken. 'What I really
meant was, I wanted to use my energy building a business.
Not spending nights juggling kids and mopping up sick. I
thought there'd be time enough for that later.'
'You weren't wrong. There was no reason for you to
think you were wrong.'
'Paula's younger than me. I doubt you've forgotten that.
She didn't mind waiting, or that's what she said. I wonder,
though. Whether she went along because she knew that's
what I wanted. And whether her tendency to do that has
anything to do with being orphanage-raised.'
Sarah said, awkwardly, 'She's never struck me as '
'Please,' he said. 'We went through this the other day.
You don't know my wife. You only know what you think
you know.'
'And that makes me different from anyone else?' It was
a sudden flash of anger, gone as soon as released. 'I'm
sorry. You're right. I don't.'
He shook his head. "I told her, anyway. When we found
out. Told her it was my fault. That I couldn't give her a
healthy child, and that if she wanted to look elsewhere I'd
not stand in her way, she could have all the money she
needed - anything she wanted. But what she wanted was
her baby'
Darkness dropped like a torch cut off mid-beam.
'She wanted him to live a happy life.'
Sarah's heart had skipped a beat when the light disappeared;
but she'd caught her tongue in time. Now Gerard
wept, almost without sound - as if he'd had practice - but
only almost.
Not reaching out was the hardest thing she'd done today.
At length, he clipped the torch on again, holding it to
one side.
'That's when she told me.'
'It must have been awful for her.'
'If I ever needed to justify what I've done . . .' Gerard
swallowed. Then said, 'She blamed herself.'
'People abused as children often do,' Sarah said softly.
'I'm sure you'll appreciate that I don't give a fuck what
other people do, feel, or think. That creature force-fed her
medication when she was eight years old - eight fucking
years old - and now my son needs a machine to breathe
in. And there's no machine invented will mend my wife's
heart.'
The beam in his hand flickered again, but not from anything
he'd done. The battery, she supposed. The battery
was wearing down, just as her own was. How long had
today been going on? And how much longer would it last?
'What did she tell you?' she asked softly.
For a moment she thought he wasn't going to reply, but
the circumstances prevailed. Out in the big world, Gerard
was his own boss. Here in the dark, among the spiders,
where she'd found him, he had to speak.
'Paula never knew his name. She wasn't a patient. Her
role was just to turn up in the orphanage sanatorium once
a week for a year and a half and be given an injection. Did
I tell you she was eight?'
Sarah was expected to answer. She said, 'Yes,' then
cleared her throat. 'Yes.'
'He never spoke to her. What was there to say? He
wasn't interested in her, beyond how she reacted to the
treatment he was . . . providing. The children had been
told he was a doctor. And because they were children,
and were told this by someone they trusted, they did as
they were told, and were probably grateful.'
'Did she even have asthma?' Sarah asked.
'No. She was part of a control group.'
'She told you that?'
Gerard said, 'No. I learned that fact today'
The torch flickered again, and at that same moment the
clanking noise rang. It crawled up the walls, slithered
across the out-of-sight ceiling. There might have been
words buried inside it, but Sarah couldn't make them out.
'Wright wasn't a doctor. He has no medical degree. His
deal with Arimathea was private enterprise. He approached
the man running the home, a priest called
Thomas Walsh, and offered him a cut of any profits resulting
from patents Wright registered. In perpetuity. That
must have appealed to Walsh. Priests deal in the perpetual.
I'm sure he got a kick out of having a stake in it.'
Sarah said, 'He wanted money?'
She wasn't sure why this shocked her, but it did. Priests
and corruption, she had no problem with, but all the usual
scenarios involved sex.
Gerard was ahead of her. 'Not for himself. The money
was to be made over to the home. I've got a copy of the
deed he drew up, somewhere. It's even legal, if you can
believe it. In fact, it's probably still binding.'
'How can it be legal?' she said. 'No part of it can be legal. It involved giving drugs to children, for God's sake.'
'Not for God's sake,' Gerard said. 'And nothing he was
doing made it on to the contract. It simply said that a percentage
of profits arising from patents resulting from
Wright's research - details unspecified - belonged to the
trust in charge of Arimathea's upkeep.'
'He didn't want a record made of what he was up to.'
'He was too canny for that.'
'But it went wrong.'
'There was no disaster.' He shook his head. 'No, the
whole fucking thing was a disaster. What I mean was,
nothing hit the papers, then or afterwards. But someone
higher up the ladder got wind of what was going on. The
church ladder, I mean. They hadn't known about it, you
see. Everything that happened was just between Wright
and Walsh and the others at the home. Like I said. Private
enterprise.'
'Must have made it easier to put a lid on,' Sarah said.
'The CIA could take lessons from Rome,' Gerard said. 'In
fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if they do.'
Again, the torch beam flickered. This time, Gerard
noticed. He slapped the torch with his free hand, and the
beam died totally for half a second, then returned full
strength.
The pair contemplated the renewed light for a moment.
Then Gerard said: 'So Wright went under the radar. Like
I said, he'd lied about his credentials. He wasn't a doctor.
He could have been open to any amount of charges, not
least assault. Assault on children. But the Church wasn't
about to put its hands up, so none of that happened. He
was allowed to walk away. And had just enough sense to
keep his head down.'
'But you found him.'
'There are gaps. I don't know where he's been all the
time since. But he came out of the shadows before I started
looking for him, and what do you know? He's been treading
the same path all these years.'
'Still looking for a cure for asthma.'
'He was ahead of the curve first time round. Nobody's
found a cure in the meantime. He stands to make a fortune,
if he cracks it. But he's not there yet. And he's still crunching
the results his work at Arimathea produced.'
Sarah remembered Wright whining about needing better
computers. If you don't want the animal rights brigade on your
case, you need some fairly sophisticated software.
You need a licence to use animals in research, he'd
told her.
He hadn't needed one to use children.
'What have you done with him?' she asked softly.
She was remembering something he'd said over lunch
that day. The four of them talking about the local art
gallery, and Gerard saying: The terrible vengeance of a
righteous God. Looking directly at Wright. Explaining it to
him. We can all learn something from that.
'What do you think?'
'Just tell me.'
"I fed him to a shark.'
'Gerard?'
"I sliced bits off him. Small, important bits.'
'Gerard
He said, 'Fuck him. Fuck you too. Fuck everybody'
'I'm so sorry, Gerard.'
This time, he didn't switch the torch off. Tears rolled
down his cheeks, and his shoulders shook. Then something
went skittering into the darkness: a rat-sized spider, or cat
sized rat, and Sarah wanted to howl too, but couldn't - she
bit her tongue instead, and stepped forward, and put her
arms round Gerard. For a big man, he felt insubstantial.
Perhaps what she'd heard fleeing into the shadows had
taken a piece of Gerard with it.
After a while, he settled.
Sarah thought it best not to speak yet.
Gerard released himself and found a handkerchief. He
passed her the torch, and she swept it round the darkness
while he blew his nose noisily. The grey webbing that
draped everything was clotted as ever, but some of the horror
had left it . . . Gerard's story had supplanted it as an
image of filth. She remembered her first impressions of
John M. Wright: a man so dull, he'd told her his middle initial.
Round face; a neatly trimmed beard but no moustache. A style choice so ill-advised, she wondered if it weren't a medical
condition.
Medical condition: she'd actually had that thought. A less
rational woman might wonder if she'd picked up vibrations.
And next time she had nightmares, they'd not be of abandoned
picture houses shrouded in cobweb, or of rats' nests
built of shredded cushions. No, they'd feature a round face
with a ridiculous beard, leaning over her with a sharp
needle; as bland and humourless and uncaring as ...
Which was where her knowledge broke down. She'd
have to wait for the nightmare to provide the comparison.
Gerard thrust his handkerchief away, and held his hand
out for the torch. She sensed this was more than his need
to assert control; he needed to re-establish a sense of self.
She doubted he'd cried in front of anyone for a while. Not
even Paula. Not even after Zachary was born.
If he had, they'd probably not be here now.

She released the torch into his grasp. 'Where is he,
Gerard?'
"I don't suppose you'd consider walking away?'
'I'll probably have nights when I wished we had. But I
can't. Neither can you. If you could, you'd not still be here.'
And he'd not have flown flags for her to see. She'd not
be here at all if he hadn't brought her here; if he hadn't told
her about Zachary.
'So where is he? You haven't killed him or anything?
Shit, Gerard, tell me you haven't killed him.'
"I haven't killed him,' Gerard said. His voice was dull. A
lot of adjectives, Sarah had for Gerard. Dull, though, was
a first. 'Not because I don't hate him enough. Not even
because of the morality of it. He's beyond morality'
Sarah couldn't dispute it. Not wanting Gerard to have
murdered Wright had nothing to do with wanting Wright
unmurdered.
'But I couldn't face telling Paula what I'd done. She'd
know I'd done it for my own sake, you see. Doesn't matter
that everyone else would think I'd done it for her, or for
our son. No, she'd know I'd done it for myself. And I don't
think I could bear her knowing that.'
'Where is he, Gerard?'
'There's a room. Behind the stage.'
'You'd better lead the way'

16

Something soggy had collapsed at the end of the corridor:
Sarah didn't want to know what. The air grew colder,
ranker. She wondered how many broken things had
crawled in here to die over the past decade, and if any of
them had been human. But the building was a valuable
property, or at any rate, taking up valuable space. Brian
Harper must have the place inspected regularly.
She was careful to step round the soggy something all
the same.
They'd reached a door; one secure on its hinges, and
with a large rusty key fitted into its lock. Gerard shone the
torch on it.
'Did you know this was here?' Sarah asked him.
'Not until this morning.' He blinked, and shook his head.
'Yesterday morning.' He looked at her. 'When Harper
showed us round, I made sure I could get back in.'
'You propped open an exit with a glove,' Sarah said. "I
found it.'
He'd wanted her to find it. He'd wanted not to have to
kill Wright.
'How did you get him here?'

"I waved a cheque book under his nose.'
That would work, thought Sarah.
She reached past Gerard and turned the key.
It made exactly the screechy noise she'd expected, as if
this were a cruel, unusual punishment for a key: being
made to revolve in its lock. The door, too, protested when
she pushed it.
Sarah fumbled for a light switch, and gave a yelp when
it worked. The light that dropped was a filmy yellow that
soiled everything it touched. After so long in the dark,
Sarah felt it like a physical shock. And when she saw what
it illuminated she felt another, duller thump. If she hadn't
already witnessed Barry Malone sitting naked on a chair
tonight, that thump might have been less dull.
Jack Gannon hadn't laid a finger on Barry. Barry had sat
down compelled by nothing more than fear, which had
proved powerful enough to hold him in place. Gerard
had gone a different road, that was clear. Gerard had used
his fists.
Wright was handcuffed to a radiator pipe - he'd been the
source of those clanking noises; the spooky echoes that had
crawled around the moribund cinema. Earlier, she supposed,
he'd have made more noise. Right now, he looked
near the end of his tether. He'd been gagged with a handkerchief,
and beaten around the face. His jacket lay in a
scruffy heap. What had happened to his glasses, Sarah
couldn't tell.
He whimpered at her entrance. Whether that meant he
hadn't recognized her, or that he had, Sarah didn't want to
think about.
Without a word, she thrust her hand out at Gerard, who
was behind her. He dropped the handcuff key into it.
'Wait outside,' she told him.
At her approach Wright curled into a ball, and Sarah
found herself making soothing noises; the same calming
buzz she used on the ostriches when they were fussed by
a low-flying plane or high-pitched car. She knelt, still
crooning, and unlocked the cuffs. As soon as one wrist was
free, he snatched both hands away; the metal bracelets
dangling from his left.
'It's okay,' she said. 'It's going to be all right.'
He didn't reply.
Sarah supposed she ought to put a hand on him; offer
him comfort the way she would a frightened child, but
couldn't bring herself to. Wright wasn't a frightened child.
The nearest he'd come was frightening a few himself.
Besides, he looked damp.
'Nobody's going to hurt you,' she said.
While he absorbed this, she looked around the room,
which wasn't large. Paint flaked from the walls, and a stack
of wooden chairs seemed to be folding in on itself, as if the
chairs aspired to the condition of matchsticks. She wondered
briefly why they were here, and then forgot about
them. There was a sink in the opposite corner. There didn't
seem any great purpose to this either.
There was less cobweb, she noticed. Perhaps spiders saw
no reason to confine themselves to a crabbed little room
like this when there were wide dark spaces to explore a
mere Never
fails. Before the thought had fully formed, the
biggest spider Sarah ever laid eyes on scuttled across the
floor in front of her. Except scuttled wasn't the word.
Strolled, rather. Nonchalantly. As if it owned the place. She
was too terrified to speak, let alone scream, so did neither,
and two seconds later it had vanished inside that collapsing
palace of wooden chairs as if it owned them, which
maybe it did.
When it didn't re-emerge to waggle hairy eyebrows at
her, she tried to pretend she hadn't seen it, and turned back
to Wright.
'Okay You want to stay in here, that's your funeral. But
I'm off.'
This got through.
'Don't leave me.'
'Then get up.'
He said, 'That man - that bastard '
'Be quiet,' she said. 'There's no time for that.'
'He's an animal '
"I said be quiet!'
She shocked herself with her own shrill tone. And then
unshocked herself by remembering who was who: Gerard
had beaten him up, true, but what had Wright done? He'd
committed the kind of crime you read about in history
books; the kind performed behind barbed wire, in the service
of brutal ideology The kind that made you ask yourself
what you'd have done if you'd been there. What you'd
have sacrificed to stop it. Up to and including yourself.
She said, 'Have you any idea what you did to him?'
'I'd never seen him before this week. He tricked me.'
'Maybe so. But have you any idea what you did to him?'
"I don't know who he is. But he beat me. He beat me!'
. .. Afterwards, she wondered how she'd have approached
this in a debate. Whether she'd have attempted
to get Wright to admit being the cause of greater suffering
than Gerard had caused him. But nothing about Wright
suggested him capable of taking on board other points of
view. It was one of the ways you recognized a sociopath.
Put a bleeding body in front of them, they'd complain it
was in their way.
Wright had never spoken to Paula. He'd simply administered
whatever dose he'd prepared for her, then forgot
about her until next time. He'd deserved everything
Gerard had done, and worse. It shocked Sarah, realizing
she thought this. Perhaps it was to do with getting older;
seeing more shades of grey.
The spiders scuttling around in the grime were nothing
compared to what crawled around some minds.
She said, 'You know what happens now, don't you?'
'I'll see him strung up.'
Okay, she thought - here we go.
'I'll see him nailed to a wall'
He'd grown stronger in the last few moments. That was
what anger did. It rushed in to fill up the spaces fear left
in its wake.
'You might want to reconsider that.'
A voice behind her said, "I might want to, actually.
Reconsider letting him walk away'
'Gerard. Shut up.'
'You're sounding braver now, Wright. You want to start
again?'
'Gerard!'
Wright said, 'Oh, he's brave enough when I'm handcuffed
to a pipe.'
'You had both hands free when I hit you, you little
prick '
'Gerard! Back off. Now.'
She could feel his weight behind her. There was a
heaviness to his presence above and beyond his bulk: the
gravity of a man who'd recently committed violence, and
was in the presence of his prey. Events hung on a spider's
thread. Gerard had wanted her here, to stop him from
doing his worst. But now she'd arrived, perhaps he wanted
a witness to his righteous anger instead. That thread might
snap.
But didn't.
He said, for her ears only: 'He wasn't cuffed when I
hit him.'
"I believe you.'
'He cowered like . . . I don't know what he was like. Didn't
even raise a fist. Just whimpered.'
'Gerard, leave, okay? Wait outside.'
She could sense him hovering, his rage looking for new
vocabulary - as if there were words which would sum up
precisely what had happened here, in the hours before
she'd arrived; raw-knuckled words which remained
beyond his reach. But at last he backed off, and she and
Wright were alone again.
Wright said, 'He's lying.'
'You think so?'
"I know so. I was here. You weren't.'
She began again. 'Did he mention his son at all? While
he was hitting you?'
"I don't know him. Don't know his family. I've nothing
to do with his son.'
'Oh, believe me, you've got everything to do with his
son.' An image flashed through her mind: Gerard's
description of his helpless infant. 'His son needs a machine
to keep him breathing. Do you know why that is? Do you
know why that is?'
She wanted to hit him. Hell, he was on the floor: she
wanted to kick him. But held back, because that was a line
she didn't want to cross.
Though she knew, in her secret heart, that it was a line
she was glad Gerard had crossed already.
She said, 'Arimathea.'
That caught his attention.
'The orphanage. Did you think I didn't know?'
Wright pulled at the handcuff still wrapped around his
wrist. 'I'm not supposed to talk about it.'
'You're not .. . you're what?'
"I had to sign confidentiality agreements. If I talk - they
could sue me.'
Sarah dizzied with anger. 'Is that what you told Gerard?'
'He made me tell him things. He had no right.'
She shook her head. Wright was an empty box, she
thought, without knowing where the thought came from,
or what it meant now it was here. Was just an empty box.
She said, 'You destroyed a life. Lives. Is there anything
inside you, anything at all, that's prepared to recognize
that?'
'My research is important. And there's no proof, no documentation,
that anything I did caused damage to - to that
man's wife. Or his son. None at all. The procedures were
safe. I'd not have performed them if they weren't. Do you
think I'm a monster?'
And he meant it. Jesus Christ, but he meant it.
'I'm not interested in proof,' she said. 'Do you really
think I - oh, fuck, I should have stayed away, shouldn't I?
Should have let him kill you. But he's a good man, and he
doesn't deserve that. You do, but he doesn't.'
'What I'm doing will save lives.'
'What you're doing will make you rich. That's all you're
interested in.' She didn't know that. It might not be true.
She didn't care. 'And even if it does save lives - you've
no right, you had no right, to do what you did to those
children.'
'You've no proof I did anything wrong.'
'Really? You think there's no proof? No documentation? What you did was covered up because it was in some
people's interests to do so.' She was thinking on her feet.
She wished he'd stop breathing. 'Did you think that was
written in stone? If the wind changes, you'll be hung out
to dry'
'I've done nothing wrong.'
'And you really believe that? Because if you do, I might
just let him kill you.'
He said, 'Nobody can prove I've done anything wrong,'
but he sounded less sure about it.
Sarah said, 'He's very rich, you know. Well, of course
you do. And the only reason he did what he did was
because he wanted to feel his fists on you.'
'He's '
'I'm not finished. You really think, if he'd decided to take
another route, you'd be a free man now?'
An odd thing to say to a man looped in handcuffs, but
he didn't point out the contradiction.
'And that doesn't change just because he slapped you
about. Now, you can call the police the moment you leave
here, but can you guess what'U happen? They'll talk to
Gerard. They'll be very polite. And possibly they'll politely
arrest him. I imagine he'll be in custody for all of twenty
minutes, don't you? And then there'll be at least two years
before any of this ends up in court. And during that time,
every penny at Gerard's disposal will be dedicated to
establishing exactly what you did at Arimathea. How confident
are you that he'll fail?'
John M. Wright said, "I want to go now.'
'You'll go when I say you can go.'
Something lizardlike flickered when she said that. The
same lizard that crawled the corridors of Abu Ghraib. But
she blinked twice, and it went away.
'The other children were paid off. Do you really think
Gerard can't afford to open their mouths? By the time your
story's heard in court, you'll be the one in the dock,
Wright.'
He looked at her with baffled resentment. A man who
really didn't think other people should be allowed to interrupt
his view.
'You're a creep. An animal. No, you're worse than that.
Animals don't do what you've done. And sometime soon
you'll pay for the lives you've destroyed. But tonight you
get to walk away, and you know why that is? It's because
I can't stand the sight of you a moment longer. Now get
the fuck out of here.'
She threw the handcuff key. It bounced off his shoulder,
and on to the floor. He scrabbled for it, fingers black.
It took him some while to free his other wrist.
When he'd managed she said, 'Wright? Next time you
turn up at ResearchWorks, you can expect a reception
committee.'
'I've done nothing wrong,' he told her.
'Keep practising that. Imagine saying it in front of
cameras.'
He glared at her with hatred, but with something else
too. As if he really didn't understand her. As if she were an
obstacle to all that was true and good and desirable. And
glaring back, she knew there'd never be a way of breaking
through the walls that minds like his built. Like Talmadge,
he was out of step with other people. The only music he'd
ever hear was his own.
She let him leave first. In darkness they made their way
back into the auditorium, then round to the fire exit. When
Wright pushed through the door and emerged into the
lane, he looked back once and then ran, as if all this was
something he could escape from. As if, by running, he
might arrive at a place where he was someone else. She
waited until his footsteps had diminished into nothingness,
then bent and plucked the glove from the groove
where it had held the door open. As she stepped outside
the door slammed shut, its noise the finest she'd heard in
a while.
Gerard was smoking at last, leaning back against the bricks
and looking up at the sky. The rain had gone, and the
clouds were chasing after it. The moon pulsed somewhere
above them.
She joined him. Stood to his right, so his smoke drifted
away from her; still, she could smell its acrid heat. Strange
that a man with so much money took his pleasure in such
cheap cigars.
She said, 'He's gone.'
'So I see.'
'It's over. He's not likely to make a fuss.'
'Sarah. Believe me when I say I couldn't give a fuck what
kind of fuss he tries to make.'
'You didn't want to kill him.'
'Evidently not.'
'And I'm glad you didn't.'
He said, 'Maybe so. But there's nothing I want more than
for that bastard to walk under a train. Soon. Very soon.
Now will do.'
"I don't really think people get away with very much.'
'Don't you? Don't you really?'
'No, Gerard. I don't.'
'Well, it beats me what world you're living in.'
'He's a shell, Gerard. He's a man without a middle.
Talking to him was like shouting down a well. You don't
think that's a punishment?'
'Sweet God above. That's not a punishment. It's a point
of view.'
Somewhere, streets away, a door closed loudly.
Sarah ran a hand through her hair. She wondered what
kind of a mess she looked like. Then wondered why that
mattered.
'You did the right thing,' she said.
'Letting him go?'
'It's what Buffy would have done,' she said, before she
could stop herself.
Gerard opened his mouth, and closed it again. He took
another toke on his cigar. Then said, 'I'm sure I've no idea
what you're talking about.'
'Then let's change the subject,' she said. 'You didn't
find Wright by yourself, did you? You had help. You hired
Zoe Boehm.'
He didn't reply at first. Kept staring skywards, as if
expecting a heavenly messenger to be dropping in soon.
When he exhaled, it was as if he were talking cloud: a big
language, not understood by the earthbound.
"I lied about that,' Gerard said at last. 'About Zoe's card.'
"I know.'
"I didn't just find it. It was clipped to the report she
sent me.'
'Right.'
'On the other hand,' he said, 'you only found out about
it by sneaking into my room. So don't mistake an admission
for an apology'
Now that sounded more like Gerard.
He said, 'That's what brought you here in the first place,
isn't it? Zoe.'
'What happened to her, Gerard?'
"I don't know. Well, she did her job. She found Wright.
Told me about Jack Gannon, his ... sponsor. It was her
who came up with the idea of the party. Gathering.
Whatever you want to call it. I'd wanted a look at Wright
without him knowing. That was her solution.'
'She produced the list of local worthies.'
'She got some local recruitment consultants to come up
with it. Sarah - all that time, I never laid eyes on her. We
spoke on the phone, or e-mailed. But I never met her. I
didn't lie to you about that.'
'But you hired her because of me. I mean, I'm the reason
you'd heard of her.'
'Yes,' he said.
'And I came here to identify her body'

'Her body?'
'Yes, Gerard. Her body'
'She's dead?'
"I did say body, Gerard.'
'But I didn't - I never - I assumed she'd just ... I don't
know what I assumed. It didn't matter to me. She'd found
Wright. By the time I came north, she'd left. She'd done her
job. It wasn't as if I needed her to . . . Dead?'
Sarah said, 'That's what it looks like.'
She wondered that she could say the words so coldly, but
after the day she'd had, she was wrung out. All she had
was a wall to lean against, and a dark sky overhead in
which one or two stars were showing. After the rain, these
pinpricks of light. And soon enough would come the
morning.
'I'm sorry. I'm sorry she's dead. But I don't think that
had anything to do with what she was doing for me.'
'That's good, Gerard. So long as your conscience is clear.'
That reached a shriller pitch than she'd intended. Some
of the higher notes whistled round the dark for a moment.
She said, 'So she was gone before you arrived at the
Bolbec.'
'That's right.'
'And you've no idea where she went.'
'None at all. The last communication I had with her was
that list of names. A fortnight ago. Sarah '
'The body was found last week. But Zoe checked out
of the hotel the week before. The previous night, there'd
been a crowd in the Bolbec bar, apparently. That sound odd
to you?'
Gerard said, 'It's been quiet as a grave while I've been
there.' Then he thought about that, and added, 'Sorry'
She shook her head. Gerard had his own problems.
Tonight was like the lancing of a boil: a lot of nasty stuff
had poured out, but that didn't mean the healing was
done. It meant it was beginning. And whatever had
become of Zoe, he knew nothing about it. Because if Alan
Talmadge hadn't led Zoe here, he must have followed her.
The job Zoe had done for Gerard had had nothing to do
with it.
A brief fizz released her from her thoughts. Gerard had
tossed his cigar into a puddle. 'What now?' he said.
He looked deflated. She wondered how long it had been
since he'd asked anyone what he should do.
'Sarah?'
"I take it that's your car?'
He nodded.
'Well, what you do is get in it and drive home.' She put
a hand on his shoulder. He didn't flinch. 'Paula needs you,
Gerard. So does Zachary.'
'He'll never know what he needs.'
'That doesn't mean he doesn't need it.'
She expected a harsh comeback to that. Was almost
disappointed when none arrived.
'What about you?'
"I could do with a lift, since you ask.'
'To where?'
Anywhere, she thought . . . 'Anywhere. Somewhere far
away, where I can get home from.'
'When?'
'Now's good.'
'Yes,' he said. "I suppose it is.'
He patted his pockets for his car keys, and at that exact
same moment, a phone buzzed.
'Was that you or me?' Gerard asked.
'It was me.'
She fished it out. One message received, her screen said. It
would be Russ, she thought. Russ, who was awake at five
in the morning, wondering where on earth she'd got to.
But it wasn't.
'Anything important?' Gerard asked.
'You might say,' she told him.
It was from Zoe.

17

At the bar on The Sage Gateshead's third floor Sarah was
more or less on a level with the nearby Baltic's viewing
gallery, which in turn gave a great view of the Sage. She'd
heard there were those who thought the very best view of
the Sage was from inside it, but anyone who'd done hard
time among the concrete bunkers of London's South Bank
would have laughed that off. Way down below, the Tyne
shifted choppily On its far bank stood the courts buildings,
and to her right, between Sage and Baltic, was the
Gateshead Millennium Bridge; a graceful eyelash she'd yet
to see drop. About the same distance upriver was its industrial
older brother, the Swing Bridge, squatly supported by
a jetty-like structure the water lapped at hungrily. And
immediately below her, a large white H on the concrete
apron was a helicopter landing pad for the naval base.
And that was quite enough tourism, she knew, but Zoe
was twenty minutes late, and Sarah herself had been early.
Bar, 3rd floor, the Sage. 11.30. Z.

As messages from beyond the grave went, it was hardly I am risen, but it would have to do. If the woman turned
up to put some body behind it, Sarah would have no
complaints.
Though if she was pressed, the lack of seating might
have been mentioned.
She was leaning against the rail bordering the oval edge
of the bar area - the bar itself was no more than a small
counter between doors into Hall One - and from here
could see right to ground level through the gap between
the floor and the glass outer wall. When she arrived,
there'd been a band playing near the cafe down there.
Strange thing was, she'd seen half this band before, busking
on Northumberland Street. This time the two brothers
were performing with two other young men: fiddles,
guitar and melodeon. Last Orders, a poster had proclaimed
them. They looked like Arctic Monkeys gone folk, and had
been joined by a female vocalist as Sarah watched, for a
haunting song about whales.
That had been forty-five minutes ago. Then the band
had packed up, and a matinee performance had started
inside the hall: A Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra. Monitors over the doors showed an auditorium full of
schoolchildren.
She looked at her watch again. Zoe was still late, and
there was still no sign of her.
The text had been a reply, of sorts, to the message she'd
left on Zoe's voice mailbox in the early hours, at the
Internet cafe:
"I don't know whether you're listening to this. I don't
know whether you're able to. But if you are ... I need your
help, Zoe. I think something really bad has happened, or
is about to. And I need to stop it. But I don't think I can do
that on my own . . .'
In the end, Sarah hadn't needed Zoe's help. But that
didn't defuse her smouldering sense that if she had done,
it wouldn't have been forthcoming ... A sense itself smothered,
in turn, by relief that Zoe was alive. Along with anger
that she'd been alive all this time, and allowed Sarah to
think otherwise.
If you let it happen, conflicting emotions could cripple
you.
Take Russ, for example. She'd spoken to Russ at last. It
hadn't been a happy experience. He was forgivably pissed
off about her extended absence; but less forgivably too
pissed off to listen to the reasons for it. She'd had flashbacks
to the derelict cinema while he'd been talking. "I didn't want to be with the spiders, she wanted to say. I'd rather
have been with you. But because things happened the way
things happened, she found herself responding angrily
instead. And then the conversation had been terminated,
and it had been too late to say anything.
She should call him now. It wasn't really too late to say
anything. But if she did, Zoe would turn up next moment,
and then Sarah would have to disconnect and it would all
be terrible again With
the thought, she scanned the level once more. But
saw no sign of Zoe.
Gerard had left. Was in London by now, or at the very
least, in a traffic jam quite near it. He'd given her a lift to
the railway station, and had hugged her quite hard on
leaving ... As for Wright, he might be wandering the back
lanes near the cinema still, in a daze. Wondering what he'd
done to deserve this.
But she didn't want to think about him.
One day soon, she'd call Gerard. Make sure he was okay,
or as okay as circumstances allowed. And she'd talk to
Paula. Sarah would try to forget everything she'd ever
thought she'd known about Paula - Hello! magazine; designer labels - and listen instead to the woman she was
talking to. She would try to hear the music. And after that
she'd talk to Gerard again, to discuss what to do about
Wright; something that didn't involve instant justice in a
cobwebbed court. If nothing else, there were always newspapers.
Even the worst papers would jump all over a story
like his. Especially the worst papers.
There was no way a rat like Wright could be allowed to
get away with what he'd done.
All of this she would do, as soon as everything else
was over.
She'd eaten breakfast after collecting her bag from the
Internet cafe; had eaten two, in fact, to make up for however
many meals she'd missed. After that she'd drifted
around the quayside, cold and edgy, watching gulls
bobbing on the water like they owned the place. She'd
wondered where Zoe had been, and invented mental
conversations with her. These always closed with Zoe's
abject apologies: pointless exercises in self-justification. But
hard to resist all the same.
Time dragged when all you had to do was kill it. This
was hardly news. She'd been in the Sage for some while.
Had checked her bag in at the cloakroom, exactly as if she
was here for the matinee performance.
And now she checked her watch, and it was 11.55.
'You'd think they'd open the bar, wouldn't you?'
She started, then recovered herself. It wasn't Zoe,
obviously.
'Well .. . It's a bit early'
"I didn't mean for a drink. Just a cup of coffee, you
know?'
He was about her age, with neatly trimmed dark hair
and rimless glasses, and wore a long dark raincoat. She
hadn't heard him approach. He'd come to a halt a careful
three yards distant.
She said, 'Good point. Coffee wouldn't hurt.'
He smiled, then leaned on the rail and looked out at the
riverside.
Sarah checked left and right, but there was still no sign
of Zoe.
Outside, the skies were blue, or nearly blue, with no
trace of yesterday's unstoppable rain. It was cold, though.
Next time, if there was a next time, she'd bring a warmer
coat, even if it proved less stylish. And thinking so, she
brushed again at a smear on her collar, which she must
have picked up in the cinema, and which she didn't care
to analyse too carefully.
'Do you have someone in there?'
'I'm sorry?'
The man had turned her way again, but was nodding
towards Hall One. 'Are you a parent? Lot of children in
there.'
'Oh, right. No, I'm just waiting for a friend.'
'I'm not waiting on a lady,' he said, and then, at Sarah's
confusion, added: 'Stones song. Sorry. Bit of a fan.'
'Right. Yeah, no. I remember that one.'
He grinned, and she knew him. And then the moment
passed.
'. .. Something wrong?'
'No, sorry. Just remembering something.'
Though who she was remembering, she couldn't have
said.
Sarah resumed her outward gaze. A chord had been
struck, and she was trying to follow the reverberation back
to its source. But it all became part of the larger cacophony
of the past days: of trains arriving and cars hammering
past; of noisy voices in bars, and scuttlings in the darkness.
Of hiding behind locked doors while unknown men
prowled on the other side.
But that had been Jack Gannon. This man was no one
she'd yet seen.
She shook her head. Memory was playing tricks.
Something had suggested something else, which had suggested
something else again. She was tired, that was the
problem. And Zoe was still not here. She reached for her
mobile phone, whose battery was so low it couldn't have
more than a couple of minutes' life in it. It was hard not to
empathize. But she pulled Zoe's name onscreen anyway,
and pressed Call. She'd avoided this so far, as if to phone
once more would be to push her luck. As if the fact that
Zoe had answered once meant nothing, while a failure to
answer a second time would definitively indicate her
absence.
During the moments it took her phone to respond, she
glanced sideways at the waiting man. He seemed oblivious
to her presence; had his back to the rail and was looking
towards the monitor, presumably hoping for an indication
that the performance was nearly over. He must be a parent. Lot of children in there. That was what she thought. And
then in her ear, she heard Zoe's phone ring.
And two yards away, a tinny Stones riff buzzed in a
pocket.
Dah-dah - da-da-dah - da-da-da-da-da-dah-dah
She watched, unbelieving, as he calmly reached inside
his coat, and pulled out his mobile. Held it to his ear.
Pressed Connect.
The Stones died.
At her ear she could hear the same ambient noises that
rang around the hall.
Into his phone the man said: "I changed her dial tone,'
and the words dopplered straight into her ear. 'Told you
I was a fan.'
Sarah lowered her handset.
'Don't stress out,' he told her. 'It's not a big issue.'
And he smiled again, and she knew who he was.

Because things sometimes happen in synch, a noise clattered
round the lobbies and landings at precisely that
moment: a tray spilt in the cafe downstairs. Crockery was
broken. In pubs and bars, such accidents provoked a communal
jeer; here, there was instead a respectful pause,
before events resumed their normal course.
Last time she'd seen this man he'd worn dirty blue jeans
and a variety of shirts and sweaters, layered one on top of
the other. His hair had been dead straw, and his face was
grey from huddling in corners.
He'd sold her a Big Issue on the instalment plan. Pay
now, collect later.
Looking back, she suspected that was a first.
She said, 'Where's Zoe?'
'You don't know?'
'Where is she?'
That note hit the glass, and bounced off it like candlelight.
She was aware of it splintering around the high
spaces; of people she couldn't see pausing to wonder what
was up. It made her bite her lip. As if public embarrassment
remained a consideration.
He leaned across to pat her hand. She withdrew it
furiously.
'What have you done with her?'
'Please, Sarah. Don't make a fuss. Not here.' He gestured
to the Hall behind him, as if Benjamin Britten might take
offence. 'If we're going to talk, you have to stay calm.'
Her mobile phone was in her hand. 'The police,' she
said. "I could have the police here in minutes.'
'Why on earth would you want to do that?'
The look on his face was one of genuine puzzlement.
'What have you done with her?' she said again, less sure
of herself.
"I haven't done anything with her,' he said. "I don't know
where she is. And I'm worried about her. Same as you.'
Sarah opened her mouth, then wiped whatever she'd
been about to say. 'What do you mean, you're worried about her - you're - you're you. You're a killer. Don't think
I don't know who you are.'
Though she didn't, in fact, know who he was. He was
Alan Talmadge. But that wasn't even his name.
He said, 'Now there, you see? You've been listening to
Zoe. And she's wrong about me, Sarah.'

'She's not wrong.'
'She's taken certain facts - facts capable of different interpretations
- and she's put them together and come up with
this wild idea, this crazy story. But it's not true, Sarah. I'm
not the person she thinks I am.'
'So who are you?'
He shrugged. 'I'm what you see.'
'So why the disguise - the homeless get-up? Why have
you been hiding if you've nothing to hide?'
'Do you always see things in such black and white?'
'You've got her phone, for God's sake - you've got Zoe's phone. Where's the grey in that?'
An usher appeared from round the corner - that would
have been the moment to make her voice heard; to shout,
if not Rape, then something equally incendiary. But the
woman carried on round the curved wall, and if Sarah
raised her voice now, she might lose whatever chance was
being offered to find out what happened to Zoe.
He said, 'There. That wasn't difficult, was it?'
Sarah looked at him.
'Not shouting out, I mean.'
She said, 'You've got her phone.'
'She left it behind.'
'Zoe wouldn't do that.'
'Why do you think I'm worried about her?'
'She was at the Bolbec. She was in Newcastle, doing a
job. And you followed her here.'
He said, 'You make it sound creepy. It wasn't like I was
stalking her. I wanted to make contact, that's all. And I
thought it best if I did that off home ground.'
'So where's home?'
'This isn't about me, Sarah. I just want to know Zoe's
all right.'
'I'm not one of your lonely victims, Talmadge, or whatever
you're called today. I trust you as far as I could throw
this building. You won't tell me who you are, or where you
come from, but I'm supposed to help you? Get a grip.'
"I disguised myself, okay' He shrugged. 'Zoe has certain
ideas about me. As we've established. But she's wrong,
Sarah. And it's important to me that she realizes that.'
His words, his being here - the very fact of him, when
all she'd previously had to go on was Zoe's stories. All of
it, put together, amounted to a feeling like a slug crawling
over her grave.
'You were watching her.'
"I was waiting for the right moment.'
'You sent her an e-mail.'
'. . . You've been looking at her e-mails?'
Sarah said, 'I've been looking everywhere I can. Because
there's a body on a slab up there' - and here she pointed
through the glass wall; over the river; towards the heart of
the city - 'and it was wearing Zoe's clothes, and carrying
Zoe's wallet, and for all I know it was Zoe. Except if it was,
you wouldn't be here, would you?'
He looked in the direction she'd pointed, as if the body
might suddenly materialize, unshrouded, on the other side
of the glass.
Sarah said, 'It was Madeleine, wasn't it? Madeleine
Irving.'
'Who?'
'Madeleine Irving,' Sarah repeated, with less conviction.
Madeleine Irving. A name she'd plucked from the ether.
But when you got down to it, Madeleine was one of many,
wasn't she? One of many who went missing, looked for or
not. It didn't have to be her. It just had to not be Zoe.
Though whoever it was, she'd once had a name.
She said, 'The woman - the woman in the water. You
made it look like she was Zoe.'
"I don't know where you're getting this from, Sarah.'
'You're making noises, but you're not saying anything.
There was a body. And you know it wasn't Zoe's. So you
know whose it was. You put it there.'
"I didn't put anyone in the river, Sarah. I'm just looking
for Zoe, same as you. She needs me.'
'She needs you?'
'Of course she does. She just doesn't know it yet.' He
looked away, into the glassed distance. 'She's lonely, Sarah.
It's tipping her over the edge. Why would she do what she
did, otherwise?'
'What does that mean?'
Talmadge shook his head.
Sarah said, 'She told me what you do The words were
coming out quietly, as if this were their secret, here in this
public place. 'You worm your way into women's lives.
Because they're "lonely". And then you kill them.'
He was shaking his head again before she'd finished.
'It's fantasy. She seems to need a dark figure in her life, someone to unload all her bad stuff on to, as a way of
keeping her real feelings hidden. She's not much for self
analysis, is she? If this were happening to anyone else,
she'd be the first to tell you what was really going on.'
'Oh, please,' Sarah said. 'Enlighten me.'
He looked at her, amusement glittering in his eyes. He
was very smooth-cheeked. Professionally so. She imagined
that, having finished with his homeless guise, he'd spent
half a day getting a professional seeing-to: hair, nails, skin.
It wasn't simply that he looked different. It was that you'd
never associate this man with the other.
"I think you know,' he said.
'Did you talk to her?'
'No.'
'You didn't make contact.'
He bowed his head: one slight admission. "I sent that
e-mail. But she was gone by then. From the hotel, I mean.'
'But you were following her. Stalking her.'
'You keep using that word.'
'It keeps being true. How long were you hanging round
the hotel?'
'Just a few days.' He smiled suddenly, and a naive
sincerity lit his eyes. If he could fake that, Sarah thought if
he could fake that: yes, he was dangerous. "I wanted to
be near her, that's all. Even if it meant being part of a
crowd.'
'Really? At the Bolbec?' But she was remembering what
Barry had said: There was a crowd. Expecting free drinks.
Don't know what that was about. She said, 'You pulled some
kind of fast one, didn't you?'
"I put up a few posters round town. It was no big thing.
But - well, it guaranteed a few punters, you might say.'
There was a growing commotion, as if a wave were
pushing upriver, and it took Sarah a moment to understand
that it was applause. The performance in Hall One
had come to an end. On the monitor, the orchestra had
taken to its feet, bowing acknowledgement to the clapping
crowd. Even as she registered this, the door opened and
the first of the erstwhile audience slipped out.
"I hate that,' Talmadge said. 'It's discourteous. They
should stay where they are a few minutes. Let the players
know they're appreciated.'
And now more people streamed out, the vast majority
children, and the noise levels on the landing escalated.
He said, 'Well, it was good talking with you. When you
see Zoe, tell her I'll be in touch.'
'We're not finished yet '
But it seemed they were. With a nod and a smile that
combined pleasure and regret, he moved away so deceptively
swiftly that he was among the staircase-bound
crowd before she finished her sentence.
She looked round, as if there were someone she could
explain this moment to. Don't let him get away, she
could say. Don't you realize who that is? But there was
nobody there. Nobody, at any rate, with a moment to spare
for Sarah.
There were more doors into the auditorium to her right,
all of them disgorging people. Sarah joined the stream,
eyes locked on Talmadge's back. He was at the top of the
staircase already; had navigated himself into a clear channel
where he could take the stairs two at a time without
even appearing to be in a hurry. It was hard to believe that
just two minutes ago, this building had been full of empty
spaces. Now it was raucous and echoey; full to spilling
with children who'd been trussed up inside an audience
this past hour. Freedom had them bobbing around like
balloons.
But Talmadge towered above them, beanstalk-high.
Don't lose sight of him, Sarah, she told herself. That
shouldn't be too hard: just don't lose 'Shit
- oh God, sorry '
Eyes fixed on Talmadge, she'd stumbled over an infant,
a boy.
'I'm really sorry, are you all right?'
An adult - a teacher - was zeroing in on her. 'Excuse me,
do you think you could watch where you're going?'
The boy was okay. The boy wasn't crying. The adult,
though, looked spoiling for a fight.
'And I'd ask you to mind your language with so many
young people around.'
'Yes. Yes. Right,' Sarah said. She hurried round the group
of children who were her immediate obstacle, but
Talmadge was nowhere to be seen.
'Shit,' she said again.
The staircase was a swarming mass of movements: children
mostly, chattering mostly; squawking in some
instances. Adults dotted among them were making the
kind of calmingly authoritative noises sheepdogs would
make if they could talk. But none of the adults was
Talmadge.
The pestery teacher had caught up with her. 'Do you
really think that's any way to '
'Oh, fuck off,' Sarah snapped. She scampered down the
stairs, hoping to find Talmadge on the next level. But he
was nowhere. How had he done that? She couldn't have
taken her eyes off him for more than a second, and whap! He was gone.
There were more doorways into Hall One on this floor,
with more children streaming from each. Talmadge could
have slipped inside. It wouldn't have taken a second.
But hiding inside the auditorium would have narrowed
his choices. Wouldn't he head for the outside world? She
took the next flight down, fetching up on ground level by
the cafe. The ticket counters were to her right; there were
loos either side. She wasn't going to find him in a hurry if
he was lurking in the Gents.
Think, Sarah.
Hours ago, in a previous life, she'd used her mobile to
lure a shape from the shadows. That wasn't going to work
here. Half the people in sight had a mobile phone in their
pocket. The rest had one in their hands. Even 'Satisfaction'
wasn't going to make itself heard among this lot.
And standing on the spot wasn't helping. Or was it? If
you want to hide in a crowd, don't push your way through
it: find somewhere you can stand still without being
noticed. Like a queue. She turned to those lining up at the
cafe counter: not there. Then those leaning against the
ticket counters; engaged in transactions, or just leafing
through pamphlets. They included a lone man, and it
might be Talmadge, but it wasn't - already, though, his
image was starting to fade, her memory superimposing
upon it his earlier incarnation: dead-straw hair; face grey
from huddling in corners. What colour coat had he been
wearing? She couldn't recall. Black. No, blue.
She was holding her mobile, but couldn't imagine anything
useful to do with it. She could call the police, sure.
Then spend the rest of the morning explaining what she
was talking about.
Somebody bumped into her and she turned, expecting
that teacher again. But all she faced was a mumbled apology
from a youngish man. She was standing in the middle
of the hall, that was the trouble. There were people trying
to go places, and she was in their way. She shook her head.
Two minutes. It hadn't taken two minutes: that was how
much time had passed since she'd been standing three
floors up, talking to Talmadge. And now he was gone.
But Zoe was alive. That was worth hanging on to. She'd
lost Talmadge, but Zoe was alive.
Where she'd got to, and what she was doing there, were
questions that could wait.
Jamming her phone into her coat pocket, Sarah headed
for the exit on the Millennium Bridge side. Large groups of
schoolchildren were being corralled here and there in the
wide lobby. She had to thread her way through them.
On the other side of the curved glass walls, a boat made
its way upriver, piloted by a man in a bright-green lifesaving
jacket. Gulls rose squawking from the water at its
approach, and on the far quay a small child, bulked to a
sphere by its padded coat, pointed this out for its mother's
pleasure.
There were people on the Millennium Bridge; some
crossing; others just taking in the view. A major part of this
was the Sage itself, the great glass slug behind Sarah. She
fumbled with the collar of the coat, buttoning it in place.
On the bridge, a woman's shape lifted a hand to her ear.
Down the steps and halfway across the terrace in front
of Sarah, another shape stopped.


She couldn't hear it, but she knew what it would be.
Dah-dah - da-da-dah - da-da-da-da-da-dah-dah
A tinny Stones riff, buzzing in a pocket.
She couldn't believe she'd not seen him until he stopped,
because there he was in open view, halfway across that
neat expanse between Sage and Baltic. As she watched, he
too raised a fist to his ear.
Sarah turned back to the woman on the bridge.
Who didn't look like anyone she'd seen before. She wore
a calf-length white raincoat, and a tight-fitting black cap.
Except it wasn't a black cap. She'd had her hair cut, that
was all. A pretty brutal cut, but just a cut.
Not like anyone Sarah had seen before, but it was Zoe
all right.
Talmadge's arm dropped, and he turned to face Sarah.
For no reason she could have readily explained, she
pointed at him. Rude, of course. But ruder to kill women.
He shook his head, as if disappointed by her vulgarity,
then continued his sweep of the area. He spotted Zoe
swiftly enough. Still with her phone at her ear, she began
walking his way.
Now Sarah's phone rang.
I want you back . . .
'It's important we don't lose him, Sarah.'
'Fine, thanks. How about you? Not dead?'
'Can that wait?'
Sarah cut the call.
Talmadge was walking away from them, fast. For someone
anxious to know where Zoe was not five minutes ago,
he now seemed keen not to encounter her.
But it was all about choosing your ground. Talmadge
wanted to control events. So Zoe appearing from nowhere,
getting the drop on him - no wonder he was off.
Zoe was coming off the bridge, Sarah advancing from
the Sage. The pair of them forming a pincer movement,
cutting off Talmadge's lines of escape.
But he didn't glance round. It was as if this was where
he'd always been headed: the Baltic; once a flour mill, now
a museum of modern art. He was heading inside: shop to
his left, cafe to his right. When Zoe and Sarah intersected,
they were about a hundred yards behind him.
Without slowing down, Sarah said, 'How did you know
where to find us?'
'Fine, thanks. How about you? Not '
'Zoe '
'He's got my phone. You'll have noticed that.'
'So what, you've got it bugged? Your own phone?'
Zoe looked at her. Her eyes were darker than ever. And
with her hair all but buzz-cut, and that white coat - Zoe in
white? That's what Sarah called a disguise - she looked
like a bruised ghost.
She wasn't dead. But she gave good affect.
Now she said: 'My own phone? I might be paranoid,
Sarah. But I'm not . . .fucking paranoid.'
Talmadge disappeared inside the building.
'How many exits does this place have?'
'He's not slipping away,' Zoe said. 'Not this time.'
That smell - Sarah suddenly registered that smell.
'You're smoking again.'
Zoe said, 'A mobile phone gives off a pulse. Everybody
knows this.'
'I've seen Spooks. But how do you ?'
'You don't. But you pay people who do.' She snorted.
'The Internet's not a toy, Sarah. You can buy any service
you need.'
And then they were inside too.
'You've been following him.'
'I've been waiting for him to stick his head above the
parapet.'
'So you can cut it off.'
Zoe said, 'Can I remind you who this guy is?'
The shop had a wide, wide doorway. Zoe stopped as
they reached it, and pointed. 'Check the cafe.'
'Sir,' Sarah said.
But it needed doing.
In the cafe, a family sat around one table; harassed
young parents too busy shushing their infants to pretend
to be Alan Talmadge. The rest were couples; a few solo
women. No Talmadge. On her way back, Sarah stopped at
the toilets. In here? Of course. The women's were empty,
an unusual occurrence. Stepping back out, a thought
nagged: what if he slipped past while I was inside? But what
could she do about it if he had? She stepped smartly
behind a young man heading into the Gents. He paused to
hold the door for her, and executed a perfect double-take.
'He can run,' Sarah told him. 'But he can't hide.'
A man at a urinal looked over his shoulder, bemused,
while another paused in the act of washing his hands.
Neither was Talmadge. The doors to the stalls mostly hung
ajar. The one that didn't swung open at her push.
'Is this a happening?' the young man asked.
'Is it a what?'
'Some kind of art event?'
'Oh. Yes. A sort of installation.' She nodded at the urinals.
'I'm thinking of having one of them installed.'
Back in the lobby, there was no sign of Talmadge. If he'd
got past her, he'd got past her. She joined Zoe at the shop's
entrance.
'He went inside.'
'It's not a small place, Zoe.'
'He's not getting away again.'
Her voice was tighter than Sarah remembered. As if
something were slowly strangling her; its invisible fingers
rippling round her throat.
As they headed towards the entrance into the museum
proper, Zoe's coat flapped round her knees like a gunslinger's
duster.
'I'm taking the lift,' she said. 'I'll work my way down.
You take the stairs.'
'Thanks.'
'Sarah. This is important.'
That was good to know. It was good to know she'd come
all this way to identify her friend's body, and it turned out
to be important.
. .. Identify her body? The woman was right in front of
her now, and Sarah could hardly recognize her.
The lift arrived. It was empty.
Zoe said, 'Sarah. You want me to owe you forever? Help
me catch this man.'
She stepped inside and jabbed a button. The door
slid shut.
When Sarah turned, a middle-aged woman with a Baltic
logo-ed sweatshirt was watching, her jaw hanging slightly.
Sarah said, 'It's not as creepy as it sounds.'
'Are you a polis?'
'Actually, it is as creepy as it sounds. A man came this
way, last five minutes. Long dark coat? Neat dark hair?'
The woman shrugged. "I don't monitor them, pet. I just
make sure nobody crawls over the exhibits.'
Sarah looked at the stairs, then back at the woman, who
had a radio clipped to her belt. 'Please call whoever.
Security. Tell them what I've just told you. There's a man
in your museum, a dangerous man.'
"I just tell them that, do I?'
Sarah was heading into the stairwell. 'You're probably
not his type. But you never can tell.'

There were a lot of stairs. More than seemed correct in
a six-storey building. But then, these storeys were high
ceilinged.
And this wasn't the only set of stairs, and Zoe's wasn't
the only lift, and there'd be God only knew how many
hiding places; places where it would look like you were
communing with art . . .
But there was little sense, Sarah told herself through
gritted teeth, in giving up before she'd started.
So she took the stairs two at a time, heart racing before
she reached the first floor, which wasn't crowded. A couple
by the far wall were having an argument, judging by their
body language; otherwise there was only a man with a
rucksack on his back, which on second look turned into a
baby-carrier. Producing a baby at short notice would be
setting the bar high even for Talmadge. But she was aware
of an ever-growing urgency. Every second put him a little
more distant. Even if he remained in this big square building,
he'd be slipping moment by moment out of reach, like
a fistful of sand.
She checked that the couple hadn't morphed into a
single man while her gaze was elsewhere. They hadn't.
Above their heads, a twisted length of neon tubing
changed colour. Eatshitpissdie, it read.
This was no time for a disquisition on modern art.
But sweet Jesus.
Sarah headed back to the stairwell.
Where she learned again the hard way that exercise was
one thing - regular long walks; even regular long walks
featuring steep inclines - and running up never-ending
flights of stairs another. Her heart was pounding like a basketball
before she'd reached the next set of doors: these
gave on to a gallery, looking down on the space she'd just
left. Nobody had moved. Eatshitpissdie was bleeding blue
to red. Sarah's legs felt ready to give, and her entire body
was wrapped in sweat.
But there were plenty more stairs to climb.
This time she settled for a steady upward propulsion, as
if her legs were pistons. Her legs weren't fooled. If she ever
got to the top, she'd not be able to stand. But if she got to
the top, that would mean she'd missed Talmadge.
The other stairwell nagged at her - there was at least one
other stairwell. He could be below her even now, calmly
trip-trapping out into the light.
And I really don't want to be the one to explain to Zoe
that he's got away.
Above her a door slammed, and somebody clattered on
to the stairs. Sarah stopped, and pressed against the wall.
If it was Talmadge, maybe she could stick a foot out; send
him tumbling head over heels But
it wasn't. It was a young woman whose brown
tasselled boots clashed horribly with her pink jacket. She
gave Sarah a twisted smile, unless she was chewing gum,
and vanished, heading for an up-close encounter with Eatshitpissdie.
An artefact that was definitely taking up too much space
in Sarah's head.
She leaned over the waist-high banister and peered
upwards. The stairwell still went on forever. But when she
looked down, there was quite a drop already . . . Dizzy,
Sarah stepped back. Shook her head to release the feeling,
then started on the stairs once more.
Another full circuit brought her to another artspace: this
one in moody darkness. A series of screens at irregular
angles had the same film unspooling on each, at different
speeds: a tower block collapsing in a mini-Hiroshima of
dust. She knew how it felt. The soundtrack was a playground
chant: Ring-a-ring-a-roses. There were more art
lovers here than downstairs, but Talmadge wasn't among
them. She patrolled the room twice, at a canter, and then
was back on the stairs.
He was gone. She knew this. He'd been smoke from the
moment he entered the building. What had made them
believe he was cornered?
Something fell past; a sudden downward rush of noise.
Sarah stopped.
When she looked up, she saw a man hanging halfway
into space.
If you wanted a dodgy situation turned into a circus, just
add Zoe.
That was the thought banging round Sarah's head in
time to her feet on the stairs: If you wanted a dodgy situation . . . And she might throw up. Another thought, edging
its way through the gaps. She might barf without
reaching the top.
More noises dropped down the stairwell; muffled and
clangy, like a badly judged soundtrack.
Heart in mouth, she reached the next landing and
stopped to look down. People were gathering on ground
level, pointing. You'd think they'd never seen a grown man
hung over a banister before.
Eatshitpissdie swam back into her mind. If Zoe lets go of
this guy, it's going to make more of a splash than a neon
crudity.
Talmadge was a ventriloquist's puppet; a loose-limbed
breakable thing half-sitting on the railing, knees hanging
over the safe side. The rest of him leaned horizontal, taunting
gravity. His fists were wrapped tightly round Zoe's
upper arms. His knuckles shone white.
Behind Zoe was a set of doors she must have come
through at a whack. Must have leaped without warning;
pushed so hard, Talmadge would have gone over if she'd
not held his lapels.
'You found him then,' Sarah said. The words hurt, coming
out. Last time she'd climbed stairs this quickly she'd
been younger, and newly in love.
"I found him.'
'I'm still here,' Talmadge said. 'Don't talk as if I wasn't.'
To give him credit, he sounded calmer than Sarah. All
Zoe had to do was let go. It wasn't even an action; more a
cessation. One brief surrender, and Talmadge would
bounce off hard edges all the way down to death.
The shaking in Sarah's knees wasn't entirely due to
exertion.
A coppery taste rose in her mouth. She said, 'Took him
by surprise, then.'
'He's not used to accidents happening to him. He's usually
on the other side of them.'
'Zoe,' Talmadge said. 'This is all a mistake.'
'Why don't we save the speaking for when we're spoken
to?'
'Let me go.'
'You might want to choose your words more carefully
'Zoe. This would be murder.'
Zoe flexed her arms, and he yelped.
Not as calm as he'd like them to think.
Zoe said: 'A little push here, a little nudge there. People
fall under trains, and die in cold ditches. What did you
plan for me, Talmadge? If that's what you're called this
week?'
Sarah said, 'Zoe? Is this the way to deal with this?'
'It's working for me.'
'Let go and he'll die.'
'That's what I meant.'
'What the hell's going on?'
A man wearing one of those Baltic sweatshirts had
appeared on the landing above.
Zoe said, 'Private chat.'
'You're about one inch from killing that man.' The newcomer
paused, checking his measurements. 'An inch.'
'Oh, I'm a lot closer than that,' Zoe assured him.
Sarah said, 'Have you called the police?'
'It's been done.'
'Whose side are you on?' Zoe asked her.
'Do you know this .. . woman?'
Sarah said, 'It might be best if you backed away. Maybe
the other side of that door?'
'I'm in charge here,' he told her.
'That's good. But your chances of breaking his fall are
slim,' she said. 'While your chances of making a bad thing
worse are looking good.'
'The police are on their way,' he said. 'And an ambulance,'
he added.
'I'm not sure an ambulance'll help,' Zoe said. 'A spatula
and a jiffy bag might work.'
Talmadge said, 'You're not going to drop me, Zoe.'
'You sound sure of that.'
"I know you. This isn't what you want to do.'
Sarah said to the Baltic man: 'Really Your presence isn't
helping.'
'So this is my fault now?'
'That's right,' Zoe said without turning. 'This is all
about you.'
"I only meant '
'Just fuck off, okay?'
Sarah said, 'It'll be better if you left. Really
'This isn't some kind of event, is it? Because I was never
told '
'This isn't art. Trust me.'
He didn't look like he did. But he pushed backwards
through the door behind him, on to the viewing gallery.
Sarah looked up. They were one flight below the top.
Which wasn't going to matter to Talmadge, if push came
to shove. They were too many flights above the bottom
for that.
'Zoe,' she said. Her legs were shaking. Her lungs ached.
She could feel her pulse in her fingernails. 'Zoe, this has
got to stop.'
'Oh, it'll stop. Go and join your new friend. I'll whistle
when I'm done.'
'I'm not going anywhere,' she said.
'Great. How about you, Talmadge?' Zoe flexed her
arms, jerking him another inch lower. He dropped his
head back; took an upside-down look at what might be
his last journey. 'Having fun yet?'
'What do you want from me, Zoe?'
And now there was fear. There was no hiding any more.
He could disappear in crowded places, Alan Talmadge,
but hang him over a banister, and he was all too visibly
present.
'You followed me up here. To Newcastle.'
'Okay Yes. I followed you.'
'With a woman.'
'Are you jealous?'
'You dumb fuck, this is not a joke. Do you want to be a
splash on the downstairs walls?'
'She was a friend, Zoe. Nothing more.'
'She looked like me.'
'Superficial.' And this was a yelp. 'There was a superficial
resemblance. Listen, the police are on their way. Do
you really want them to '
'You took my things. Stole my identity. Dressed her up.
So you could pretend she was me. Tell me that was superficial, you sick fuck.'
The light seemed to be growing stronger, Sarah thought.
Seemed to be falling on them from above, as if this moody
tableau were being incorporated into the museum. Soon
the three of them would freeze into place. Future staircase
users would ponder their meaning. Talmadge would hang
forever, and never fall.
Her head was pounding in time with her heart. The light
wasn't growing stronger; her eyes were growing weak.
'You killed her, didn't you?' Zoe said. 'Just like you
killed the others.'
'You know that's not true.'
'She was pulled from the river, Talmadge. Don't you
read the papers? Yanked from the Tyne by men with poles.
Dead as you get. They've already cut her up.'
'That's ugly, Zoe. You sound like you're pleased.'
'I'm pleased you're not walking away this time. That's
what I'm pleased about.'
'You're acting like I put her in the river, Zoe. And I didn't
even know where she was. Not till they pulled her out. You
of all people have to believe that.'
'You're missing the point. It wasn't river water in her
lungs, Talmadge. She didn't drown in the Tyne. And didn't
drown herself anywhere else, unless you've a plausible reason
for her jumping in the river afterwards.' She pushed
again. A faraway gasp rose up from way below. 'The accident
story won't wash this time.'
Sarah said, 'Let him up, Zoe.'
"I want to hear him say it.'
'It doesn't matter what he says. Not while his life's in
your hands.'
"I want to hear him '
'He could confess to killing Princess Di, Zoe, and it
wouldn't matter. A forced confession's about as much use
as . ..'
'Cardboard wellies?' a voice from above suggested.
DS King was on the landing above.
The lift, thought Sarah. He'd taken the lift.
'Let him free, Ms Boehm,' King suggested.
'You don't know who he is,' Zoe said, without turning.
"I don't care who he is. You're the one contemplating
murder.'
"I still haven't ruled it out.'
'And I'm sure you're prepared to face the consequences.
But can you speak for Ms Tucker?'
That gave Zoe pause.
DS King looked at Sarah. 'You came in together. Looking
for him. We've got conspiracy and we've got premeditated.'
He turned back to Zoe, not that Zoe was facing him.
'So it won't be just you under the hammer.'
He came softly down the stairs as he spoke. He was still
wearing trainers, Sarah noticed.
'Are you prepared to send her to jail for murder, Ms
Boehm? Along with you? Will you be that good a friend
to her?'
There were other policemen behind him, Sarah saw. The
uniformed variety, hovering on the edge of the landing.
'Because she was pretty upset back when you were dead,
I couldn't help noticing.'
Zoe said, 'Is this your softly softly? Because I'm not sticking
around for your Gene Hunt.'
'Zoe,' Sarah said. 'Listen to the man. Let Talmadge go.'
'Don't tempt me.'
In that next moment it nearly happened - it would have
been a moment's work for Zoe to open her fists, to shrug
off Talmadge's grasp. Sarah couldn't see his face, but had
no trouble picturing it: his eye-wide shock at having nothing
but air to cling on to. The half-second's grace before his
body was plundered by gravity.
Zoe pulled him on to the staircase, and sent him sprawling
in a heap on the landing.
King nodded, as if she'd done a good thing, then
arrested her.


Looking upwards, it was hard to believe that only yesterday
the city had nearly washed away in the rain. Upwards
was largely blue; the few clouds a high wadding that
stippled into nothingness at the edges. A jet's trail was a
brief scratch on the sky's underside. But at Sarah's feet,
pools gathered in the cracked brick ground, and a mossy
smell lingered, probably from the drainpipes.
Zoe lit another cigarette.
"I thought you were eating apples these days.'
'They spray all kinds of crap over apples. At least with
these, it says on the packet they kill you.'
'That's really good, Zoe. A couple more lines like that,
you might win a new lung.'
'Can we save the sermon?'
'You let us all think you were dead.'
'You saw the body,' Zoe said. 'You couldn't tell it
wasn't me?'
Her voice was still tight, Sarah thought. That invisible
grip still flexing itself round her throat.
They were speaking quietly, because there were policemen
nearby. A pair of them on a bench on the other side of
the yard, sharing a smoke and a joke. Another just inside
the door, waiting for Zoe to finish hers. A slew of butts
underfoot spelt out the obvious: this was where the cops
came to indulge their addictions. All those films and TV
shows where fags smouldered non-stop in interrogation
rooms: they were history.
She said, 'It wasn't that easy. She looked like you. And
she had - there was your wallet, your keys. Everything.'
'She could have been wearing a little badge saying "My
name's Zoe". It wouldn't have made her me.'
'So how come you weren't in touch? "Hey, Sarah? I'm still
alive." Something like that. What would that have cost?'
'He knew I was alive. Talmadge did.'
'You thought this was just you and him?'
'If I'd gone to the police, he'd have been smoke.'
'Being a private eye doesn't mean you have to sound like
one,' Sarah snapped.
'Sarah. You know how long I've been after this guy?'
She didn't reply.
'Sarah?'
Sarah shook her head. 'I'm surprised they let you out.'
Zoe waggled her cigarette, so the smoke looping from its
tip squiggled a doctor's signature on the air. 'Human
rights. They can't deny you life's necessities.'
'What will they do to you?'
'They haven't decided yet.'
There was nowhere to sit other than that occupied bench,
and Sarah didn't fancy leaning against the wall. Her coat
had seen enough punishment lately.
'We've only got five minutes,' she said. 'Tell me what
happened.'
"I was on a job for your friend Gerard Inchon.' Zoe could
get to the point when she wanted. 'You know that much.'
'Yes.'
'It was a nothing piece. Find a man he was after, he
wouldn't say why. John Wright. Took me a day and a half,
tops. Then Inchon wanted to contact him, without it looking
like he did.'
'So you came up with a list of names he could invite to
a soiree. I know about that.'
'Busy beaver, aren't you? Anyway, once I gave him the
list I was done. But the night before I checked out, it
happened.'
'The Bolbec bar was unexpectedly busy,' Sarah said.
Zoe looked at her.
There was a crowd, Barry had said. Expecting free drinks.
Sarah said, 'Talmadge put up posters round the town.
Offering freebies.'
"I thought it must have been something like that.' She
inhaled. Smoke leaked from her lips with her next words:
"I was drugged. Roofie in my drink. Something like that. I
didn't get drunk.'
"I believe you, Zoe.'
'That's nice.' She threw her cigarette at the drain, where
it bounced off a mossy match and fizzled into silence.
'When I started feeling groggy, I thought it must be flu or
something, so went to my room. Crashed out. Next morning,
everything I've got that says I'm me has gone. Plastic,
mobile, all of it. Plus watch and so on. But he'd left my
cash. Now, what did you think I thought about that?'
'You knew it was Talmadge.'
'Who else? He's always been out there, Sarah. Always.
I've never even known his real name. But I've always
known he's out there.'
She lit a fresh cigarette.
'But I didn't know about her. The woman he was with.
I thought he was trying to spook me, that's all. Not that he
was working on his own model. His own version of me.'
'You're lucky he didn't kill you.'

'That's not what he does, Sarah. The women he's killed,
they've all been in love with him. A substitute was the
closest he was ever gunna get where I was concerned.'
Sarah wondered if Talmadge believed that. She needs me, he'd said. She just doesn't know it yet. 'How did he know
you were in Newcastle?'
'Credit card? Mobile phone? E-mail?' A whisper of
smoke reached Zoe's eyes, and she flapped it away. "I fly
low, but I use my real name. He knows where I live. And
it's not like stalking's new to him.' She shook her head. 'So
I dropped out of sight. Figured that was the best way to
get him to play his hand. He sent an e-mail the same day
'Missing you,' Sarah quoted.
Zoe stared.
'Vicky,' she explained.
'That kid'll go far. She should choose her direction
carefully
'Where were you?'
'It's a big city. There's no shortage of places.'
'And you just figured that sooner or later he'd, what?
Take out an advert in the local paper?'
Zoe said, 'Well, he did the next best thing, didn't he?'
Something tapped on glass, and they looked to the window
behind them. The policeman inside was pointing at
his watch.
'Come in, Ms Boehm, your time is up,' Zoe muttered.
'It'll work out all right, Zoe.'
'It'll work out all right when they realize the bastard's a
killer. Course, they might still be upset about my hanging
him over that stairwell.'
She gave Sarah a sly grin, and for the first time, Sarah
saw her old friend.
'Jesus, Zoe,' she said, and shook her head. 'What you
need is a dimmer switch.'
'No, what I need is a hairbrush,' Zoe said. She ran her
fingers through her close-cut hair. 'This itches, you know.'
'Mine's in my bag,' Sarah said.
'The bastard took mine. Oh well. I'll survive.' More tapping
on glass: 'I'm coming, I'm coming.'
The policeman opened the door and Zoe slipped back
inside.
Because nobody had said otherwise, Sarah stayed where
she was.

It had been a long day. Just forming that thought deserved
a prize for understatement: the day had begun, as far as
Sarah was concerned, when she'd knocked on Gerard's
door at the Bolbec, to find him gone. Then lunch with John
M. Wright; then Alan Talmadge in a soap shop . . . She'd
bussed in a panic through the rain; holed up in a pub in
Jack Gannon's Walker. And there'd she'd slipped off reality's
map. The attempt to recapture the ensuing hours produced
a Catherine wheel of images: a campfire in a derelict
shipyard; a spiders' picnic in an abandoned cinema. All of
it meshing into one big helter-skelter carrying her through
to daybreak, and the bright glassy newness of Sage and
Baltic. Since when, she'd mostly been in interview rooms.
Had mostly talked to policemen.
Her main current source of amazement was that she
wasn't under arrest.
'Ms Boehm is pretty adamant you just happened to be
there.'
That was what DS King had said to her, about an hour
earlier.
Fact was, Sarah had spent a lot of time lately just happening
to be there. If DS King had the full list of those
events, he might have reconsidered her non-arrest.
'What's going to happen to her?'
'Charges of assault, I expect.'
'But not yet?'
He'd said, 'We're waiting for a fuller picture to emerge.
It's not often we get a former dead person in custody. So
what do you know about it?'
'Until this morning, I thought Zoe was dead.'
'So what's kept you in Newcastle the last couple of
days?'
'Sightseeing,' she'd told him. 'What about Talmadge?'
'You keep calling him that.'
'It used to be his name. Back when he was killing
women. You haven't let him go, have you?'
'No. We haven't let him go.'
'You believe Zoe's story?'
'We're considering the evidence.'
'And how much of that is there?'
'Not a great deal, Ms Tucker. These, ah, murder victims.
You're aware that neither was treated as murder at the
time?'
'He's good at causing accidents.'
'Well, he slipped up this time, didn't he? A body in the
river could get there by accident, no argument. But not if
it was dead before it hit the water.'
'Nobody gets away with murder forever.'
'Do you think so?' DS King had a steady gaze, and Sarah
had felt as if he were looking straight through her. "I think
you can get away with it for a hell of a long time. But not
if you start making amateurish mistakes.'
'Well, he's obviously not as clever as he'd like to think.
What's he calling himself, by the way?'
'Oliver Cartwright. National insurance checks out. He
lives just outside Maidenhead, he says. We're making calls.'
Oliver Cartwright. Sarah had rolled the name around her
head; had practised it on her tongue. Zoe's bogeyman had
a new name.
Perhaps it was the real thing. Perhaps - back against the
wall - Alan Talmadge had to slough his other skins, and
own up to who he was.
Uncovering what he was would be the next stage.
'What about the woman in the water?'
'Says he knows nothing about that.'
'Well, he would say that '
'- wouldn't he?' King had finished for her.
'So where'd she come from?'
'We know a bit less about that than we did when you
identified her as Zoe Boehm.'
"I thought that's who it was.'
'Really?'
Sarah met his gaze. Tell the truth. 'Okay Not a hundred
per cent. But I knew she'd been wearing Zoe's jacket. And
Talmadge - Cartwright - stole that jacket years ago. So if
it wasn't Zoe, then Zoe had good reason to be hiding.'
'And that was enough for you to mislead the police?'
'That was enough for me not to voice the one in a thousand
chance it wasn't Zoe.' She looked away. 'Have you
charged her yet?'
'Not yet.'
'Can I talk to her?'
'Are you her lawyer?'
She hadn't replied.
But a little later he'd asked if she wanted tea or coffee.
Coffee. Coffee might save her life. She'd expected him to
find someone to fetch her a cup, but instead he'd led her
to a lobby with a coffee machine, and left her to it.
The lobby looked on to a yard, and Zoe was out there,
smoking.

And now Zoe was gone again, and Sarah still hadn't had
her coffee. She slipped back through the door, negotiated a
cup of brown liquid from the machine, and returned outside.
She took a sip, burnt her tongue, and reached for her
mobile. The battery was flat.
I'll call you, Russ, she promised. Soon. I'll see you soon.
At that moment something in the square space of sky
overhead made her heart skip a beat. It was a mass of balloons
- large bright silver ones - easily two dozen, possibly
three, tied to each other but untethered to anything
else. A single scarlet tail dragged in their wake. Just for a
second she saw this. It was impossible not to smile.
But somewhere, there was a street salesman whose
helium-filled stock-in-trade had just taken to the skies.
That was the trouble, Sarah thought: everything had a
world of detail behind it, and every detail snapped into
place in someone else's life. What was that phrase she'd
heard lately? Smoke and whispers. Everything was smoke
and whispers.
The bench was free now. With all plans on hold she went
to sit down, and as she did so DI Fairfax came into the
yard. Still tall, with thin elongated features - still with the
hint of a developing paunch - he came and sat next to her,
cardboard cup of his own in hand.
'You'll want to watch that,' she said. 'It's hot.'
'Trouble is, when it cools down, you can taste it.
Cigarette?'
"I don't smoke.'
'Good for you. Neither do I.'
Sarah said, 'But you keep a pack handy for special
occasions.'
"I don't, actually. It's as well you said no. I'm just doing
the nice cop bit.'
'Is that supposed to be disarmingly frank?'
He shrugged. 'If it works. Ms Boehm have anything
interesting to say?'
'What makes you think I'd tell you if she had?'
'Because whatever else is going on here, you're her
friend. And the sooner we work out what's going on, the
better it'll be for her.'
'And for me?'
He drank some of his coffee. If it was as hot as hers, he
hid it well. 'We've spoken to Mr Gannon,' he told her. 'He
backs up your story. That you've been with him these past
few days.'
'Sightseeing,' Sarah reminded him.
'Strange company to choose.'
'But that's not a police matter.'
'As you say. I can't remember, are you married?'
'No.'
'But you have a partner.'
'Is this a crude attempt at blackmail, Inspector? I tell you
what you want to know, you keep quiet about what you think I've been up to?'
For some reason, this possibility struck her as rather
funny
He said, 'Just making an observation.'
'Have you found out who the woman is yet?'
He shook his head.
She could give him a name, Sarah thought. Madeleine
Irving. But Sarah had no proof that's who it was. It was
Internet-based conjecture, no more. Nothing Fairfax
couldn't find for himself.
'And Talmadge - Cartwright - he's still denying all
knowledge.'
'No idea what we're talking about.'
'Zoe's told you he stole her things?'
'Ms Boehm has made that accusation,' Fairfax said.
'She's failed to back it up with proof.'
'He had Zoe's phone.'
'Well, he doesn't have it any more.'
'It'll be somewhere in the Baltic
'Or somewhere in the Tyne,' he said.
'Have you looked?'
'To the best of our ability He took another sip of coffee.
'Not up to or including dragging the river.'
'The last two times, he just walked away,' Sarah told
him. 'Nobody ever came looking for him. Except Zoe.'
'Maybe there was nothing to look for.'
'Twice?'
'We've only Ms Boehm's word that he knew both
women. The way he tells it, he went out with a woman
once who fell under a tube train. After they'd split up.'
'But this time there's proof.'
"I thought we'd established there's nothing '
'That it wasn't an accident, I mean. Else she'd not have
been in the river.'
With clean water in her lungs.
Fairfax nodded abstractedly. She'd told him nothing he
didn't already know. He finished his coffee, set the cup on
the bench's arm, and stood.
Sarah said, 'There isn't a bin that can go in?'
He picked it up.
There was something scratching at the back of her mind,
but she couldn't tell what.
'My sergeant told you you're free to go?'
He hadn't, in fact, but she'd picked up that message.
'But leave a number we can reach you on.'
As he turned Sarah stood, and caught a glimpse of herself
in the window. She looked crudely drawn, something
a child might have managed with a crayon. Her face had
grown new hollows. And as for her hair As
for her hair.
'The hairbrush,' Sarah said slowly.
What I need is a hairbrush, Zoe had said. The bastard took
mine.
Fairfax paused. 'What hairbrush?'
'The hairbrush that wasn't.' Sarah shook her head.
'Sorry I'm tired. I was playing Kim's Game yesterday ever
played that, Inspector?'
'A memory game, right?'
'That's right.'
'Is this going anywhere?'
Keys. A watch. A lipstick. Zoe's hairbrush. Zoe's wallet.
"I was trying to remember the things you'd found with
the body. And I kept remembering a hairbrush, because
that's what Zoe uses. A hairbrush. Except that's not what
it was. It was a comb. A tortoiseshell comb.'
'And that matters why?'
'Because there'll be hairs on it.'
'It was in the river, Ms Tucker,' he said.
'And in her pocket. If you don't find any on the comb,
there'll be some in her pocket.'
He waited, so she spelled it out.
'You can get DNA traces from hair, can't you?'
'We've already got a headful of her hair. It doesn't match
any DNA on file. How will more help?'

'Because this won't be hers,' Sarah said. 'It'll be
Cartwright's. It's his comb.'

Her phone hadn't magically recharged itself, so Sarah had
little to do but sit for the next hour. Every so often, a police
officer would wander out to smoke, and looked at her curiously.
And every so often she glanced skywards, but no
more balloons appeared.
She could leave. Nobody would stop her. More to the
point, pretty soon she was going to be asked what she
thought she was doing there. But her coffee cup seemed
to act as an alibi, and there were enough unclaimed cigarette
butts around for her to look like she had purpose.
Minutes ticked past. A little over an hour later, Zoe stepped out again.
A policeman closed the door behind her, and took up
position by the coffee machine, inside, in the warm.
'You're still here then,' Zoe said, lighting a cigarette.
The flare of her lighter underlined the gathering dark.
Sarah shifted to one side, but Zoe shook her head.
'I've been sitting all afternoon.' But she leaned against
one arm of the bench. "I didn't say thank you.'
'No,' Sarah said. 'You didn't.'
'Okay,' Zoe said. "I deserve some grief. But can it wait
for a less complicated moment?'
'Not really
'Why's that?'
'Because you knew,' Sarah told her.
"I knew what?'
'About the comb.'
"I knew about the comb,' Zoe said flatly.
'You knew there was a comb on the body
'Sarah, I asked if you had a hairbrush, that's all. My head
was itchy
'And if it had been an innocent comment, you'd not
know what I was talking about.'
Zoe said, 'So now I'm in trouble for not pretending I
don't know what you're talking about? I remember things
I say. It's not a big deal.'
'So you remember what you said to Talmadge. Back in
the Baltic
'He's called Cartwright. Oliver Cartwright. Can you
believe that?'
'Answer the fucking question.'
'Yes. Yes, I remember everything I said to him. Which
part was so important?'
'The bit where you told him it wasn't river water in
her lungs.'
Zoe dragged smoke into her own. Then breathed it out
again. 'That's it?'
'How did you know that?'
'Internet, I guess. Does it matter?'
'It wasn't in the original news story. And I'm pretty sure
it's not been reported since. I don't think you saw it on the
Internet, Zoe.'
'So I must have picked it up somewhere else.'
'What, local gossip? Really?'
Zoe didn't answer.
'Speaking of the Internet,' Sarah said.
'I'm supposed to be back inside.'
'Have another cigarette. I won't tell if you don't.'
'Enabler.' But she flicked another free of her packet anyway,
and lit it.
'You were using a service to trace your own phone. After
Talmadge took it.'
'Don't make it sound like a special power. Anyone can
do it.'
'I'm sure. But you found him before, didn't you? Before
we were at the Sage, I mean.'
'It's not all that accurate, you know, Sare. I mean, it's not
like a big red arrow appears with '
'I'm not interested in the technicalities. That's what you
did, isn't it?'
Zoe stood, and moved away a few paces. Her outline
blurred into shadow. "I went to ground when he stole my
identity. What would you expect?'
'So you wake up and find you've been robbed, and your
instinct is to hide? I'd expect you to go to the police, Zoe.
That's what I'd call normal.'
"I was robbed. But not of my cash. Did you catch that
part? The cash was on the dresser. Short of signing his
name ... I mean, what kind of burglar robs you of everything
but your money?'
Sarah shook her head. They both knew the answer to
that.
Zoe came back and joined her on the bench. There was
a memory connected to this: the pair of them sitting on a
cold bench, but that time they'd been looking out to sea.
Right now, all the waves Sarah knew about were lapping
at her heart, and each of them washed it that little bit
more numb.
'Yes. I traced him through the phone. He left it on at first.
I think he was hoping I'd call, you know? When I didn't,
he sent that e-mail. Just in case I hadn't picked up on the
big picture. But I already knew it was him.'
Pausing, she offered Sarah a cigarette. Sarah shook her
head.
'Like I say, the trace isn't that accurate. But it put him on
a street in Gateshead, not far from the river. Houses to let.
Didn't take long to find out which one had been occupied
for all of two days. But not in a man's name, a woman's.
Julie Simpson. I tried tracing that, but didn't get far.
Probably a fake. But I didn't have many resources
available.'
'Where were you staying?'
"I wasn't staying anywhere. I'd stopped being Zoe.' She
inhaled. 'My wallet was gone. But I keep a credit card in
my case for emergencies.'
Emergencies, Sarah understood, which didn't need Zoe
Boehm written all over them.
"I watched a full day. Nobody came or went. And I realized
he'd gone. Just like every other time I went looking
for him, he'd gone, and there'd be nothing to find. So I
went in.'
The distance between them hid inside those four words. So I went in. Not something Sarah would have known how
to go about achieving . .. But even as she had the thought,
she remembered lifting Gerard's room key from the reception
desk in the Bolbec. If she'd needed to, she'd have
found a way.
'And he'd left.' Sarah needed to speak, just to hear her
own voice. 'But she was still there.'
'In the bath. I couldn't tell how long she'd been dead.
But standing in the doorway, you could read it like a story.
There was a soap streak on the floor, and a thin wet wedge
of it splatted against the wall. Everything but a big sign
reading Join The Dots. She'd run the bath, and was about
to get into it when she'd slipped on the soap and bang,
game over. The knock on the head might have killed her.
But she drowned.'
'Yes,' Sarah said. 'She drowned.'
'And he was smoke. Just another accident happening to
some other poor woman.' Zoe dropped her cigarette end,
ground it with her boot, then breathed out heavily. It was
full-on dark, though lights from the office and corridor
windows around them filled the well-like area with passive
electricity. She said: 'She was fully dressed. Black
jeans. Red top. Sound familiar? And she looked like me.'
"I know.'
'And I'd seen her before.'
This was news. 'Where?'
'At the Bolbec. The night I was robbed. That's why I
didn't see Talmadge doping my drink. He had her do it for
him.' Zoe shook her head. 'God knows what he told her.
Maybe that he was a spy. There's always someone ready to
fall for a story like that, isn't there?'
There was always someone hungry to hear words no one
had ever told them, was what Sarah thought. The kind of
words Talmadge specialized in: love and need. Both fed on
desperation.
She said, "I think it started with him taking her on holiday.
And then it turned into an adventure.'
'He picked her because she looked like me.'
'Yes. And when he followed you to Newcastle, he took
her with him.'
Zoe said, 'He'd kept my phone, but the rest of my stuff
was there. Even my leather jacket. It was like he was laughing
at me. As if he knew I'd be first one there.'
Sarah said, 'Or wanted people to think it was you.'
'He's a twisted freak. It's a game to him. The woman was
a counter on his board. Nothing more.'
As if there were a timer operating, she reached for
another cigarette. Sarah put a hand on her arm to stop her.
'No. Finish it.'
Zoe glared, but bit back a retort. She placed the packet
on the arm of the bench. Then said, instead, "I found a
comb.'
'In the house?'
'On the floor in the bathroom. I like to think it fell from
his pocket when he was arranging her accident.'
'And that's why you did it,' Sarah said flatly.
"I put her shoes on. Put my jacket on her. It was hanging
on a hook by the door, can you believe that? And I carried
her out to my car.'
'By yourself?'
Zoe said, 'She was quite petite, really. Smaller than me.
You didn't notice that?'
She had looked bigger on the slab, Sarah thought. Had
been river-bloated.
'If anyone had seen us, they'd have thought she was
drunk. But nobody saw us.'
'And you drove her to the river.'
'She was already dead.'
'And you put her in the river.'
"I knew he'd have to come back. He'd need to know
what was going on. He might even wonder if it was really
me they pulled from the Tyne. It was pretty clear they'd
not find her true identity in a hurry
'So you changed the rules of his game.'
'It worked, didn't it? They'll find his hairs on the comb.
That'll tie him to the body. And that's when it'll unravel.
All those accidents that happen while he's somewhere else.
That's not going to work this time.'
'And all it took was, you put Madeleine Irving in the
river.'
A flat-sounding thump meant that Zoe had knocked her
cigarettes to the ground. She bent and retrieved them, and
had one in her mouth before Sarah could stop her. Her
lighter flared. 'Was that her name?'
'Yes,' Sarah said, forgetting for a moment that she didn't
know this for a fact. 'She's just a counter in your game too,
is she?'
'Of course not. She's the reason I did what I did, Sarah.
Her and the others like her. So Talmadge never does this
again.'
'But meanwhile she's lying in a drawer which doesn't
even have her name on it.'
'And that's my fault? Sarah, there's more to identity than
just a name. Talmadge isn't even called Talmadge. You
think it matters to Madeleine, that the cops don't know her
name yet?'
'It matters to me,' Sarah said.
Zoe didn't reply.
There was a tap on the window; a policeman, beckoning
Zoe back inside.
'I've not even been charged yet,' she said. 'But I'm still
at their beck and call.' But she took one last drag anyway,
then dropped her cigarette.
'Are you going to tell them?' Sarah asked.
'I'll give them the house he was using.' The words came
out as smoke. They can match the hairs by themselves.
After that...' Zoe shrugged. 'I'm hoping to avoid some of
the finer detail. But if I can't, I can't.'
'You're certain there are hairs to find.'
"I have faith in science,' Zoe said. 'Largely because
otherwise, I'm fucked.' She fitted her cigarette packet into
her jeans pocket. 'What about you? Going to tell them
what I did?'
Sarah didn't answer.
"I won't hold it against you.'

The policeman tapped again.
Zoe said, 'Dry your eyes.'
'I'm not crying for you.'
'Take care, Sarah.'
Zoe slipped back into the light. Through the window,
Sarah watched her say something to the policeman, which
made him laugh, then the pair disappeared through a set
of swing doors.
After a moment, Sarah followed.
Fairfax caught her by the elbow just before she left the
building. 'So what did she have to say, then?'
Sarah stared pointedly at his hand until he released her.
Then said, 'Nothing she won't tell you herself.'
'You're sure about that?'
Sarah gave him the goodbye look, then pushed through
the doors into the street.

Acknowledgements






She collected her bag from the Internet cafe, walked to the
station, and caught the first train south. At the last
moment, the carriage filled with a noisy group of football
fans, but this didn't matter. She wouldn't sleep anyway. It
didn't matter.
As the train crossed the bridge, Sarah saw tiny shadows
moving inside the bright-lit flanks of the Sage; saw the
oblong box of the Baltic, which in the dark resembled the
mill it had once been. The eyelash curve of the Millennium
Bridge, underlit in deep red, formed a trembling oval with
its own reflection, through which the river ran. And further
away, beyond the water's bend, some of those lights
in the sky would be cranes standing sentry over abandoned
shipyards; yards that in time would blossom into
spanking new apartment blocks, beneath whose windows
the same river would keep on running, casting back the
overhead lights as waterbound stars that twinkled black
and white, and black and white.
'Gan canny,' Sarah whispered through the glass. Though
whether her words were aimed at the river, at Zoe, or at
herself, she couldn't tell.

It's a common complaint that authors take liberties with
geography. In this instance, geography has taken liberties
with the author. Some locations in this novel will have
been redeveloped out of recognition by the time of publication
- mostly, I hope, for the better - but they're
described the way I found them in the winter of 0708.
The scenes set inside the derelict Jesmond Picture House
were written before I saw Richard Shepherd's spooky
photographs of its interior. They can be viewed at http: www.shepy.co.ukmyphotosmain.php, and provide convincing
evidence that Sarah exaggerated the cobwebs.
Arimathea House does not exist. Incarnation Children's
Centre in New York does. Journalist Liam Scheff's reports
on what happened there suggested one of the main planks
of this novel ( http:www.altheal.orgtoxicityhouse.
htm).
XYZ are Sarah Jones, Matthew Jones and David Jones
( http:www.myspace.comxyzfolk).
Last Orders are Matthew Jones, David Jones, Kevin Lees
and Joe O'Connor, with Maz O'Connor providing vocals
(http:   www. my space. com  lastordersf oik).
Love and thanks to my mother, to Anne and to Mick for
some long city walks.
And thanks too to Tony Smith, for a lot of learning, a
little software support, and at least eleven years of squash.


Mick Herron
August 2008
 The End.