Nocturne (20 page)

I
’
d half-rehearsed what I was going to say but the words came out in
the wrong order.

‘
I
’
ve go
t a problem,
’
I told him.
‘
It
’
s…
I can
’
t
…
’
I looked wildly
round. The waiting room was filling up again, and two youths nearby
were watching me with interest. One of them had a newly stitched
wound under his left eye.

‘
You want to come round the back?
’

The young policeman was indicating a gap in the counter. I stepped
through. A door led to the main part of the police station. At the end of
a corridor, beside a drinks dispenser, he showed me into a small bare
room with a table and three chairs.

I sat down. My Berghaus was dry now but my jeans were still
soaking.

‘
You want to take that thing off?
’
He was nodding at the anorak. I
was cold. I shook my head. None of this felt right.

The young guy searched round for a pad. The drawer in the desk
made a hollow metallic clang as he pushed it shut.

‘
So what can we do you for?
’

He was looking at me. I thought I detected a smile but I could
easily have been wrong. I gave him my name and told him where I
lived. Then I explained about Gilbert. Trying to be fair meant that
the account took much longer than I
’
d intended. At the end of it, he
got up and left the room. Outside, in the corridor, I could hear him
feeding coins into the Automat. His face reappeared round the
door.

‘
Sugar?
’

I nodded. I was looking at his pad. Apart from my name and address
he hadn
’
t made a single note. He returned with the teas. He had huge
hands and there was a tattoo of an eagle on one forearm. After he
’
d sat
down, he toyed with his pen, watching me.

‘
You
’
re saying
you lent this guy your key?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Wasn
’
t very clever, was it?
’

‘
I…
we were friends. I
’
d no idea. Not then.
’

‘
But six weeks? Isn
’
t that a bit…
’
he tapped the pen softly on the
edge of the table,
‘
…
swift?
’

‘
Not really.
’

‘
Are you always like that?
’

‘
Like what?
’

‘
So trusting?
’

I reached for the tea. In truth, it was a question I
’
d often asked
myself, but coming from this hard-eyed young man it sounded
infinitely more menacing. Maybe he had a point. Maybe it was crazy
taking people at face value.

Crazy?

‘
I
think he
’
s the mad one,
’
I said defensively.
‘
Don
’
t you?
’

‘
I
’
m not sure. I can think of saner things than lending a stranger my
flat keys.
’

‘
He wasn
’
t a stranger. Not then.
’

‘
So you say.
’

‘
I mean it. There was nothing, no clues, nothing. It just seemed
normal.
’

‘
Sleeping in your bed?
’

‘
Before. I meant before.
’

‘
I know, I heard you.
’
He was fingering the empty pad.
‘
Look at it his
way. He
’
s living on top of you. It
’
s all nice and cosy. You
’
re letting him
shop for you, run the odd errand, whatever. That
’
s how relationships
start, isn
’
t it?
’

‘
Of course.
’

‘
So
…
’
he shrugged,
‘
…
why the surprise?
’

I stared at him, not quite believing what I
’
d heard. I
’
d come, with the
greatest reluctance, to seek a little protection, a little redress, a little
comfort. There were laws here that I thought could help me, anti-
harassment laws, anti-stalker laws. Yet here I was, the tables turned,
bringing accusations on myself. I
’
d been too forward. I
’
d led him on.
Poor Gilbert.

‘
What about keeping the keys, though? What about the cats? What
about breaking in that night? Scaring me shitless?
’

A smile this time, definitely.

‘
You
’
ve got evidence ?
’

‘
Evidence of what?
’

‘
That it happened?
’

For the second time in a minute, I thought I had trouble with my
ears. Then my disbelief gave way to something a bit earthier.

‘
For God
’
s sake,
’
I snapped.
‘
I
’
m not making this stuff up. The guy
’
s
crazy. He walks round and round, day and night. He makes holes in
my ceiling. He watches me, listens to my conversations, keeps tabs on
my friends. He
’
s obsessed. It
’
s bloody obvious.
’

‘
Friends?
’

‘
Yes, people who come round, visitors
…
’
I loosened my jacket,
exasperated,
‘
…
friends.
’

‘
They
’
ve seen anything? These friends?
’

His hand was hovering over the pad now, the pen uncapped. I
thought about the question. Brendan? The odd mate from work? The
occasional pal from university days? Had they had dealings, first-
hand, with Gilbert? Could they support my story?

‘
No,
’
I said uncertainly.
‘
It
’
s just me really.
’

‘
But what about the night you mentioned? The night he came
down?
’

‘
I was by myself, if that
’
s what you
’
re asking.
’

‘
No one for company?
’

‘
Absolutely not.
’

‘
Maybe that
’
s the answer then. Maybe you need protection.
’
He
looked at me, newly thoughtful.
‘
It can be a. problem, living alone,
someone like you.
’

He let the thought hang between us. I was beginning to feel
uncomfortable and angry again, too. What right had this man to
lecture me on the way I chose to live? On how daft I was to rely on my
own company? I
’
d come, after all, with a story to tell. If it hadn
’
t, so
far, produced the response I
’
d anticipated, then maybe that was my
fault.

‘
He
’
s violent, too,
’
I said.
‘
And I can prove it.
’

‘
How?
’

I told him what I knew about Witcher, the previous tenant, and how
Gilbert had beaten him up. After I
’
d spelled Witcher
’
s name, and given
him the address on Denman
’
s Hill, I waited for him to finish scribbling
on the pad.

‘
You
’
re telling me this Witcher bloke
’
s gay?
’

‘
Yes, apparently.
’

‘
And he told you what happened? Getting beaten up? All that stuff?
’

‘
No, he wouldn
’
t.
’

‘
Then how do you know it
’
s true?
’

I mentioned Frankie. The ballpoint slowed, then stopped.

‘
This guy Witcher didn
’
t report the incident?
’

‘
I don
’
t think so.
’

‘
He ended up in hospital and didn
’
t say anything? Didn
’
t contact
us?
’

‘I
don
’
t know
…
I
…
’

The policeman stood up and left the room. Minutes later, he was
back again.

‘
You
’
re right,
’
he said briefly.
‘
His name
’
s not on file.
’
He began to
circle the room, hands in his pockets. I heard him stop behind me.
‘
This Frankie. You say he
’
s gay, too?
’

‘
Very.
’

‘
And he has something going with Witcher?
’

‘
Yes, that
’
s the impression I got.
’

‘
Pity.
’
He stepped into view and made himself comfortable on a
corner of the desk.
‘
Straight, he might have been some use to us. The
way it is, the evidence is tainted.
’

‘
Because he
’
s gay?
’

‘
Because he
’
s got something going with Witcher. The other fella,
your fella
…
’
He shrugged.
‘
Who
’
s to say Frankie didn
’
t do it?
Where
’
s the proof?
’

I nodded, saying nothing, interested only in where this interview
might lead. All this clever speculation left me cold. I wanted hard,
practical things. I wanted someone up there, someone in a uniform to
search Gilbert
’
s flat, someone to find the other set of photos, someone
to concentrate my poor mad neighbour
’
s mind.

‘
Tell me what you
’
re going to do,
’
I said bleakly.
‘
Only this is getting
beyond a joke.
’