The Deep Dark Sleep

The address was in a tenement block that was little more than a slum, as were the blocks around it. I couldn’t leave the Atlantic anywhere near. Mainly because, if I did, there would be little of it to come back to, but the other reason was it would stick out a mile in this part of the city and I had as much chance of getting to Downey unseen as if I approached waving a banner and beating a drum. I drove out for a half mile until I found the rail station and dumped the Atlantic in the car park, hoofing it back to the tenement. The exact numbers were difficult to sort out and I decided against knocking on doors and asking if anyone knew Downey. Even as it was, I thought I could hear the rhythm of jungle drums as I strolled past the tenements.

I could have staked the place out, of course, but it might have been hours before the spooked Downey would venture out. Or maybe he had already moved on. I stood at the corner, smoking and watching shoeless kids sail newspaper boats on the iridescently oily surface of rain puddles.

I had just decided to risk knocking some doors when I saw Downey at the far end of the street, carrying a large brown paper bag of groceries. He hadn’t seen me and I ducked around the corner and waited for him to reach me.

I really did feel sorry for the guy. When he turned the corner, he looked as if he had walked straight into the Grim Reaper himself, which was pretty much who he thought I was. He started as if he was about to make a run for it but I grabbed his arm and hauled him up against the wall. He dropped the grocery bag on the cobbles.

‘You killed him!’ he shouted. ‘You killed Frank! You’re going to kill me!’

The kids playing in the gutter stopped playing and watched us, but with a dull curiosity that suggested they had seen it all before.

‘Stop shouting, Paul,’ I said in a calm, even voice, ‘or I’m going to have to slug you, and I really don’t want to do that. I’m not going to hurt you and I didn’t hurt Frank.’ I frowned. ‘Well … okay … I did hurt Frank, but it wasn’t me who killed him. And I’m not connected to the people who did. Got that?’

He nodded furiously, but in that I’m-too-scared-to-listen way.

‘Paul …’ I said patiently. ‘You need to understand what I’m saying. I’m not here to hurt you. Believe it or not, I’m here to help you. To make sure you stay safe. Do you understand?’

He nodded again, but it had sunk in this time. Now his expression clouded with suspicion. I let him go.

‘I want to help you, Paul … to put an end to all this mayhem and fix things so that you can stop running. But first of all I need to talk to you so that I can try to understand what’s going on better. Can we go up to your place?’

‘I’m staying with a friend. We can’t talk there.’ Again his look and his tone were laced with suspicion.

‘Okay …’ I picked up the groceries and handed them to him. My car’s parked at the station. We can talk as we walk …’

I had given Downey his groceries to carry as an encumbrance, or at least an early warning, if suddenly dropped, that he was going to make a run for it. But as we walked he listened to everything I told him, including how my involvement had been simply to retrieve the photographs and negatives of John Macready. I lied by telling him that I suspected Frank had been killed by people working either on Macready’s behalf or on behalf of the Duke to protect his son. The truth, of course, was that I knew damned well that it had been Leonora Bryson and the lawyer Fraser who had organized the killing.

We got back to the car and I told him to get in, which he did, but only after casting an anxious eye around us. I did a bit of casting myself and got in after him. He sat there, small and slight and clutching his now crumpled grocery bag, more child than man.

‘Why did you get into all of this business, Paul?’ I asked. ‘You’re just not cut out for it.’

‘It was Frank’s idea to start with. Then Iain came up with this plan to fleece Macready. I never thought people would start getting killed. I never knew that Frank …’

He broke off and started to cry. I looked the other way, out of the window, embarrassed. And trying to avoid getting angry with him because he had embarrassed me. He stopped after a while.

‘Listen, Paul,’ I said. ‘I don’t think this is all just about the Macready photos, either. I think you ended up in possession of something valuable and dangerous and you didn’t even know it was valuable and dangerous.’ I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope Ferguson had given me. I took out the photograph and handed it to Downey.

‘You remember this?’ I asked. ‘I think your life is in more danger because of this photograph than the whole business with Macready. I believe this is someone who has made a great effort never to have his face or anything about him recorded, anywhere.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Downey.