Free Die Twice by Simon Kernick Page B

ever amid the vast ranks of the unsolveds, which somehow I felt would be even worse.
    Malik stayed for two drinks to give him the opportunity to buy me a brew back, then it was time for him to return to the family seat in Highgate where his pretty wife and two young children awaited him. He offered to share a taxi with me but I decided to stay put for a while. I was hungry, but I fancied one more drink before I headed back to the flat. I’d got the taste of beer now.
    One of the regulars, an old guy with a raspy voice whom I knew vaguely, came and joined me and we chatted about this and that for a while. Normal shit: football results, the price of beer, what a fuck-up the government was making of everything. Sometimes it’s nice to talk to civilians. It doesn’t require you to rack your brains in case you missed something. Things just flow along nice and easy. But when the guy started going on about his wife’s pickled-onion-sized bunions, and I started thinking that I hoped I’d be dead by the time I got to his age, I knew it was time to go.
    It was eight o’clock when the cab dropped me off outside my front door. The iron-grey cloud cover that had sat above the city most of the morning had now broken up completely, you could even make out the odd star. The temperature had dropped accordingly and the night had a pleasant wintery feel about it.
    The first thing I did when I got inside was phone Danny, but he wasn’t at home. I tried him on his mobile but got diverted to the message service, so I left one telling him to be in at five p.m. the next day so that I could drop the money round to him. Then I showered, washing off the dirt of the day, and thought about food.
    I found a carton of something called creamy prawn risotto in the freezer. It said ‘ready in twenty minutes’ on the sleeve and the photo didn’t look too unappetizing so I defrosted it in the microwave. While it was cooking, I took my usual seat on the sofa and switched on the TV, turning straight to the news channel.
    Two passport-type photographs dominated the screen. They were of the Cherokee driver and his front-seat passenger. The driver looked different from the previous night. In the photo he was smiling broadly and there were laughter lines around his eyes. It gave you the impression that he’d probably been quite a nice bloke when he was alive. Old greasy face next to him looked better as well. He was still staring moodily at the camera, like he’d just been told off by someone twenty years his junior, but he’d lost the shiftiness he’d been exuding the previous night, and it looked like he’d washed his hair and given it a decent comb, which had improved his appearance no end.
    The report named the driver as Paul Furlong, a thirty-six-year-old father of two young children, and his passenger as forty-nine-year-old Terry Bayden-Smith, who’d been with customs since leaving school. Bayden-Smith was divorced and presumably had no kids because none were mentioned.
    Their faces disappeared from the screen to be replaced by a male reporter in a fleece coat standing outside the Traveller’s Rest. There was still police tape everywhere and the Cherokee remained where it had stopped beside me, but activity had dwindled. A uniformed officer stood in the background guarding the scene, but he was the only person I could see. The reporter said that there’d been more than sixty detectives assigned to this case and that the police were confident of finding the killer. There were apparently a number of ongoing lines of inquiry but the reporter quoted a senior police source as saying that a quick result was unlikely.
    I wondered if Raymond had been telling the truth when he’d said they’d been corrupt. Would it make what I’d done any better? Probably not. Once again I found myself wishing I hadn’t got involved. Corrupt or not, there was going to be a huge amount of pressure on