Page 11

Eleven

Monday 5pm

The laundry service Tom used when he was in New York had taken a week’s worth of their clothes for washing the day before the shooting and delivered them back that morning. The clothes were folded then wrapped tightly in plastic bags, sealed with miles of sticky tape. The parcel of clean laundry — unopened and labelled — sat on the shoe bench by the front door. Special Agent John Mead examined the label with care and allowed Charlie to keep the contents of the package. All the rest of his clothes went into evidence bags and all Charlie got in return was a receipt. Worst of all, Mead demanded Tom’s leather jacket.

“It’s Tom’s. The warrant says you can seize my clothes, not his.” Charlie sat in his underwear on the four-poster bed, holding the jacket against his chest, while the FBI man loomed over him.

“That’s the jacket you were holding on Sunday night,” he said.

“It’s still not mine. You want to see?” Charlie stood up and put the jacket on. The sleeves covered his hands, and the hem came below the hem of his boxer shorts.

“Nonetheless, you were holding it on the night of the shooting and could have transferred matter to it.”

“ Nonetheless ,” Charlie repeated, his fists clenched inside the arms of the jacket, his blood beginning to boil, “ nonetheless , the warrant, which I have read, thoroughly, states that you may remove my clothing. This jacket is patently not mine and you have no lawful reason to remove it.” His breath came in gasps. “If you want this jacket, you need a new warrant.”

“I can get one,” Mead replied, his face red and his eyes wide and shining. Charlie thought he heard the other man grinding his teeth.

“Do that.”

Mead turned on his heel and walked out of the bedroom leaving Charlie shaking and fighting the desire to break something. He heard the front door slam. Quieter footsteps came down the corridor and Murphy knocked on the open bedroom door.

“They’ve gone. Found nothing but they’ve turned the place over. The bad news is that they’ve taken all your shoes.”

“Fuck! Fuck. Fuck this fucking noise,” Charlie yelled trying to let some of the tension go. He turned round and thumped the pillows, hard. “What the fuck is going on? Why are you still here? Why hasn’t Ori rung me?” He couldn’t hold his anger, even as he hammered his fists into the pillows.

After a few moments, Charlie felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. He shook it off angrily, but stopped hitting the pillows. He was too tired, and suddenly too hungry. “I just don’t know what’s happening.” His voice was weak. I want Tom. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

Murphy’s voice was quiet. “Phones work both ways. Ring her. If it’s any help, I don’t know what’s happening either.”

Charlie drew in a damp breath. “It doesn’t help at all. But you’re right about Orianna. Did those bastards leave my phone?”

Murphy produced an iPhone. “I put it in my pocket,” he said. “No need to put temptation in their way.”

Charlie pressed the buttons for Orianna. When she answered, she sounded breathless.

“I’m going somewhere a bit more private. Hang on.” After a few moments, he heard her voice again. “He’s really ill, Charlie.” He heard a sob. “He’s in a coma, and they’re worried about infection. I don’t know what any of it means except that he’s really ill.”

“I’m coming to the hospital,” Charlie said, thinking he would go barefoot if he had to.

“They won’t let you see him. Tom’s parents came straight from the airport. They’re letting me stay for now, but honestly, the hospital doctors want us all out of here. I think Tom’s parents are being allowed in because they’re both doctors.”

“I’ll come and wait.” Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

“Don’t. I promise I’ll ring you. I promise. If anything happens, and if it doesn’t. He’s going to wake up, I know he is and when he does, I’ll make them let you in.”

“I can wait there as easily as I can wait here. I have all his insurance stuff. I’m his emergency contact.” Charlie heard the stubbornness in his own voice.

“Charlie, no. You haven’t met Tom’s parents. They’re letting me stay, but if you come, they’ll probably throw us both out. They already blame me for him getting shot. You don’t know what they’re like. If you come here, they’ll blame you as well. Please, Charlie, I’m begging you to trust me about this.”

Charlie did trust her. He knew all about people who blamed him for things he couldn’t control, and he was fucking done with it. He took a deep breath.

“Okay. I’m going to find out who did this, and then no one is going to stop me seeing Tom.”

Murphy didn’t say anything. Charlie could hear the hum of the fridge, and the bursts of music, shouts, and sirens from the street below. There was also birdsong. The birds must have to learn to sing extra-loud in places like this. The window behind the sofa was open a little and a breeze wafted the papers on the table. The blanket Orianna had wrapped herself in was still crumpled where she’d been sitting.

“I want to follow up that potentially genuine threat,” Murphy said in the end. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, and the FBI are being weird, but I still want to check.”

It looked like Charlie was on his own. “You do that. I’m going to find Kaylan’s flat and search it, even if I have to break the door down.”

“I can get the address,” Murphy said. “If you tell me what shoe size you take, I’ll get you some shoes. I’ll even come with you. Remember I’m official.”

“Won’t you be too busy tracking down an anonymous letter-writer?” Charlie could hear the aggression in his voice. But Murphy didn’t react.

“Not that anonymous. He’s left his email address on the second one.”

Charlie hadn’t seen it. He rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. He should eat. He didn’t want to, but he should. He should sleep some more. What he shouldn’t do was go storming off to the hospital, or to begin a completely unprofessional investigation into who the shooter was.