let the glamour fall away so that the person on the bench would notice me. He sat up straighter as I approached.
As I neared the bench, I realised who had left the note. The sandy hair gave it away, though Sam Veldon could easily have been mistaken for a tramp, sat on the bench, wrapped in his overcoat.
Sam worked for one of the Home Office agencies – anti-terror or against organised crime – Claire had said it was something like that. He and Claire had once been an item, but the relationship had foundered on the secrets between them. Sam had been unable to share his work and unwilling to accept that Claire had her own secrets. Now Claire was dead.
I stopped a few yards away. “Sam? It was you who left the note?”
“We’re not on first name terms,” he said. “You’re not my friend.” He steadfastly looked ahead, refusing to acknowledge my presence.
“I’m not your enemy either.”
“Sit down,” he said. “You draw too much attention.”
I looked around the darkened park. “This was your choice, Sam. There are warmer, more private and more welcoming places we could talk.”
He took out a stainless steel flask from his jacket and flicked off the top, lifting it to his lips, he took a long swig. I could smell the whisky from where I stood, and it wasn’t the first swig he’d taken. I moved forward and sat on the other end of the bench, leaving enough between for someone else to sit – as if there were a presence between us. “I’m told you have something for me.” I reminded him.
“That I do,” he said. He tucked the flask back into his coat, struggling for a moment to replace it. There was a sound, like a muted pop, through the fabric of his coat. Something hit me, like punch in the side. It came again. I put my hand down and it came away red. “You bastard.” My head was swimming as the shock hit me. He’d shot me.
Sam stood up. “The first one’s for Claire,” he said, “and the second is for me. You’re a hazard, Petersen. Like a mad dog, you have to be put down. They said it would make it slow and painful – and I don’t want you to die quickly. I want it slow, so you’d get time to think about what you’ve done. One in the heart and one in the head may be the professional way, but two in the gut is more satisfying for someone who cuts a defenceless woman’s throat and leaves her to bleed.”
I was clutching my side where the blood oozed between my fingers. What had started like a kick in the side was twisting in my guts like a serrated knife. “I didn’t kill her, Sam. I was trying to save her,” I coughed.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s funny how people you try to help keep dying. Enjoy the rest of your life, Petersen, for the short time you have left.” He turned and walked away towards Edgware Road.
“Sam,” I called after him weakly. “You’ve got to help me.” I don’t know whether he didn’t hear me, or whether he didn’t care. Either way he just kept walking.
I tried to stand, but the pain in my guts was excruciating. Sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes. My lips tasted of salt. My head felt light and I swallowed rising bile. I was losing a lot of blood. If I didn’t get help soon, I was going to pass out, and the chances of ever come round were slim. I tried to think what the treatment for gunshot wounds was, but the only thing I could remember were movies where everyone died a quick and clean death. I lifted my hands and they were slick with my own blood. Pressing my jacket to the wounds in my side, I tried to stem the flow of blood, but I had no strength and it hurt like hell. My arms were failing me. I was starting to slump – I simply couldn’t hold myself up. My chest was heaving as I tried to get more air. I thought fey were supposed to be hard to kill, but when it came to it, dying didn’t seem to be that difficult.
The roughness of the bench rested against my cheek. I was lying there with no idea how I’d got there. I must have passed out. The pain was less acute, but it was spreading through