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Twenty-Five

Wednesday 11am

Charlie stayed where he was when Unwin ended the call. He was in so far over his head that he couldn’t imagine the surface, let alone see it. Talking to Unwin, hearing Patsy’s voice made him long for the familiarity of home, people he knew and trusted, and places he could go to be safe. Places to be safe probably didn’t include this particular spot, he thought. Time to get moving, though he had no idea where. He picked up Tom’s bag, then decided to get himself organised before he left. First thing was to remove the SIM card from his own phone and put Murphy’s number in the new one. Then he re-folded Tom’s jacket to make it all less bulky. Tom’s phone he left at the bottom of the bag, but his wallet went into Charlie’s pocket. It was thick with cash, and if push came to shove, Charlie would have no qualms about using Tom’s cards. He considered going to the hospital and arguing his way in on the basis of being Tom’s emergency contact. How bad could Verity Pennant be? It wasn’t like he didn’t have experience of dealing with disapproving mothers. Except the police were probably waiting for him at the hospital. He let his head fall backward and closed his eyes with a groan. The words to a song wafted into his head. Something about being a legal alien in New York. Only he wasn’t sure he was legal any more.

* * *

The phone vibrated against his thigh for several seconds before Charlie registered what it was. By the time he had it out of his pocket, the call had gone to voicemail. It was Brody Murphy, and Charlie called him back.

“Hey, Charlie. I’ve had a call. There’s something we ought to see.”

“What? Another way you can set me up?” Charlie asked, but his heart wasn’t in it. If the only company on offer was Murphy, he’d take it, at least for now.

“Some colleagues may have located the person who sent those emails to Orianna. I’ll come and pick you up.”

The drive took about twenty minutes. Murphy parked beside a high chain link fence bisected by a gate with a magnetic lock. Behind the fence was a tall, un-ornamented, brick slab of a building, with windows set with appalling regularity into the blank walls. It could have been anything. Offices, a prison, a police station, Russian housing from the Soviet Era. Charlie judged it against the exuberant decoration of most New York buildings and found it wanting.

“How do we get in there?” he asked Murphy.

“With one of these. We’re going to see a Ms Deganway, who lives with her son Hannibal. These are apartments for low-income residents.”

Murphy produced an electronic fob.

The flat they were visiting was on the ground floor with windows concealed by a combination of thick metal bars and air conditioning units. Through the open front door, the inside was dark. Murphy called out a greeting:

“NYPD, Ms Deganway, may we come in?”

The rooms Charlie could see appeared generous: a living room with doors leading from it to two bedrooms, bathroom and what looked to be another bizarrely small kitchen. Everything was neat and clean as far as he could tell in the gloom.

A woman, presumably Hannibal’s mother, sat on a plastic covered sofa in the living room. She looked to Charlie as if she had dark skin, but the room itself was so dark it was difficult to tell. She could have been made from stone for all the notice she took of their entrance.

“Hello, Mrs Deganway,” Charlie said.

“It’s Miss,” she replied. “Get on with it and get out.” Her voice was flat and without inflection or anger.

“Thank you,” Charlie said, embarrassed. He followed Murphy as he opened one of the doors. Charlie saw a neatly made single bed, with a white sheet folded over a blue blanket and a white covered pillow. A dining chair was tucked under a small table on which sat piles of magazines and newspapers. Double doors indicated a closet. And then there were the walls. They were covered from floor to ceiling with pictures of women. Not naked women, or women in provocative poses. Mostly faces, though some full body shots. Some were publicity stills on glossy photographic paper, others cut from magazines or newspapers, and others printed on plain paper. About half the pictures were of Orianna. Charlie didn’t recognise the other women, though he did note that all of them shared Orianna’s directness of expression.

“Let me guess, a gallery of women poets?” Charlie asked.

“Lesbian, bisexual, trans and self-identified queer women poets,” Murphy replied. He indicated the table. “With lists of where they are all scheduled to read, or do book signings. Including Orianna on Sunday night.”

“It doesn’t prove anything,” Charlie said. “Except an interest in poetry.”

“He’s coming up on forty, living at home with his mother, does a dead-end job … classic.”

“All potatoes are vegetables. All vegetables are not potatoes.”

“What?” Murphy squeaked.

“Just because every serial killer and nutcase with a gun has an obsession with his victims, doesn’t mean that everyone obsessed with, say, lesbian poets is a killer. Does he have a gun? Does he have an alibi? Does he even have a computer? Because I don’t see one.”

Charlie moved up to one of the walls and looked at it closely. “Look here,” he said, pointing. He took Murphy’s arm to show him the wall. “When do you think these pictures were put up?”

“I dunno,” Murphy said.

“Don’t you think if they’d been put up more than a few hours ago that some of the corners might be lifting? Or that they might be getting discoloured? These pictures were all put up at the same time, and not very long ago. God, Brody, the glue is still damp. Have you talked to this man’s mother about it? What does she have to say?”

“Come on, Charlie, this is straight out of the textbooks.”

Isn’t it just? Charlie thought. Who has been reading the textbooks? Brody Murphy, or someone else?