Simon Kernick - A Good day to die

'Do you think you will be? What did you find out today?'

I gave her a brief rundown of the meeting with Dr Cheney and what she'd told me. I also told her that DCI Barron had already been to see her. 'He never mentioned anything to you about it?'

'No,' she said, sounding surprised. 'Not a word. I had no idea he was pursuing that line of inquiry.'

'She never heard from him again, anyway.'

'So what's your plan now?' she asked.

I told her that I was going to see if I could back up Ann's story by checking whether any girls had gone missing during the period she'd described. 'I'm also going to go back and talk to Andrea Bloom, Ann's friend. She knows something, Emma. I'm sure of it.'

'But why are you so sure she hasn't told you everything?'

'I was a copper a long time. I can just feel it. She's hiding something. So's her boyfriend. If what they've got is good, I'll try and persuade them to go to the police and make a statement. Then they might start to look more closely at Ann's past. At the moment it's the best I can think of. But don't say anything to DCI Barron about any of this, though. OK?'

She seemed surprised. 'Why not?'

'I'd rather it was kept quiet for now. If I get anywhere, you can tell him then.'

'All right, but be careful, Dennis. You're sailing very close to the wind. And if they do end up treating Ann's death as a murder, what's going to happen with you?'

There were still a few loose ends to tie up, of course. Maybe a visit to Theo Morris of Thadeus Holdings, and even to the enigmatic Nicholas Tyndall. But soon, I hoped, my part in all this would be over. 'I think I'll go home,' I told her.

'I hope we get a chance to see each other again.'

'So do I,' I said, and I meant it.

'But if we don't… Well, I don't think I could call it fun, but I'm glad I met you. Take care of yourself, please.'

'And you, Emma. And don't be tempted to hang around. I really wouldn't want anything to happen to you.' I felt like saying something else, something along the lines of how much I cared about her, but I held back.

'I've learned my lesson,' she told me. 'Goodbye, Dennis. And good luck.'

'Goodbye, Emma.'

She rang off and I stood staring at the phone for a while, thinking that fleeting romances were the story of my life. Two years ago, when I'd been in Siquijor Island, I'd met an Australian girl in her thirties who was passing through on her way home. She'd been travelling the world for six years, and was on the last leg of her journey when she shipped up at our place and got a room for a few days. We didn't see a lot of Western women in the Philippines. It wasn't really on the backpackers' trail and it had the sort of moderately dodgy reputation that meant it was usually avoided by women travelling on their own. So Christine had been a breath of fresh air. We'd got talking in the bar on her first night, and I'd taken her out diving the next day. She'd had that relaxed attitude to sex that I've always admired in a woman, and since we'd been the only two on the boat, we'd ended up making love amongst the diving equipment. We'd spent the next week very much together, with me giving her a tour of the island, and her telling me about her travels and the places she'd seen. It had been fun. More than fun, it had been one of those blossoming romances that I'd experienced so little of in my life, and I'd even been thinking about finding some way to follow her to Australia.

But I was kidding myself. In the end, it had just been a fling to her, and seven days after she'd arrived, she kissed me on the lips, told me to take care of myself, and walked out of my life for ever. Just one in a long line of goodbyes.

I knew this would be the last I saw of Emma, but in a way it felt right. She was too young, too pretty, and if I'm honest, too good for me; and since there was no chance of anything ever coming of our relationship, it was best that we parted now, before things got serious.

I walked back to the hotel room and had a shower. The water was lukewarm so I was only in there two minutes and was cold when I got out. I got dressed and lay on the bed, and thought about my next move. I was tempted to go out and have a few drinks, maybe back in Ernie's pub, but I wanted to be fresh the following morning.

I looked at my watch. Seven twenty. I picked up the mobile to call Andrea Bloom, then realized I didn't have a number for her. I asked myself whether it was really worth a trip over to Hackney now to see her, but the alternative was lying in this shitty hotel room staring at the cracks in the ceiling, and in the end that wasn't much of an alternative, so I forced myself up off the bed. I needed food. Then I'd be on my way.

It had just gone nine o'clock when I turned into Andrea's street, having walked all the way from Angel underground station, and the night was cold. A biting wind rattled round the pavement, scattering pieces of rubbish and keeping the area's citizenry behind closed doors. I was wearing a grey beanie hat I'd bought the previous day to replace my 'I love London' cap, and a scarf pulled up over my face. Only my eyes were visible.

There was a light on in the living room and several lights up on the third floor, although none on the second or in the hallway. According to Andrea, the house was a squat that she shared with her boyfriend, as well as another couple and a single guy. There didn't seem to be much activity for so many people.

I approached the door, hoping that my journey hadn't been wasted, and saw straight away that it was very slightly ajar.

I stopped dead, and listened. The TV was on in the living room. It sounded like a quiz show with plenty of audience participation and the volume was quite loud. I couldn't hear anything else so I pushed the door open slightly, wondering whether or not to knock. Wondering too whether or not to go inside. People don't leave their doors ajar in an area like Hackney. They don't do it anywhere in London, especially not on a freezing cold night like this one.

I pushed it open further and stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind me. I resisted the urge to call out.

From somewhere up the stairs there came a creak, and then the clank of pipes heating up. I wasn't unduly alarmed. This was an old house — 1920s, I'd have guessed. Things creaked in a 1920s place. Again, I listened but there was no other sound.

I had my gun with me but didn't reach for it. It would have been far too difficult to explain away.

Turning left, I pushed open the living room door and the TV suddenly grew louder. The quizmaster was Chris Tarrant, and he was asking the contestant what the capital of Rwanda was. He gave him four alternatives while I scanned the empty living room, noticing that there were a couple of open cans of beer next to one of the seats. They hadn't been there the previous day, and since the room was otherwise tidy, I concluded that they'd been opened this evening. Not that this told me much.

I retreated from the room as the contestant won eight grand for getting the answer right (it was B: Kigali), and started up the staircase as quietly as possible. Two of the stairs creaked loudly as I put pressure on them, but I kept going regardless.

At the top of the stairs a door was open. Although it was dark inside, I could see that it was a toilet, and empty too. There was still no sign of anyone.

Two more stairs to my left led up to the second floor. I went up them into the darkness of the narrow landing. A door immediately to my right was shut.

'Hello?' The voice came from up the next set of stairs at the end of the landing. I recognized it immediately as Andrea's. 'Is that you, Jeff?' she added.

'No, it's Mick Kane, Andrea,' I called back. 'Your front door was wide open. I need to speak to you.'