Pauline Rowson - In for the Kill

The warehouse was the other side of Portsmouth. As soon as I could I caught a taxi, but as the warehouseman came towards me with empty hands and a mournful face, I knew at once that my file had gone.

‘It was booked out early yesterday morning,’

he announced.

‘What time?’ I cursed under my breath. I should have come sooner.

‘Nine-fifteen.’

Probably just after Joe had been killed. ‘Who signed for it?’

He peered down at the paperwork. ‘Alex Albury.’

I should have guessed. With a racing heart, I said, ‘Can I see?’

It was a forgery and not a very good one. I didn’t recognise the writing. I hadn’t really expected to, perhaps just hoped. The police had no need to fake my signature; they could simply take the file. And they wouldn’t have got to it until after Joe’s death, which would have been at least an hour or so later. But Andover? That was very different. He must have come immediately after he’d killed Joe. My heart lifted a little. If I had wanted confirmation that Andover was in England then I was getting it.

‘Don’t you check identity?’ I asked, rather crossly.

‘I do. Dunno if Darren did and he checked it out.’

‘Can I talk to Darren?’

‘You could if he was here. Didn’t come in this morning.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Bill, where does Darren live?’ he called out.

A silver-haired man popped his head around one of the giant aisles. ‘With his mum.’

‘Where’s that?’ I asked, trying to curb my impatience.

‘Chatham Road, number sixteen,’ Bill answered readily enough; he seemed to lack any curiosity. I thanked them both, gave them a couple of quid each for a beer and headed for Chatham Road.

A woman in her fifties answered the door of a second floor maisonette in a run-down area not far from the football ground. She was balancing a small child on her hip. The little girl looked as though she’d just eaten her way through a Cadbury’s chocolate factory. Her mouth, fingers and jumper were covered with the brown stuff.

She was whining softly and the woman looked decidedly cross.

‘Yes?’ she snapped.

A shapeless beige cardigan hung off her squat figure like a sack; her long denim skirt trailed to her feet, which were bare and dirty, her toenails were too long and she stank of nicotine. Her fingers were yellow and her nails bitten.

‘Is Darren there?’ I tried to peer around her, but all I could see was a narrow hall with peeling wallpaper and all I could hear was a television set.

‘No, he ain’t. Who the hell are you?’ Her eyes narrowed with suspicion; her lips were like a crack in the pavement.

‘His mates from work said I could find him here,’ I replied, trying to win her over with my smile. It didn’t work.

‘They lied then.’ She made to shut the door on me but I slammed my hand on it.

‘Where is he?’ I demanded roughly, recognising that charm school stuff was wasted on her.

‘You the filth?’ she spat at me.

‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know. If I did I’d go there and let him deal with his brat.’

The child, as if sensing the woman’s hatred, started snivelling louder, which earned her a

‘Shut your face.’ It only served to make the child cry more. If I could have spared the time I would have felt sorry for the little girl.

‘He buggered off down that bleeding pub last night and hasn’t been home since,’ the woman moaned. ‘Probably picked up a slag and is sleeping off a hangover. You wait till I get my hands on him, bloody idle bastard, just like his father.’

‘Which pub?’ I shouted, above the child’s wailing.

‘The Whippet and if you find him tell him he’s a useless wanker.’

I had passed the Whippet on my way here.

Now I headed back there with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I pushed open the door and wondered if I’d stumbled into a smokers’

convention. If smoking had been banned in public places then no one had told the landlord and occupants here. I had to part the air before I could reach the bar and by then I must have passively smoked about five cigarettes.

The barman, a skinny, small man with thinning brown hair and a face like a ferret, was engaged down the far end of the bar. I glanced around wondering if Darren was here, and if so which of the ten men he might be: one of those with a foot resting on the rail round the bottom of the bar and watching the horse racing on a large flat-screen TV to my right; or perhaps that young one perched on the stool beside them. I ruled out a couple of men playing the gaming machines on account of their fluorescent jackets; they were either binmen or roadmen. Then there was a group playing pool in the far left-hand corner.

‘Yes?’ the barman said laconically.

‘I’m looking for Darren.’

‘Don’t think we sell that in here. What is it? A new drink?’ He gazed around smiling, searching for his audience. Nobody responded.

‘Joker, are you?’ I said roughly, moving in a little closer and surprising him. Prison had taught me how to act big and menacing. It had also taught me not to show fear. Not that this skinny little runt frightened me. ‘Where is he?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘None of your fucking business. Now, have you seen him?’

The barman hesitated, glancing around as if seeking support, but nobody was the slightest bit interested. ‘Not since last night. Probably sleeping off a hangover. He was in here chucking it about as if he’d won the bloody lottery.’

Was he now? I held the barman’s stare a moment, then seeing he was telling the truth, I left. I walked slowly back into town. Where was Darren? Would he show up at home, or was he more likely to appear on the mortuary slab? Had Andover killed him? Darren could identify him.

Should I tell the police? They might be able to trace Andover. Even if I did tell them anonymously, it was still too risky. The warehousemen, Darren’s mother and that barman would be able to say that I had come asking questions. DCI Crowder already believed I was Andover. I didn’t think he would need much persuading that I had lifted my file from the warehouse and killed Darren.

My thoughts had taken me to the central library in Guildhall Square. It was a large three-storey building with a café on the top, and would have many more resources than my small local library in Bembridge, and whilst I was here I thought I might as well continue my research. I had to find Westnam. He was the only one left. I just hoped and prayed he was still alive, and that he hadn’t left the country.

The Guildhall clock chimed three as I climbed the steps and it was only then that I realised I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I grabbed a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the café. It was quiet and apart from myself there was only one elderly couple and a young woman who was dressed in a rather eccentric and eclectic range of clothing. She made me think of my neighbour, Scarlett and her mother. I didn’t recall Ruby Kingston as one of my mother’s friends.

But then why should I? I had left the Island years ago, firstly to attend university in Sheffield, and then to work in London before meeting Vanessa and moving to the Hamble. After the boys were born we had returned to the Island as a family to spend August and Christmas there with my mother. Olivia had had an entirely separate life from my own, and one I suddenly realised I knew little about. I wriggled a little uncomfortably at the memory of my selfishness. I had been so full of my own self-importance. I should have taken more interest. I should have been more caring.

With a sip of my rapidly cooling coffee, I thought I should have told Olivia I loved her. Now it was too late.