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to that—who hired Greenway and why?
    I phoned him and got the answering machine. I read some more of the diary without gaining further enlightenment except into the character of Annie. She had lived day to day, without plans until she’d met Greenway. They’d discussed the future, something Annie had refused to do for years. That made it all the harder for her when, suddenly, there was no future anymore. She went back to recording and living her life in small, safe units. Except they weren’t safe. Police and pushers cropped up through the entries and they were sometimes one and the same.
    She’d started the diary the day after her mother died as some sort of comfort for the loss. She talked to her sister and brother at the funeral and spokelovingly of them. I didn’t recall the siblings but I had a clear recollection of the mother—a stout, strong-minded Cockney who’d never understood why Annie had got on to drugs but had never stopped caring about her, even though she’d suffered the usual thefts and let-downs.
    In the pages that covered the time with Greenway Annie had made small sketches, post stamp size. There was a reasonable likeness of Greenway, some flowers, a few other faces. The sketches were happy. Her spelling wasn’t perfect but neither is mine. I felt I was getting closer to her and I felt a mounting anger at her death and the manner of it. There were more than a hundred pages blank in the exercise book. She was someone who’d taken bad knocks and had tried not to go under. She should have had those days and a hell of a lot more besides.
    I phoned Greenway again and this time he answered in a harsh, broken whisper.
    â€˜What’s wrong with you?’ I said.
    â€˜Can you get over to my place, Hardy?’ he rasped. ‘He was here. He drugged me and he’s taken the fucking photographs.’

13
    I ’D had enough for one day. I got Greenway calmed down, established that he wasn’t injured and told him that we had some other leads.
    â€˜What leads?’
    â€˜I’ve got the diary.’
    â€˜Jesus, that’s great! Bring it over.’
    â€˜Forget it. I’ve got fifteen years on you and I need some sleep.’
    â€˜Sleep! I couldn’t sleep.’
    â€˜Yes, you can. Take a long walk. Take a pill. I’ll be over in the morning.’
    â€˜No, Hardy, you can’t . . . ’
    â€˜I can. Listen, if your brain needs something to work on try this.’ I read him off my list of initials. ‘Chew on them. See if they mean anything to you.’
    I finally got him off the line. I checked the doors and windows, wedged a chair in against the back door that won’t lock properly, and went to bed. My neck was still sore from the rabbit punch and my hand ached from the blow I’d given Paleface. They were the physical sufferings; I was still feeling bad about Annie. A lot of people had let her down and maybe I was one of them. Maybe I should have stayed with her. Bad thoughts. I had her diary under my pillow along with the .38 but it didn’t give me any bad dreams. I slept heavily, no dreams at all.
    Greenway answered the door looking like a man who hadn’t slept for a week. His hair was tousled, hisstubble was long and his eyes were red. He smelt bad too.
    â€˜Go and have a shower,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some coffee. I can’t talk to anyone who looks that bad, you remind me of myself when I was twenty-five.’
    Greenway grinned. ‘Well, you made it to fifty.’
    â€˜I’m not . . . You stink, and change your shirt.’
    I made instant coffee in the kitchenette and prowled around the small flat. Greenway had spent some of his sleepless night cleaning up and the place didn’t look too bad. There was a slight smell in the bedroom and I located the source—a thick gauze pad which had been soaked in ether. Greenway had put it in a plastic bag the way