I was eventually called back over to Brogan’s desk and asked to read and sign the statement. As I went through it, he sat in silence, playing with a paper clip. Just

before I got to the end of it, his telephone rang and he answered it with a yeah. He paused for a few seconds, said yeah once or twice more and then proceeded to give

a brief account of what had happened. I was very tired at this point and didn’t really bother to listen, so it wasn’t until I heard him utter the words Yes, Ms Gant that I

jolted up and started paying attention.

Brogan’s matter-of-fact report went on for a another few moments, but then all of a sudden he was saying, ‘Yeah, sure, he’s right here. I’ll put him on to you.’ He

held the phone out and signalled me to take it. I reached over, and in the two or three seconds it took to position the handset at my ear, I felt what I imagined to be

untold quantities of adrenalin entering my bloodstream.

‘Hi … Melissa?’

‘Yeah, Eddie. I got your message.’

Silence.

‘Listen, I’m really sorry about that, I was in a panic – I …’

‘Don’t worry. That’s what answering machines are for.’

‘Well … yeah … OK.’ I looked over at Brogan, nervously. ‘And I’m really sorry about Vernon.’

‘Yeah. Me too. Jesus.’ Her voice was slow and tired-sounding. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing, Eddie, it didn’t surprise me that much. It was a long time coming.’

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

‘I know it sounds hard, but he was involved in some …’ She paused here, and then went on, ‘… some stuff. But I suppose I’d better keep my mouth shut on this

line, right?’

‘Probably be a good idea.’

Brogan was still playing with the paper clip, and looked like he was listening to an episode of his favourite serial on the radio.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard your voice, though,’ Melissa went on, ‘and I almost didn’t get the message. I had to replay it twice.’ She paused, and for a couple

of beats longer than seemed natural. ‘So … what were you doing at Vernon’s?’

‘I ran into him on Twelfth Street yesterday afternoon,’ I said, practically reading from the statement in front of me, ‘and we agreed to meet earlier today at his

apartment.’

‘This is all so weird.’

‘Is there any chance we could meet up? I’d like to—’

I couldn’t finish the sentence.

Like to what?

She let the silence hang there between us.

Eventually, she said, ‘I reckon I’m going to be very busy over the next while, Eddie. I’m going to have to arrange the funeral and God knows what else.’

‘Well, can I help you with any of that? I feel—’

‘Don’t. You don’t have to feel anything. Just let me give you a call when … when I have some time. And we can have a proper conversation then. How about that?’

‘Sure.’

I wanted to say more, ask her how she was, keep her talking, but that was it. She said, ‘OK … goodbye,’ and then we both hung up.

Brogan flicked the paper clip away, leant forward in his chair and nodded down at the statement.

I signed it and gave it back to him.

‘That it?’ I said.

‘For the moment. If we need you again, we’ll call you.’

Then he opened a drawer in his desk and started looking for something.

I stood up and left.

*

Down on the street I lit a cigarette and took a few deep pulls on it.

I looked at my watch. It was just after three-thirty.

This time yesterday none of this had started yet.

Pretty soon I wasn’t going to be able to entertain that thought any more. Which I was glad about in a way, because every time I did entertain it I fell into the annoying

trap of thinking that there might be some kind of a reprieve available, almost as if there were a period of grace in these matters during which you could go back and

undo stuff, get a moral refund on your mistakes.

I walked aimlessly for a few blocks and then hailed a cab. Sitting in the back seat, and going towards mid-town, I rewound the conversation with Melissa in my head

and played it over a few times. Despite what we’d been talking about, the tone of the conversation had at least felt normal – which pleased me inordinately. But there

was something different in the timbre of her voice, something I’d also detected earlier when I listened to the message on her answering machine. It was a thickness, or a

heaviness – but from what? Disappointment? Cigarettes? Kids?

What did I know?

I glanced out of the back-seat window. The numbers on the cross-streets – the Fifties, Forties, Thirties – were flitting past again, as though levels of pressure were

being reduced to allow me to re-enter the atmosphere. The further we got from Linden Tower, in fact, the better I felt – but then something struck me.

Vernon had been into some stuff, Melissa had said. I think I knew what that meant – and presumably as a direct consequence of this stuff he had been beaten up and

later murdered. For my part, while Vernon lay dead on a couch, I had searched his bedroom, found a roll of bills, a notebook and five hundred tablets. I had hidden

these items and then lied to the police. Surely that meant I was now into some stuff, too.

And could also be in danger.

Had anyone seen me? I didn’t think so. When I got back up from the diner to Vernon’s apartment the intruder had been in the bedroom and had fled immediately.

All he could have seen was my back, or at most caught a glimpse of me when I turned around, as I had of him – but that had just been a dark blur.

He or anyone, however, could have been watching from outside Linden Tower. They could have spotted me coming down with the police, followed me to the

precinct – be following me now.

I told the driver to stop.

He pulled over on the corner of Twenty-ninth and Second. I paid him and got out. I looked around. No other car – or cars – appeared to have stopped at the same

time as we had, although I suppose I could have missed something. In any case, I walked briskly in the direction of Third Avenue, glancing over my shoulder every few

seconds. I made my way to the subway station on Twenty-eighth and Lexington and took a 6 train down to Union Square and then an L train west as far as Eighth

Avenue. I got out there and caught a cross-town bus back over to First.

I was going to take a taxi from here and loop around for a bit, but I was too close to home, and too tired – and I honestly didn’t believe at this point that I had been

followed – so I just gave in, dropped below Fourteenth Street and walked the remaining few blocks to my building.

[ 7 ]

BACK IN MY APARTMENT , I printed out the notes and rough draft of the introduction I’d written for the book. I sat down on the couch to read through them – to check

again that I hadn’t been imagining it all – but I was so exhausted that I fell asleep almost at once.

I woke up a few hours later with a crick in my neck. It was dark outside. There were loose pages everywhere – in my lap, on the couch, spread out on the floor

around my feet. I rubbed my eyes, gathered the pages up and started reading them. It only took a couple of minutes to see that I hadn’t been imagining anything. In fact,

I was going to be sending this material to Mark Sutton at K & D the next morning, just to remind him that I was still doing the project.

And after that, after I’d read all of the notes, what then? I tried to keep busy by sorting through the papers on my desk, but I couldn’t settle down to it – and

besides, I’d already done a perfectly good job of sorting through the papers on my desk the previous night. What I had to do – and clearly there was no point in

pretending I could avoid it, or even put it off – was go back to Linden Tower and pick up the envelope. I was fairly apprehensive at the prospect, so I started thinking

about some form of disguise – but what?

I went into the bathroom, took a shower and shaved. I found some gel and worked it into my hair for a while, flattening it and forcing it straight back. Then I

searched through the closet in my bedroom for something unusual to wear. I had one suit, a plain grey affair, which I hadn’t worn in about two years. I also took out a

light grey shirt, a black tie and black brogues. I laid them all on the bed. The only problem I could see with the suit was that the trousers mightn’t fit me any more – but I

managed to squeeze into them, and then into the shirt. After I’d done up the tie and put on the shoes, I stood and inspected myself in front of the mirror. I looked

ridiculous – like some overfed wiseguy who’s been too busy eating linguine and clipping people to update his wardrobe – but it was going to have to do. I didn’t look

like me, and that was the general idea.