Elizabeth George - With No One As Witness

“There are no other relations?”

“Oh, there’s a sister somewhere, a lot older than Rob, but she took off years ago and didn’t show up to either funeral. Married, kids, Australia or who knows where. Far as I know, she’s not been in touch since she was eighteen.” Mrs. Puccini gazed at Ulrike more sharply then, as if evaluating her. When she next spoke, it was apparent why. “On the other hand, dear, between you, me, and Trixie here”-she indicated the dog with a shake of the lead, which the animal apparently took as a sign to resume her walk because she lumbered to her feet from where she’d been squatting gustily at Mrs. Puccini’s ankles-“he wasn’t a very nice bloke, that Victor.”

“Rob’s father.”

“As ever was. A real shocker when he went like that, true, but not a lot of hearts were breaking at the thought of it in this neighbourhood, if you must know.”

Ulrike heard this, but she was still attempting to process the first bit of information: that Robbie Kilfoyle’s dad was in fact dead. She was comparing this to what Rob had told her recently…Sky Television, wasn’t it? Something called Sail Away ? All she said to Mrs. Puccini was, “I do wish he’d told me. It helps to talk.”

“Oh, I expect he’s talking.” Unaccountably, Mrs. Puccini nodded once again towards the Gwynne Place Steps. “There’s always a friendly ear when you’re paying for it.”

“Paying?” Friendly ears and paying suggested one of two things: prostitution, which seemed about as much Rob’s style as armed robbery, or psychotherapy, which seemed equally unlikely.

Mrs. Puccini appeared to know what she was thinking because she gave a hoot of laughter before she explained. “The hotel ,” she said. “At the base of the steps. He goes to the bar there most nights. I expect that’s where he is right now.”

This proved to be the case when Ulrike bade Mrs. Puccini and Trixie good night and headed across the square and down the steps. She found that they led to an unassuming and unmistakably postwar tower block, heavily given over to chocolate-coloured bricks and minimal exterior decoration. Inside, however, it boasted a lobby done up in faux art deco, its walls hung with paintings depicting well-heeled men and women lounging and partying between the two world wars. At one end of this lobby, a door marked the entrance to the Othello Bar. It seemed strange to Ulrike that Robbie-or anyone from the neighbourhood-would choose a hotel rather than a nearby pub in which to do his drinking, but she decided that the Othello Bar had one quality to recommend it, at least on this night: There was virtually no one present. If Robbie wished to bend the sympathetic ear of the barman, that individual was entirely available. There were seats at the bar to boot, another feature making the Othello perhaps more welcoming than the corner pub.

Robbie Kilfoyle was at one of these seats. Two of the tables were occupied by businessmen working at laptops with their lagers before them; one other table was taken up by three women whose enormous bums, white trainers, and choice of drink at this time of night-white wine-suggested they were American tourists. Otherwise the bar was empty. Thirties music played from speakers in the ceiling.

Ulrike slid onto the stool next to Robbie. He glanced her way once, then again when the sight of her registered with him. His eyes widened.

“Hi,” she said. “One of your neighbours said you might be here.”

He said, “Ulrike!,” and looked round her as if to see if she was accompanied by someone. He was wearing a snug black jersey, she noted, which emphasised his physique in a way that his usual neatly ironed white shirt had never done. Lessons from Griff? she wondered. He had quite a nice body.

The barman heard Rob exclaim and came to take her order. She said she’d have a brandy, and when he fetched it for her, she told Rob that Mrs. Puccini had suggested she look for him here. “She said you’d been coming here regularly since your dad died,” Ulrike added.

Robbie looked away and then back at her. He didn’t attempt to obfuscate, and Ulrike had to admire him for that. He said, “I didn’t like to tell you about it. That he’d died. I couldn’t think of a way to tell you. It seemed like it would’ve been…” He thought about it, it appeared, as he turned his pint of lager between his hands. “It would have been like asking for special treatment. Like hoping someone’d feel sorry for me and give me something as a result.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Ulrike asked. “I hope nothing anyone’s done at Colossus would make you feel you had no friends to confide in.”

“No, no,” he said. “I don’t think that. I s’pose I just wasn’t ready to talk about it.”

“Are you now?” This was, she saw, an opportunity to forge the loyalty bond with Robbie. While she had bigger concerns than the death of a man that had taken place months ago-a man she had never even met-she wanted Robbie to know that he had a friend at Colossus and that friend was sitting right next to him in the Othello Bar.

“Am I ready to talk about it?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“Painful?”

A glance in her direction. “Why d’you say that?”

She shrugged. “It seems obvious. You apparently had a close relationship with him. You lived together, after all. You must have spent a great deal of time together. I remember your telling me about how the two of you watched tele-” She stopped, the words cut off by the realisation. She twirled her brandy glass slowly and made herself finish. “You watched television with him. You did say you watched television with him.”

“And we did,” he replied. “My dad was a bugger and a half on good days, but he never went after anyone when the telly was on. I think it hypnotised him. So whenever we were alone together-especially after Mum finally went into hospital-I turned on the telly to keep him off my back. Force of habit when I was talking to you about watching the telly with him, I guess. That’s all we ever really did together.” He drained his beer. “Why’d you come?” he asked.

Why had she come? Suddenly, it seemed rather unimportant. She sifted through topics to find one that was simultaneously believable and innocuous. She said, “Actually, to thank you.”

“What for?”

“You do so much round Colossus. Sometimes you don’t get acknowledged enough.”

“You came round here for that?” Robbie sounded incredulous, as any reasonable person might.

Ulrike knew the ground was treacherous here, so she decided that opting for the truth was wise. “More than that, really. I’m being…well…investigated, Rob. So I’m sorting out who my friends are. You must have heard.”

“What? Who your friends are?”

“That I’m being investigated.”

“I know the cops’ve been round.”

“Not that investigation.”

“Then what?”

“The board of trustees are looking into my performance as director of Colossus. You must have known they came round today.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why must I have known? I’m pond scum over there. Least important and last informed.”

He said it casually, but she could tell he was…what? Frustrated? Bitter? Angry? Why hadn’t she seen this before? And what was she supposed to do about it now, other than apologise, make a vague promise about things changing round Colossus, and go on her way?

She said, “I’m going to try to change that, Rob.”

“If I take your part in the coming conflict.”

“I’m not saying-”

“It’s okay.” He shoved his pint glass away, shaking his head when the barman offered him another. He settled his bill and hers and said, “I understand it’s a game. I get the politics of everything. I’m not stupid.”