Down Cemetery Road by Mick Herron

Author:Mick Herron [Herron, Mick]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9781841199344
Google: Jm8W3tcdjQQC
Amazon: 1841199346
Publisher: Robinson Publishing
Published: 2003-01-01T11:00:00+00:00

IV

She left. Sarah sat once more, feeling sick, weak and hungry all at once. The hunger didn’t last. Most appetites seemed distant now, as if she could only focus on one point at a time, her current target being the retraction of her statement to the police – a necessary truth whose one saving grace was, it need not involve Simon Smith.

But though inevitable, it didn’t have to be immediate. She showered and dressed, and made herself eat a boiled egg; and while it was a strain not to be plucking at the curtains, checking for strangers in the street, she succeeded at this too. Then she sat with the newspaper cutting Joe had given her, retrieved from a jacket pocket. She had put Downey in his early forties when she’d first seen him, from the bridge. The more generous Zoë had him late thirties. And Zoë was right; he had been thirty-four at the time of his supposed death, making him thirty-eight now. The hair added years. But what did he want from her? He had been looking for Dinah too, but why did Joe have to die? A lot more questions hovered. None with obvious answers attached.

While she had the nerve, she made her call. Ruskin was unavailable. When would he be otherwise? About five, maybe six. She said she’d call back. Afterwards, she slipped into a waking doze. One of those almost-states, where the clock still ticks and traffic goes by, but inside everything comes to a halt. When the phone rang, she almost hit the ceiling.

‘You sound breathless.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Did I wake you?’

She glanced at the clock; it had just gone five. What am I, a baby? But she bit it back. ‘I’m okay, Mark. Really.’

‘Fine. Good. Just calling to remind you, I’ll be late back. A meeting with one of my accounts. Could be ten, even later. Don’t wait up.’

‘Mark?’

‘Yes?’

Down the wires the silence pulsed. All of it carried from one place to another at the speed of electricity.

‘You sure you’re all right?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Okay. Call Wigwam or somebody. Have company.’

Always the assumption that Wigwam was at her beck. It irritated her that he was probably right.

It would be forever before they’d speak again. She hung up not knowing this; dialled the police while she was at it. Ruskin was in.

‘You want to what?’

‘It wasn’t true.’

‘What makes you think I give a –’ There was a strangled arrest; the crash of a receiver being dropped, or maybe slammed. Then: ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you aware what a retraction will mean, Mrs Trafford? Have you taken legal advice on this?’

‘Why is it I need advice now when before you were quite happy to –’

‘Apart from the other implications. Wasting police time, that’s still an offence.’ They should lock up the whole bloody world, his tone implied. ‘Making false statements.’

‘It’s because I don’t want to –’

‘Not to mention the matter of the other charges that might still, might still, be levied against you. You’re into serious waters here, Mrs Trafford. You want to think very carefully before going any deeper.

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