Dead Men's s Boots

‘Coldwood?’ I interrupted, making sure I hadn’t misheard.

‘Yes. Coldwood. He’s a sergeant.’ She read it in my face. ‘Do you know him or something?’

‘I worked with him a few times. I used to do consulting work for the Met when business was thin.’

That seemed to knock Jan back a little. ‘The police use exorcists?’

I nodded. ‘Sometimes we can get a fix on how or where someone died. Sometimes we can confirm that someone who’s missing isn’t dead at all. It’s standard practice now, although we can’t give evidence in court. Most judges hate us like poison, just on general principle. Most cops too, come to that. But I always got on okay with Gary Coldwood.’

That was a slight exaggeration. Our relationship had actually become fairly strained when I was accused of murder Cusedthing a thirteen-year-old girl who in fact I only got to meet after she was already dead. My association with the Met was a dead letter now, and I hadn’t seen Coldwood in four months or more: but we’d parted on good terms, more or less, and he’d stuck his neck out for me at least once when it would have been easier to leave me swinging in the wind. And, as cops went, I’d found he had a more open mind than most.

All of this was pushing me towards a decision. If Coldwood was involved I could at least talk it over with him, get the bigger picture if there was one.

‘If I agree to take this on,’ I told Jan, ‘I’ll be asking for a grand in all, and at least three hundred up front. Is that going to be a problem?’

‘No,’ she said, reaching for her handbag again. ‘I was expecting that you’d want some kind of down payment. I only brought two hundred and fifty, but—’

‘Two hundred and fifty is fine,’ I said. ‘And it’s refundable if I change my mind.’

She froze, hand inside the bag in the process of drawing out her purse. ‘If you-?’

‘If I look into it and it turns out there’s nothing I can do. I’ll give you the money back.’

Jan looked at me hard. ‘And what about if you talk to your old friends in Scotland Yard and decide not to rock the boat?’ she demanded.

‘Victoria Street,’ I said.

She was false-footed. ‘What?’

‘The Met moved to Victoria Street. Around about the same time that Myriam Kale was shooting G-men at the Salisbury. People just use the old name out of nostalgia.’ I lifted my glass for one last swig of beer but changed my mind when I felt how close it now was to room temperature. ‘I said I knew Coldwood. That doesn’t mean we’re picking out curtains.’

She gave a grudging nod, no doubt remembering Cheryl Telemaque’s personal recommendation. Probably better if she didn’t know how Cheryl and I had behaved back when our paths had crossed. It hadn’t been exactly my high point as far as professional ethics were concerned.

We exchanged contact details and Jan counted out the money into my hand, most of it in ten-pound notes. As I tucked it away in yet another pocket of my always-accommodating greatcoat, she gave me a searching look.

‘You were going to say no,’ she said. ‘I could see it in your face. Why did you change your mind?’

I had to think about that one. ‘Two reasons,’ I said at last. ‘Coldwood’s one. On a job like this, it helps if I can at least get some of the facts straight, and I know he’ll level with me as far as he can. And then . . .’ I paused, wondering how best to phrase this.

‘And then?’

‘Well, then there’s the hammer. I’m presuming from what you said that Doug didn’t have it on him when he was arrested?’ She shook her head, eyes a little wide. ‘No. And I’m willing to bet that the boys in blue have been over every square inch of Battle Bridge Road – in fact, the whole of King’s Cross – with a fine-toothed comb. If it was there, they’d have found it.’

I stood up to leave.