Simon Kernick - The Business of Dying

'You can't live in the past, Sarge. The world changes. Even the Met changes. The secret's to adapt. Change with it. Learn the rules. You could still go places.'

'They made you DS, didn't they? Put you in Capper's role.'

He looked surprised. 'How did you know? Knox only phoned me last night. He said he wasn't going to announce it until this afternoon.'

'He hasn't said a word. Not to me, anyway. I guessed. There was something on your mind this morning when we drove down here. You were quieter than usual. Also, you were the obvious choice.'

'You think so?'

'Yeah, I do. You're a fuck sight more talented than any of the other DCs we've got. You'll make a good DS. When's it effective from?'

'Monday, if it all gets sorted out.' I took a drag on my cigarette but didn't say anything. 'You're not pissed off are you, Sarge?'

I turned to him and smiled. 'No. I'm glad it's you and not anyone else. Congratulations. You deserve it. Unlike Capper.'

'You know, I don't want to sound cliched or anything, but I've learned a lot working with you. It's been a real education.'

'Don't overdo it. It's me you're talking to, not the DCI.' But I was secretly pleased. I'm just like anyone else. I like compliments, even if they're not entirely truthful.

'Well, I mean it, anyway.'

He went back to eating and I went back to smoking, blowing my cancerous fumes up at the olde worlde beamed ceiling.

'Thanks,' I said. 'It's appreciated.'

Ten minutes later we were back in the car, heading home.

We weren't back in Islington until close to five o'clock. An accident on the M40 had caused massive tailbacks, and since neither of us had any idea of alternative routes, we were forced to crawl along at ludicrously slow speeds for hours with thousands of other irate drivers.

I got Malik to drop me off near home. Somehow I couldn't face going back to the station where the talk would doubtless be of promotions and terminal illnesses, and where I suddenly felt as much an outsider as I ever had. Welland had been an ally, a man who'd often stood up for me in the past. Now he was gone. As a replacement, Capper had to be what a media commentator would call 'the nightmare scenario'.

When I got in I checked my messages. There were none on my home phone, but Raymond had left one on his mobile. He wanted to see me as soon as possible and gave me a number to call back on. He signed off by saying it was urgent, but nothing to worry about too much, whatever that was meant to mean. It was unlike Raymond to leave messages for me, unless it was important. I phoned the number he'd left but it too was on answerphone service, so I left a message for him saying I'd meet him at our usual spot at two the following afternoon unless I heard otherwise. I wanted to see him anyway. There was, it was fair to say, a lot to discuss.

After that, I tried Carla Graham, but she'd left Coleman House for the day and I didn't want to risk calling her on her mobile. She might wonder where I'd got the number from. I told the woman on the other end of the phone that it was the police and asked when Carla was expected back. I was told she was on weekend day shifts and would be in the following morning. I said I'd call her then.

Outside it was raining, but I fancied a walk, and maybe a drink somewhere, so I strolled round the corner to the Hind's Head, a quiet little place I frequented occasionally.

There was no one in there and I didn't recognize the lone barman. He was reading the paper when I came in. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a pint of Fosters, lighting a cigarette and removing my damp coat.

There was a slightly crumpled copy of the Standard next to me on the bar. Since the barman didn't look too chatty and there was no one else to talk to, I leaned over and picked it up.

The shock hit me right between the eyes like an express train.

The headline was in huge block capitals covering half the page: E-FIT OF CUSTOMS KILLER. Facing it on the opposite side of the page was a detailed photofit picture of a thin-faced man, thirty-five to forty, with short dark hair and eyes that were just slightly too close together.

If I'd asked an artist to knock out a quick picture of my face, he couldn't have done a better job. The likeness was uncanny.

The whole world seemed to cave in on me as the full implications of what I was looking at flooded into my brain like water surging through a burst dam.

Now I knew that more than at any other time in my entire life, I was in real danger. Not just from the cops, but from people whose faces I didn't even know.

But who knew me. And who now realized that I was a lot better off to them dead than alive.

Raymond was right. I should have fucking shot her. Part Three

At exactly 12.55 p.m. the next day, I arrived at R.M. Keen's Funeral Home for the Recently Bereaved, a mouthful if ever there was one. Set slightly back from the road in the attractive, leafy setting of Muswell Hill, it was definitely the sort of place you'd like your corpse to be stored before it went up in smoke. The building itself, hidden from the road by a gentle canopy of beech trees, was a converted nineteenth-century chapel with old-fashioned lattice windows which looked to have kept much of its original character. Fresh flowers sprouted from stone vases on either side of the oak door. I half expected to be greeted by the vicar's wife. There was a gravel car park out front containing a couple of hearses, a sprinkling of other cars, and Raymond's royal blue Bentley. So at least I knew he was there.

The door was locked. A sign on it asked prospective customers to use the intercom and kindly wait for assistance, so I did just that. A few seconds later a grave, middle-aged voice, sounding not unlike Vincent Price, bade me good afternoon and asked how he could be of assistance. I'm all for creating the right atmosphere, but I think this bloke was taking it a bit far.

'I'm here to see Mr Raymond Keen,' I said as gravely as I could.

'Is Mr Keen expecting you?'

'Yes, he is.'

'And your name is?'

'Mr Milne. Mr Dennis Milne.'

'I'll just see if Mr Keen is available.'

Raymond, of course, wasn't expecting to see me for another hour, and in a completely different location, but I was no longer taking any chances. The e-fit had spooked me sufficiently to start distrusting everyone. Raymond was not going to want me falling into the hands of the police, and if he had to I knew he'd have no qualms about guaranteeing that I didn't. The only thing going in my favour was the fact that he didn't know I'd been stopped at a roadblock that night, and had given the police my true identity. At least I hoped he didn't know. At this point, it wouldn't have surprised me that much if it turned out he had someone on the inside of the police investigation as well.

Vincent Price came back over the intercom.

'Mr Keen will see you now. Please come in.'

I opened the door and walked into the foyer, which was done out in oak panelling. Vincent was sitting behind a large, very tidy desk, although in the flesh he looked more Vince Hill than Price.

He gave me the standard gloomy look. 'If you go down the hall, Mr Keen's office is the last door on the right.' He pointed to a poorly lit corridor leading to the back of the building, and I followed it down, not bothering to knock when I reached the last door on the right.

Raymond was smoking a fat cigar and poring through a number of open files spread out in front of him. God knows what they contained. It could have been anything. VAT receipts, profit and loss accounts, information so valuable people had to die for it…

He looked up and smiled broadly as I came in. 'Dennis, this is a rare honour, and most unexpected too. Please, take a seat.'