recently cut the grass in the university grounds opposite. I breathed in the tangy smell thinking that if I could have bottled this and sold it in prison I would have made a fortune, or at least enough to have kept the weirdos and sadists off my back.
To me the smell, like that of the sand and sea, represented freedom.
‘Who found Joe?’ I asked.
‘I did, when I arrived for work.’
I snatched a glance at her. She was staring at the pavement.
‘He was lying on his back on the floor. His face was blue and there was blood around his mouth. His hands were clenched.’
A minute or so of silence followed. The traffic roared and screeched around us. We turned the corner and headed towards the seafront. ‘What was the office like?’
‘It had been ransacked, but as far as I could tell nothing was missing.’
‘What about my file?’ I held my breath.
‘That had already been archived.’
‘Where?’
‘In the big storage warehouse on the Rodney Road industrial estate.’
‘And it’s still there?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Did the police ask you about it?’
She shook her head.
Was that because they already knew what it contained? Could Joe have copied it for them?
‘Could I see it?’ My heart was pounding; what if she said no? How could I gain access to it without her permission?
She said, ‘I’ll give them a call and tell them you’re coming.’
‘Thanks,’ I said gratefully. ‘I’d like to collect it straight away.’
She pulled out her mobile. As she made the call I watched a little boy playing with his father on the common. They were trying to get a kite up. It reminded me of all the times I had played with my sons. I wanted to howl, but instead sought refuge in my anger. I pushed aside all thoughts and feelings of love and replaced them with hatred.
‘You can collect it when you’re ready,’ Joy said, signing off.
I was impatient to get my hands on it. ‘Is it all right if I go now?’
‘Of course. I think I’ll go for a walk along the seafront, clear my head a bit.’
I watched her forlorn figure stroll past a balding, scruffily dressed man who was sitting on a bench under the trees. He rose and folded his newspaper. Not another of Crowder’s men following me, I thought with exasperation.
The warehouse was the other side of Portsmouth. As soon as I could I caught a taxi, but as the warehouseman came towards me with empty hands and a mournful face, I knew at once that my file had gone.
‘It was booked out early yesterday morning,’
he announced.
‘What time?’ I cursed under my breath. I should have come sooner.
‘Nine-fifteen.’
Probably just after Joe had been killed. ‘Who signed for it?’
He peered down at the paperwork. ‘Alex Albury.’
I should have guessed. With a racing heart, I said, ‘Can I see?’
It was a forgery and not a very good one. I didn’t recognise the writing. I hadn’t really expected to, perhaps just hoped. The police had no need to fake my signature; they could simply take the file. And they wouldn’t have got to it until after Joe’s death, which would have been at least an hour or so later. But Andover? That was very different. He must have come immediately after he’d killed Joe. My heart lifted a little. If I had wanted confirmation that Andover was in England then I was getting it.
‘Don’t you check identity?’ I asked, rather crossly.
‘I do. Dunno if Darren did and he checked it out.’
‘Can I talk to Darren?’
‘You could if he was here. Didn’t come in this morning.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Bill, where does Darren live?’ he called out.
A silver-haired man popped his head around one of the giant aisles. ‘With his mum.’
‘Where’s that?’ I asked, trying to curb my impatience.
‘Chatham Road, number sixteen,’ Bill answered readily enough; he seemed to lack any curiosity. I thanked them both, gave them a couple of quid each for a beer and headed for Chatham Road.
A woman in her fifties
To me the smell, like that of the sand and sea, represented freedom.
‘Who found Joe?’ I asked.
‘I did, when I arrived for work.’
I snatched a glance at her. She was staring at the pavement.
‘He was lying on his back on the floor. His face was blue and there was blood around his mouth. His hands were clenched.’
A minute or so of silence followed. The traffic roared and screeched around us. We turned the corner and headed towards the seafront. ‘What was the office like?’
‘It had been ransacked, but as far as I could tell nothing was missing.’
‘What about my file?’ I held my breath.
‘That had already been archived.’
‘Where?’
‘In the big storage warehouse on the Rodney Road industrial estate.’
‘And it’s still there?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Did the police ask you about it?’
She shook her head.
Was that because they already knew what it contained? Could Joe have copied it for them?
‘Could I see it?’ My heart was pounding; what if she said no? How could I gain access to it without her permission?
She said, ‘I’ll give them a call and tell them you’re coming.’
‘Thanks,’ I said gratefully. ‘I’d like to collect it straight away.’
She pulled out her mobile. As she made the call I watched a little boy playing with his father on the common. They were trying to get a kite up. It reminded me of all the times I had played with my sons. I wanted to howl, but instead sought refuge in my anger. I pushed aside all thoughts and feelings of love and replaced them with hatred.
‘You can collect it when you’re ready,’ Joy said, signing off.
I was impatient to get my hands on it. ‘Is it all right if I go now?’
‘Of course. I think I’ll go for a walk along the seafront, clear my head a bit.’
I watched her forlorn figure stroll past a balding, scruffily dressed man who was sitting on a bench under the trees. He rose and folded his newspaper. Not another of Crowder’s men following me, I thought with exasperation.
The warehouse was the other side of Portsmouth. As soon as I could I caught a taxi, but as the warehouseman came towards me with empty hands and a mournful face, I knew at once that my file had gone.
‘It was booked out early yesterday morning,’
he announced.
‘What time?’ I cursed under my breath. I should have come sooner.
‘Nine-fifteen.’
Probably just after Joe had been killed. ‘Who signed for it?’
He peered down at the paperwork. ‘Alex Albury.’
I should have guessed. With a racing heart, I said, ‘Can I see?’
It was a forgery and not a very good one. I didn’t recognise the writing. I hadn’t really expected to, perhaps just hoped. The police had no need to fake my signature; they could simply take the file. And they wouldn’t have got to it until after Joe’s death, which would have been at least an hour or so later. But Andover? That was very different. He must have come immediately after he’d killed Joe. My heart lifted a little. If I had wanted confirmation that Andover was in England then I was getting it.
‘Don’t you check identity?’ I asked, rather crossly.
‘I do. Dunno if Darren did and he checked it out.’
‘Can I talk to Darren?’
‘You could if he was here. Didn’t come in this morning.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Bill, where does Darren live?’ he called out.
A silver-haired man popped his head around one of the giant aisles. ‘With his mum.’
‘Where’s that?’ I asked, trying to curb my impatience.
‘Chatham Road, number sixteen,’ Bill answered readily enough; he seemed to lack any curiosity. I thanked them both, gave them a couple of quid each for a beer and headed for Chatham Road.
A woman in her fifties
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