We got off the Northern line smelling not-so-faintly of burnt diesel. I’ve never been sure how that works, seeing as the trains are electric, but it’s probably best not to ask. Probably best not to think too hard about the black smuts on your hanky when you blow your nose afterwards, either.
There was a chill wind blowing down Camden High Street when we got above ground again, and I hunkered down into my jacket, missing the warm air gusting through the tunnels. We had a brief disagreement on where to try first—all right, Kelvin was more likely to be working the stall than slobbing at home, but on the other hand, his flat was nearer.
“Might as well try the flat, first,” I said. “Save us walking all the way down to the market.”
Phil gave me a look. “Is your hip giving you gyp again?”
“Course not,” I lied. “I’m just, you know. Being efficient. Time is money and all that bollocks.”
I wasn’t sure I’d convinced him, but instead of walking directly down the high street to the market, do not pass Go, do not collect £200, we veered off halfway. The flat was only a couple of streets off, above an Indian takeaway down a not-very-kempt side street. The noise on a Saturday night, as everyone spilled out of the rough-and-ready pub on the corner and staggered into the takeaway for a curry, had to be phenomenal. An unpleasant patch of ground not six feet from Kelvin’s front door was vivid proof that for at least one person last night, either the alcohol or the spicy food had been a very bad move. Suddenly Jonny-boy’s decision to give all this up and run off to Pluck’s End with Lilah was a lot more understandable.
As luck would have it, we’d backed a winner, and Kelvin Reid was at home to gentlemen callers this fine Sunday morning. He looked shifty when he opened the door and saw us, as well he might.
“Congratulations,” I greeted him with. “You’re off the hook for Jonathan’s murder. They’ve arrested Lilah.”
We’d discussed it in the car en route, and agreed that the way to play it was as we’re all mates now, no hard feelings about the commission of actual bodily harm upon my person. Phil had expressed his doubts as to whether my acting ability was up to this. I’d expressed my considered opinion that he could shove it up his arse.
It didn’t matter anyway, as we’d both agreed any attempt to intimidate the bloke could turn ugly fast.
I’d expected Kelvin would react with vindictive triumph, but in fact he drew in a long, shaky breath and sagged against the doorframe. “It’s true, then?”
“Like you said all along,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, but . . .” He shook his head, like he still couldn’t quite believe it.
I knew how he felt.
“Can we come in?” Phil asked.
“Oh, right. Of course.” Kelvin stood back to let us into the flat. The door opened directly onto the living room, which was of the cosy variety, with a squashy sofa that looked way too small for anyone Kelvin’s size in front of a large-screen telly. Actually, the whole flat looked too small for Kelvin, throwing his sheer bulk into stark relief. If Phil hadn’t been here with me, this was the point I’d be backing away slowly and apologising for bothering the bloke. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.
Maybe he read my mind, as Kelvin hunched over and turned to me. “I want to apologise. For, you know.”
“Trying to punch my intestines out through my spine?”
“Uh. Yeah. That. I wasn’t thinking straight. Like, it did my head in, what happened to Jonathan, and seeing you, I just lost it. I never knew you didn’t have nothing to do with it. I was hoping, maybe you could, uh, talk to the police? Tell them you don’t want to press charges?”
From what I’d heard, charges were going to be pressed whatever, but they also reckoned I’d need to do a victim statement to be read out in court, so I didn’t feel too dishonest pasting on a smile and saying, “Yeah, sure. I’ll have a word.”
Because like the man said, he’d been in mourning. I shouldn’t bear a grudge, and I probably wouldn’t—once the bruising had gone down.
Kelvin visibly relaxed. “That’s brilliant. Well decent of you. I owe you.”
And while we were on the subject: “We were wondering if you still had that package we delivered to Jonathan.”
“Why?”
Good question. Luckily, Phil had an answer. “Professional reasons.”
“Yeah, we don’t like to think we passed on any death threats.” I gave an unconvincing laugh.
“Oh. Oh, right. I don’t know what he did with it. Like I told the police.”
“Did he show you what was in it?” Not that we’d necessarily believe what Kelvin said.
“No. I never saw it. Didn’t know nothing about it until after . . . you know.”
“Have you searched for it?”
“You mean, here?” Reid looked around the flat as if expecting it to jump out at him and wave a Pride flag in his face. “Well, yeah. I had to sort out all Jonathan’s stuff. I didn’t see nothing like that with his things.”
“You sent his things back to his family?” Phil asked.
Kelvin shook his head. “To her? No. Charity shop. And some of it went on the stall. It’s what he would’ve wanted,” he added defiantly.
Seemed a bit heartless to me, but then again, I hadn’t known the bloke. Maybe old Jonny-boy would have been dead chuffed with the idea of living on through recycled consumer goods.
“Speaking of which,” Phil put in, “is there a reason you’re not working right now?”
“Chelsea’s minding the stall today. My mate. It’s been really stressful, all this happening.” It sounded defensive, as if we’d accused him of malingering.
Phil nodded. “Do you mind if we have a look around? Just to see if we can find the package?”
Kelvin hesitated, but I could see the cogs whirring as he worked out that me putting in a word for him ought to trump any natural disinclination to let us rummage through his underwear drawer. “Go ahead,” he said finally. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Yeah, right. Everyone’s got something to hide. And I know my cue when I hear it. So as not to make a spectacle of myself, I wandered over to the bookshelf, which was stacked high with DVDs, CDs, action figures still in their boxes, and even the odd actual book, and wished fervently but hopelessly that Kelvin would bugger off so I could concentrate.
“Any chance of a cuppa?” Phil asked. I could’ve kissed him.
With Kelvin in the kitchen boiling the kettle, I was able to relax. I took a deep breath, focussed my mind on Jonny-boy in general and thickly stuffed brown envelopes, not to mention the contents thereof, in particular, and listened.
Nothing.
Nothing?