LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 5

       2017 – Central London

      On returning from the park, I go back to my desk. All I can think about is the text, concentrating on work is impossible. Without leaving a cyber trail, I have to find a full news report about the body unearthed on the Downs. I’ve already been careless with Paulo and using my phone. I’m itching to leave but I must not arouse suspicion by any unusual behaviour. Why did you leave work early on 4th October?

      Only two people on the planet could have sent that text, and both know not to contact me. We agreed, twenty-three years ago, how to behave if it ever came out: no phone calls, no unusual activity, no change in routine. Few people had mobile phones back then, and we made no specific stipulation regarding texts, but the principle remains. And it’s difficult to believe either of them could be so stupid.

      Sitting at my desk becomes intolerable. I stare at the laptop, then remove my glasses and rub my eyes. The screen blurs into streaks of black and white. I replace the glasses and reread my current e-mail. It makes no more sense in focus.

      How can I find out more, without using my phone or laptop? We were careful to leave no trace at the time. I can still smell the acrid fumes as we found every photograph and negative we’d ever taken in that place and burnt them. I must not be careless now, but I have to find out more. Do they have a name? Do they have suspects?

      A pay as you go from a phone shop would accept cash, but they would probably have CCTV, and all mobiles have serial numbers so that each handset has an individual identification. How do criminals go about it? I think of the khaki-wearing drug dealer. He must be in constant communication with buyers and suppliers. I need to go and see him. I start to invent fake emergencies – burst pipes, a family death – just to get out of the office. I get lucky when Jonathan snaps his laptop shut.

      ‘Got a meeting with Ulrich,’ he announces.

      He should be gone for a couple of hours at least.

      I wait a minute in case he returns for his keys or wallet then leave the office. I check behind me as I pass the Sensuous Bean. The man in the padded jacket has gone. Probably, he was just someone passing through, another face in the crowd.

      It’s raining hard now and the square is clear of visitors except for the man I’m looking for. He’s sitting on a bench, the glow of his roll-up just visible under a large golfing umbrella.

      I cross the green to reach him. He looks up and smiles in recognition.

      ‘More coffee already?’ he says.

      ‘No. I came to see you,’ I say.

      ‘I see. And what can I do for you?’

      He shuffles along the bench and pats the space next to him. The wood is dry beneath the umbrella and I sit down. He stinks of weed. I try not to wrinkle my nose.

      ‘Tell me,’ he says.

      ‘I was wondering.’ I’m suddenly aware of the formality in my voice, the clear and precise enunciation of my mother ordering a slice of Victoria sponge. ‘I need to get hold of a phone.’

      His face splits into a broad smile.

      ‘Do you now – and what made you think I could help?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ I can’t admit to watching his drug sales. ‘I just thought you might.’

      He gives the faintest nod. ‘You come here to drink coffee, one of those tech lot, been here a few months.’

      No one in London notices other people’s comings and goings. One of the things I love about it. My mind returns to that feeling of being observed. I make a move to stand up. He places a hand on my forearm. It’s not a menacing gesture, it’s even comforting in some way.

      ‘Don’t worry, love. I’m not a stalker. Got to watch people in my game – keep an eye out – know what I mean? I’m Garrick, by the way. Everyone knows me around here.’

      He extends his hand and I take it.

      ‘Garrick, like the theatre?’ I say.

      ‘My mother was a hoofer back in the Sixties. Tells me I was conceived there.’ He smiles. ‘And your name is?’

      ‘Audrey,’ I say.

      I don’t know why I’ve given my mother’s name, perhaps because I’m speaking like her.

      ‘And what is it for, this phone, Audrey – up to a spot of adultery?’

      I don’t answer. Garrick grins.

      ‘Not a problem, Audrey. No information required. It’s not as though you’re going to be moving in on my patch, are you now?’ He laughs at his own joke. ‘How about you go to the cashpoint up near the station, withdraw two hundred pounds, go for a little walk and by the time you come back I may have a phone for you.’

      ‘Two hundred?’

      ‘That’s the price.’

      Two hundred pounds – I’ll be living off boiled rice for the rest of the month.

      ‘It needs to be a smartphone,’ I say.

      ‘Are you sure? Some people prefer the old-style ones, harder to trace.’

      ‘No. It has to be a smartphone.’

      ‘As you desire, milady.’

      He takes a shallow bow and withdraws the umbrella, so that it no longer shields me from the rain.

      ‘I’ll be seeing you, Audrey.’

      I stand and walk towards the Tube and the nearest cashpoint.

      Garrick won’t want to speak to the police any more than I do. I look at the road behind me as I cross. A man in a dark-coloured padded jacket is standing at the corner of the street, under the newsagent’s awning. The same man as before? The rain leaves his face and figure indistinct. He could be anyone.

      Once I’ve taken the money from my bank account, £14.38 is all that’s left before it hits my overdraft limit. God knows what I’m going to do for money. I can’t ask Audrey for any more. I could borrow from the petty cash until my next payday but knowing my luck I’d be found out and get dismissed, which is all I need. I stuff the money into my bra for safekeeping and turn around. A few people are milling about in the rain, but the man in the padded jacket is gone. I still can’t get over the feeling of being watched.

      Garrick’s gone when I return. I walk across the square and back to the main road but still can’t see him. I’ve started to circle back when I hear a whistle. I turn around. Garrick’s slouched in the doorway of one of the Georgian houses. As I walk towards him, he forks two fingers, peers down them and scans the road.

      ‘Sometimes I choose to stay out of sight,’ he says.

      Considering

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