Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

Riley felt guilty. ‘Actually, I didn’t know what to expect. Something a little less orderly, I suppose.’

He licked his teaspoon and shrugged. ‘So, you reckon I’ve burned my bridges with Nikki Bruce, then?’

‘Burned and dropped in the river. Unless you fancy a girlfriend in the broadcasting media.’ She couldn’t help hoping he’d say no.

‘Forget it. Anyway, I prefer police uniforms to designer jackets.’ He tried to give what Riley guessed was a deliberately boyish snigger, but missed it by a mile. They talked a little about what they would do next, then Riley left him to it and drove home.

What she didn’t expect to find was a stranger sitting on the front steps.

It was the man Mr Grobowski had seen hanging around. He was thin, wore glasses, and his clothes bore the crumpled and over-pressed look of constant wear and cleaning, like someone governed by upbringing and habit but constrained by a limited wardrobe. Riley put his age at anywhere between forty and sixty; it was hard to tell.

He stood up as she approached and brushed at the seat of his pants before stepping down onto the path. He was taller than she’d thought, and slightly stooped, like a spent reed. Then she realised she had seen his face before; he was the Nissan driver from outside the headquarters of the Church of Flowing Light. She stopped a cautious three paces away, and wondered if he was a friend of Quine’s.

‘Miss Gavin.’ If he was nervous he hid it well, and clearly knew who she was. Riley wondered what had prevented him from making himself known before. She doubted it was shyness. ‘My name is Eric Friedman.’

She kept her expression blank. Friedman . Another building block suddenly began to fall into place. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’d like to talk to you. I think you know what it’s about.’ His voice was well modulated, the words carefully pronounced, and Riley wondered what his profession might be.

She gave it a few seconds of deliberation, then mentally tossed a coin. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, and led the way up the stairs. There was no sign of Mr Grobowski, so she guessed he was out. She picked up her mail on the way and unlocked the door to the flat. As she pushed it open, she felt the air go out of her in a rush.

The walls either side of the hallway were covered in red spray paint; vivid and garish, it was a hideous pattern of meaningless scrawl and foul words, a mish-mash of graffiti. A thick spray of the same colour ran down to the floor, across a small, semicircular antique table where Riley usually kept her keys and bits and pieces, and up again in a wild slash across a row of hooks holding a windcheater, scarf and spare jacket. A large, dripping cross, glittering with black paint, stood out starkly on one wall, with smaller ones on each door. As Riley stepped inside, her feet crunched through pieces of broken crockery. Plates, saucers… her teapot — even an unused butter dish. It must have been kicked or thrown from the kitchen. As she stepped over the shards she heard Friedman take in a deep breath and mutter softly behind her. It might almost have been a prayer.

The hallway was merely a taster of what lay ahead. As she entered the living room, she recoiled with the shock. More crosses and more spray paint. A lot more. They were daubed across every surface, soaked into fabrics, ghosted across the ceilings and walls in a mad, obscene frenzy, a venomous mix of crazy art exhibition crossed with inner-city underpass. Nothing had been spared.

The other rooms were the same, with food from the fridge trampled into the carpets alongside broken glassware and slashed chairs. Cans of beans and tomatoes had been opened and sprayed around and the vivid slash of orange juice arced across the floor and up one wall like a grotesque smile. A jagged hole pierced the television screen, exposing the guts of electronic circuitry and coloured wiring, and her laptop lay on its side, mangled beyond repair. In the bedroom, the mattress had been opened up like a dissected corpse and the duvet was a tangled frenzy of scarred fabric, gaping holes and feathers mixed with faeces and urine. The human smell hung heavy in the air, choking and vile, and deeply personal. Riley backed out and closed the door, too stunned even to feel sick.

Eric Friedman stood in the centre of the devastation that had been the living room, watching her. He looked greyer than he had a few minutes before, but somehow resigned, as if this was nothing new. His first words since speaking outside confirmed it.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen this before. It’s… appalling.’

‘Christ, when?’ She’d seen vandalism, too. But never this close and never directed at her.

‘Somebody crossed them once before.’ He looked around and shook his head. ‘But that wasn’t as bad as this. Not as… extreme. They must feel very threatened.’

‘They? You mean you know who did this?’

‘I think so.’

With a guilty start she remembered the flat’s other occasional inhabitant. Cat . She ran through to the bedroom, peering beneath the bed and behind overturned furniture, looking for any space small enough for a cat to hide in. ‘Cat? Where are you, Cat?’ But she knew there was nowhere left that hadn’t been trashed. She went back out to the hallway, convincing herself that he’d have taken one look at intruders and bolted for safety.

She led Eric Friedman back out of the flat and locked the door behind her. The thought of dealing with what lay inside was beyond her at the moment; she’d come back and pick up a few things later. She doubted, however, the vandals had left much to salvage, and would probably have to start again. Get a team in here to clean up and leave it to the insurers. Right now she was too upset to think clearly.

She went back downstairs and stopped at Mr Grobowski’s flat. This time she could hear him singing inside, accompanied by the rattle of pots and pans. She leaned on his bell until the singing stopped and he threw open the door.

‘Hello, miss,’ he greeted her enthusiastically, the smell of cooking wafting around him. If he had heard any noise from above, he evidently wasn’t going to complain about it. Then he noticed Eric Friedman in the background. ‘Ah. So your friend he has come in. Good. What can I do for you, miss?’

‘Mr Grobowski, have you seen my cat?’ she asked.

He nodded and gestured with a large thumb. ‘You bet, yes. He is in my kitchens, eating. First time he comes in, I promise. You not feeding hims, maybe?’

Riley sighed with relief. ‘It’s a long story, I’m afraid. You haven’t heard any noise from my flat, have you?’

‘Not a things, no. I been out a lot, busy with some stuff. Lots of peoples, they want my times. Why? You had a party, huh?’ He grinned and rolled his eyes as if he could give her a few hints about partying. ‘Is why your cat he move homes?’

‘No, no party, I promise. Look, I might have to be away for a couple of days. Could you look after the cat for a while, please? Feed him some of your fabulous cooking?’

‘Sure, miss. Of course. He good cat. Like Polish recipe. Don’t you worry.’

Riley thanked the old man and led Friedman to the coffee shop where she had seen the poster of Angelina Boothe-Davison. In spite of feelings of shock and nausea, she wondered if she had been found yet… and if the Angelina who came back would be the same one who’d gone missing.

She asked Friedman to order two coffees and went to find a corner well away from the nearest customers. As soon as she sat down, she had to clamp her hands between her knees to still a sudden violent fit of trembling. She closed her eyes, instantly seeing flashes of the destruction to her flat, and opened them again before her stomach gave way and she threw up. Friedman set down two cups on the table but said nothing, stirring his coffee and waiting, his eyes on her. His hands were bony and red, with fingernails bitten to the quick and the skin of his first two fingers stained with nicotine. In the intrusive glare of the overhead lights he looked worn and stripped of energy, like an old car with too many miles on the clock. Only his eyes retained any spark.