Tingley was delirious. Drenched. He tried to turn, slick as an eel, but sodden sheets weighed him down. He groaned. His arm was free of needles now. He reached his hand up and wiped a slop of sweat from his forehead.
He stared at the canopy above his head, lost in muddled thought, until Maria came in. She wiped his face with a cloth and handed him his mobile phone. It was Bob Watts.
‘Jimmy — relieved to have got hold of you. You OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ Tingley croaked, sounding anything but.
‘Job done?’
‘Done,’ Tingley said, looking at Maria’s watching eyes as she dabbed his face again.
‘Where are you?’
Tingley knew Watts could detect something in his voice.
‘Orvieto.’
‘Not the Balkans?’
‘They were both here. I got Kadire first. Just the way it fell out.’
‘Have you taken a hit? You don’t sound yourself.’
‘It’s nothing. Just echoes.’
Tingley took a ragged breath.
‘Echoes? Jimmy, you sure you’re OK?’
‘Dandy. What about you?’
‘Sarah and I are in France with Bernie Grimes. Got a statement from him, though it looks like we’re not going to need it. You know Reg Williamson, Sarah’s partner? Drove Charlie Laker off Beachy Head.’
‘Jesus,’ Tingley said. ‘We’re done, then.’
‘Still got to get that slippery fuck William Simpson but I’m guessing that’s somewhere further down the line. Jimmy — do you want me to come across and join you? I’m probably only a day’s drive away.’
‘Negative. Listen, Bob, I’ll call you in a day or so.’
Tingley passed Maria the disconnected phone and sank back on the pillow.
Sarah Gilchrist scarcely spoke on the flight back from Toulouse. Watts assumed she was in shock about Reg Williamson. He wasn’t sure what he felt. Nothing new there, then. He had Grimes’s statement in his pocket and he’d made a call to ensure that Met Police Transnational crime officers would be on his tail pronto.
Watts was pragmatic about the death of Charlie Laker. In some ways, it was the neatest solution. Getting him legitimately would have been a bugger. He didn’t really know Reg Williamson so couldn’t honestly grieve about his death, though he regretted one good man less in the world.
He was worried about Tingley. There had been something about his old friend’s tone of voice. He didn’t know him well, despite the number of years they had been friends, but he did understand nuance. Well, a bit.
‘Do you want to get something to eat somewhere?’ Watts said when he and Gilchrist came out of Gatwick.
‘I think I’ll take some time alone,’ she said, giving him a perfunctory hug, hoisting her bag over her shoulder and striding away across the concourse. Watts watched her go. The longer he knew her, the less he knew her.
He took the express train up to Victoria and the tube along to Hammersmith. It was raining again but still he walked along the towpath, lugging his bag. By the time he reached his father’s house his suit was a sodden mess; water dripped from his wet hair down his face and on to his shoulders.
He’d been hoping for some kind of cleansing from the rain. At one point he’d turned his face up and let it drench him. All he’d got from that was stinging eyes.
He stripped off and showered and changed into jeans and jumper. He phoned Tingley but the phone went to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. He poured a brandy — he’d drunk all his father’s whisky — and sat in the wingback chair, his head thrown back, his eyes closed.
Kate was standing on the balcony, holding the handwritten note from the Twickenham policeman, when she heard the flat door open and close. She looked over her shoulder. Sarah, a gloomy look on her face, passed through into her bedroom and firmly shut the door. Kate walked into the sitting room.
‘Sarah?’
‘Leave me,’ Sarah called through her bedroom door.
‘OK,’ Kate said in a small voice. She stood in the middle of the room, a little lost. She looked down at the handwritten note. It was the name and address of the car owner. The name of the Brighton Trunk Murderer. Mr Eric Knowles.
It was raining heavily again when Watts sat down and phoned Jimmy Tingley. This time his phone was answered.
‘Pronto?’
‘Who is that?’
‘Guiseppe di Bocci. You wish to speak to Signor Tingley?’
‘Please. But first: is he wounded?’
‘Signor Tingley is not well.’
‘Wounded?’
‘Let me give him to you.’
Watts looked out of the long window up into the sky. The rain falling from the roof of the world.
‘Bob?’ Tingley’s voice weak but recognizable.
‘What’s happening, Jimmy? Are you injured?’
‘Poorly.’
‘Are you safe?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’m flying over.’
‘No need for that.’
‘What kind of poorly, Jimmy? You told me you hadn’t been wounded.’
‘I lied. Shot in the stomach.’
‘You need to be in a hospital.’
‘Negative. My carers know what they’re doing. If anything can be done.’
‘Jesus Christ. James. .?’
‘I’m here. James — rarely hear that. I guess that’s what my parents might have called me. Or maybe not. Thank you. You know, Robert, there’s a weird dignity in names.’
‘I know it. Though if my mother ever called me Robert around the house, I knew I was in trouble.’
Tingley rasped a laugh.
‘And your dad?’
‘My dad?’ Watts looked into his brandy glass. ‘James, you’re gonna get through this. Hang on.’
‘For another weary winter? Robert. Things are what they are.’
‘I know that.’ Watts forced a grin down the line. ‘The only true account is the thing itself.’
Tingley’s laugh didn’t really start before it was cut off by a cough.
‘James?’
‘I gotta go.’
Watts was welling up.
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Yes. I do.’
Watts heard Tingley’s raw chuckle.
‘What a ride, eh? I wish I’d known my mum and dad. One or the other.’
‘It’s not over yet, James. But if the time comes, I’ll give you your mother’s kiss, I promise. But not yet.’
No response.
‘James?’
No response.