I didn’t want to look like a cop for what I was about to do. I tore a blank page from my daybook and folded it into my pocket, then walked back to the apartment block, ignoring the suspicious glance from the spotter, still slouched in the Valiant. Just as I reached the entrance to the apartment block a loud bang reverberated down the street. I dropped to a squat, my shoulder tense and blood pounding in my ears. A few seconds went by before I realised it was just a car backfiring. I leant against a brick letterbox and drew a breath.
The spotter in the Valiant was laughing at me. I snarled abuse at him before going through a gate and walking up to the third floor. Finding Boyd’s apartment, I slid on a pair of gloves and used the key Novak had given me to open the door.
A carpeted entranceway intersected with a door on the right and another ahead. I opened the door on the right – the bedroom. It was warm and musty, the blinds closed, double bed unmade. Posters of black American rappers plastered the walls. I continued up the short passage into the living room. It was also badly in need of airing. An old sofa faced a television and there was a stereo in the corner. Other than an ashtray on a glass coffee table and a few dishes near the sink, there was no mess.
Through the kitchenette, a sliding door led into a bathroom and laundry. This room wasn’t so clean, old flecks of toothpaste and shave bristles around the basin and vanity. I found a packet of OxyContin in the cabinet and remembered fondly the floating relief the same pills had given me during my initial rehabilitation. I also remembered the constipation, stomach pains and flu-like withdrawal when I finally decided to give them up. I closed the cabinet and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The grey etchings and stress lines around my eyes betrayed my age. I was only thirty-nine but looked ten years older. Women used to say I was handsome. While I still had the chiselled jaw Ella had once fallen for, my skin now looked moist and pasty, like the junkies I saw roaming the streets every day.
Back in the kitchen, I opened the fridge and found it stocked with leftover takeaway cartons, soft drink and VB beer. No Amstel. Next I opened the cupboard beneath the sink and found the bin, but it was empty. Above it on the bench was an answering machine, digital and more expensive than my own at home. Both this and the designer clothes Boyd was wearing when we found him seemed at odds with his status as a welfare recipient and ward of the state. I pushed play on the machine, a flashing light indicating he hadn’t heard the message.
‘Yeah, Dall, Sparks here, mate. I’ve got what you wanted me to get. I went to the park last night like we said, but you weren’t there, man. I’ve been ringing ya moby all night but no answer. What the fuck, man? Hanging on to this thing’s freakin’ me out, you better come get it soon or I’m gonna ditch it. That’s it, man, I gotta run.’
A mechanical voice stated the call had come through at nine fifteen that morning. I played the message again. The caller sounded agitated, his desire to see Boyd urgent. I checked the machine for other messages but there weren’t any. I wrote the name ‘Sparks’ and the time of the call on the page I’d torn from my daybook and began a methodical search of the kitchen, starting in the corner, working my way through all the drawers, checking the oven and above each cupboard. I found little of value beyond a small stash of marijuana and ecstasy tablets in the freezer. The ecstasy pills had a different branding from what Anthony had shown me earlier and revived my unease about my brother’s request. What was I supposed to do? Show Chloe pictures of dead people, tell her horror stories?
I left the drugs in place and moved back into the bedroom, where again I had the impression Boyd wasn’t your average state ward. There were five pairs of runners in the wardrobe and maybe a hundred CDs in a vertical display stand. This kid had money. Pondering how, I noticed a Nokia phone charger plugged into a power socket and again wondered