Chapter Nine

Savage had bought the house at the start of the boom. His base, his first investment.

It'd been cheap back then, a three story in a part of town that had no underground connection guaranteed lower prices. It did have a regular and quick train route to the heart of London through leafy green suburbs, or a high-speed ferry along the Thames. Both far more pleasant and quicker than the subterranean tube. A nicer area with nicer houses at out of town prices, all because you didn't suffer commuter hell every morning.

Go figure.

He heard the strum and stroke of musical instruments from the basement flat below. He owned that too. The music teacher from Greenwich still lived there. His rent paid Savage's mortgage on the place, just. It washed its own face in the parlance of the trade.

If he bought the house at post-boom prices he could rent the whole thing at corporate rates and still not cover his costs.

Progress, he thought, means the people who live here can't afford to live here.

The key he'd picked up from the property manager still worked. The door didn't. Not until he put his shoulder into it, then his foot, enough to force the three year mountain of mail that had accumulated behind the door back several inches. He squeezed through. The weight of the pile slammed the door shut behind him.

If dust could talk it would have called the cops. It felt like breaking into a museum. Savage stalked carefully along the hallway past the once familiar hat-stand, covered in coats. The deep thrum of a cello downstairs broke into the first bars of a tune. As he rounded the corner into the Victorian high-ceilinged living room, a bass guitar joined in. Classical avant-garde.

Framed paintings covered one wall, two sculptures, irregular Art-is-Cheap impulse buys. He moved to the rear window at the end of the long lounge.

The view there made his heart beat just a little faster, as it always had. The weight of the last few years, of the last week, left him, as the orange evening twilight touched his face.

The high window framed a postcard-perfect view of London's Canary Wharf. The aircraft warning light atop the pyramid roof of One Canada Square winked like the mischievous eye of Mammon. To his right the support struts of the Millennium Dome, or the O2 as it had been re-branded, marked the boundary that led out to sea.

In the centre frame, the sun dropped into the other end of the Thames and in the far distance, silhouetted against the sky, the London Eye, Houses of Parliament, and the distinctive tower that Londoner's referred to as The Gherkin. You had to love them.

He'd sat and admired the view virtually every evening he'd lived there. The wharf had been his domain, he'd been going places. From nowhere to somewhere, wasn't that every poor boy's dream?

His life in the Middle East had been humble, hermetic, he'd scorned the trinkets that he'd collected. The joke of a person he'd wanted to be, suited, wealthy, cultured – bought in culture of course – fast car, trophy wife.

He sat on the couch and stared until twilight turned to night.

Then made his way upstairs to the bedroom, without using lights. That was his way now. He'd learned to live without them. The carnage of his last day's departure lay scattered about the floor and bed.

He'd left in a hurry.

Tabitha's clothes still mixed in with his.

Tabby Cat to her friends and lovers. His love, or so he'd thought. Blonde, tall, old money, plum in her accent and silver spoon up her arse. She'd been nice enough, hell, she'd been great. She'd thrown off the shackles of her upbringing to become a beautiful and intelligent woman.

Perfection.

Looking back now he realised she'd been his fantasy. And, like all fantasies, reality got in the way. Yes, he'd strayed, even if he wouldn't admit it to Thomson.

No excuses required.

He turned up a photo frame on the dresser. Tabby and him, some Mediterranean resort, tanned, drunk and happy. They'd talked about children that night. Their plans for the future. After Michael jumped he’d told her the rest. She'd listened passively, then walked out, her heart breaking.

He followed out the door and hadn't been back since.

Neither had she, even though she had a key, the mess would never have stood. He turned the picture back down.

The office cum play room along the corridor shared the stunning view. A bay window opened out onto the roof of the kitchen extension below. His old guitar lay propped up by the side of the desk. His even younger dreams of rock and pop stardom, another layer of personality he'd beaten down and hidden from view.

The phone on his desk started to ring.

It took him a moment to recognise the sound. Apart from Thomson no one knew he was there. At least he knew the direct debits still worked.

He picked up. 'Hello?'

'Ah, good evening sir, do you realise that there are now government subsidies for first time buyers and that you may be eligible?'

'Not interested. Go away.'

'Just a moment of your time please sir.'

Savage had his hand over the disconnect button, then he raised the phone again.

'Actually, tell me, I want to know everything.'

'Really?' the caller said. 'Really sir?' he recovered, 'that's wonderful news, I'd be delighted to have one of our senior sales managers call you back.'

'You can't tell me a thing?'

'Of course, sir, but I'd much prefer it if—'

Savage disconnected.

Surveillance 101: call under a pretence to see if anyone is home.

One of Thomson's men? It would make sense. They'd have all his details, they would have seen him come home. But with no lights on in the house they either had to bed down, knock the door, or kick it in.

Savage had no weapons. That felt so wrong. He stripped off on his way back to the bedroom.

Sweat-pants, trainers and hoodie later he dug around in the 'bits' drawer in the kitchen for something dangerous.

The person he'd become wouldn't have left home without a pair of brass knuckles, a blade and a pistol at the minimum. He despaired at his old self. Not even a decently sharp knife. There'd no doubt be something in the street level garage but you couldn't get there without being seen from the front of the house.

He climbed out of the first floor window and lowered himself silently from the extension to the alley, one of those Victorian era legacies that led only to the side of someone else's house.

Music from the garden apartment filled the air.

In a crouch he moved towards the street. He kept to the dark against the back wall, then, through the overgrown bushes in the front garden, he saw someone walk to his front door.

The footsteps scuffed to a stop. The door bell rang. The man waited for what seemed an eternity, then rang again, twice, and knocked the door with his fist. When no response came he walked to the side gate and pressed the buzzer there. The music stopped. A few moments later a scruffy face appeared at the side gate.

'Hello?' the neighbour said.

'Sorry to disturb, sir,' the same voice as the phone call, 'I have an appointment this evening with Mr Savage. I had 26A down, I just wanted to make sure it wasn't 26B.'

'You mean John?' His neighbour said, his tenant, Pritchet. He hadn't remembered his name until now.

'That's right sir. I take it that's not you?'

'I haven't seen him in two, three years. Didn't know he was back.'

'Back from where, sir?'

Savage saw the look on Pritchet's face. Steve, that was it. If he wasn't careful he'd be assigning people numbers next.

'Look no offence matey, I've no idea who you are or why you'd be asking questions about him. What do you want?'

He'd always liked Steve. Geeky to the max. Cultured. In that he devoured it rather than bought it, but also paranoid and untrusting as only the very skinny who were very bullied at school could be.

'No offence meant, sir. I'm just an insurance advisor. My office must have got their information wrong.'

'Do you have a card?'

'Thank you for your time, sir,' he said, before turning and walking smartly off the premises.

'Oi,' Steve said, and then thought better of it. He slammed the side gate shut. Savage heard the musicians' raised voices inside as he moved low to the pavement and peered around the hedge.

The man had his back to Savage. He opened a car door, then turned for one last look at the house.

Savage froze, movement caught the eye.

The man's puffy face was easy to read under the sodium glare of the street light. A dead end.

Savage had never seen the man before. He stepped into his car, closed the door and then didn't start the engine.

Savage clambered through the hedge on the other side of the alley into the neighbour's front garden. A family garden, scattered with the debris of children – toys, a football, a plastic tricycle. The front door was open, he heard voices inside announce dinner time and that no food would be eaten until outside was tidy.

Savage made for the gate and stepped out onto the pavement. With his back to the man's car he stretched quads and calves, glimpsed the man's face in the wing mirror, then casually pulled his hood up and jogged away.

Once he was out of eye-line he picked up the pace and pounded the pavements, heading for Greenwich Park.

What had he come back to? Two sides of his personality vied for supremacy, his old self – the naïve, moral youngster. And his new self – the jaded, cynical, capable man.

He'd even started to sound like his old self at the meeting that morning. The young man had been so apologetic, desperate and needy for approval he bought acceptability and aspired to become the people he loathed.

Without Michael's death what would he have become? Would he have toys in the front yard too? Children he didn't shoot at? Would his musical neighbour be quirky Uncle Steve? Would the beautiful Tabby still have been his pussy cat?

He laughed at that one as he entered the side entrance of Greenwich Park and sprinted the short distance to One Tree Hill. It wasn't the only One Tree Hill in London but it had been his and the other locals who fell in love with the spot.

On the opposite hill sat the always-busy Greenwich Observatory where tourists straddled the Greenwich meridian line – the humble baseline that set the stars and the tides in the heavens and made longitude and latitude navigable and accurate. It ushered in the age of the British Empire, the time zone, jet-lag, and international travel as we know it.

A battleship back from the gulf was moored next to the old naval college on the river.

Reality hadn't changed in hundreds of years it seemed. Just the packaging. America and Britain still had their military might and war was still business by other means. The United Nations, free markets and shared morals were corrupt fairy tales for grown ups.

At the spot where young Queen Elizabeth the first came to look down on her queendom he caught his breath and read the words carved in the bench:

Here fair Eliza, Virgin Queen

From business free, enjoy'd the scene

Hereoft in pensive mood she stood

And kindly plan'd for Britain's good:

So record tells and this beside,

Sung ditties to the silvertide

Full worth such honours art thou still,

Belov'd of thousands, one tree hill.

He parked it on her illustrious legacy.

Savage left all this to find out if he could kill for real. He'd become a social outcast in less than a day when Michael died. And he couldn't take it. So instead of learning to surf, or getting drunk, he'd scratched a lethal itch.

He sat in the dark while the park closed. His ghosts came out and sat on either side reminding him of what he'd done and who he'd become.

They all asked the same question: 'Why did you kill me?'

He'd become a barbarian at the gate, not to protect the bleeding hearts on the inside, the normal folks, but to protect his ego. And he'd chosen his path without ever really killing that man.

Anyone walking past would have heard his laugh crackle through the dark.

He finally got the joke.

*

The puffy faced man watched the hooded jogger return in his wing mirror. He'd had his suspicions, but he was working alone. Budget cuts. And he couldn't leave this spot until Savage showed up. The jogger slowed at the neighbouring house where he'd started.

He stopped watching, bored.

He wondered why all these body-haters did it. Running hurt, that's all he knew about it. He remembered days on the track at school, in the rain, shouts from the PE teacher. That fat sod always stood stock still, his nose permanently red from alcohol. What kind of role model for physical education was that?

He jumped when a hand rapped his window. 'Jesus.'

The jogger had his hood up. He pointed his finger downwards. The window lowered a fraction.

'Can I help you?' the puffy faced man said.

'You've been sitting in this car for two hours now. Tell me who you are or I'll call the police.'

'Hah,' the man slapped a warrant card against the window. 'No need.'

The jogger pulled down his hood.

'Savage?'

'You'd better come inside.'

Savage kept the short fence-spike he'd stolen from the allotments hidden in his sleeve and walked toward the house.

*

Savage flicked the light on in the kitchen.

'Detective Constable Jones. Welcome to my very humble, well, very dusty abode.'

Jones's head bobbed agreement.

'Drink?' Savage said. He shook the jars on the counter, 'We could try some coffee but it's been sitting there for years. Not even going to try the fridge. I've got whisky somewhere.'

'It's okay sir, I don't need anything.'

Savage rinsed a glass and tried a tap. It gave a splutter and a gurgle and then spewed out fresh cold water.

'You've been away a long time, sir?

'Three years. I feel like a foreigner again.' He took a large swallow of water. 'Ahhhh! Do you know how much of a treat it is to find clean water in a tap?'

'That is London water, sir.'

'And it tastes great.' He smacked his lips and turned the tap on for another dose. 'So,' Savage said. 'Talk. Why're you here? Watching me?'

'We had word you were back.'

'Again, so?'

'You left under a cloud sir. There were suspicions you had something to do with the trader Michael Fincher's death. We have questions that remain unanswered.'

'Who told you I was back anyway?' the detective constable's face gave nothing away. 'Never mind, I'll find out. Ask your questions.'

'Mind filling me in on where you've been?'

'The Middle East.'

'What were you doing there sir?'

'Working.'

'What kind of work?'

'Investigations. Same as before. C'mon Jonesy, get to it.'

'What was your involvement with Mr Fincher?'

'I investigated him for Maclays. They thought he was siphoning funds from the bank. When I confronted him on the phone with the information we had, he jumped.'

'No other reason?'

'Not as far as I know.'

'The rumours are his partner Jo Devlin was unfaithful.'

'Rumours?'

'With a number of men.'

'A number of men?' Savage said. 'Look, come with me, I'll tell you what I know.'

In the lounge Savage handed him his phone and headset and sat the detective down.

'You can't officially have this, it's company property. But obviously you can get a warrant should you need to.'

He played the audio file of his phone conversation with Michael. While the detective listened Savage stood at the window to put him at ease.

Multiple liaisons, multiple men? He knew for certain that the hard-to-reach Miss Devlin had been having a bit on the side, but more than one?

He needed to speak to her.

And who told the police he was back? There weren't any do-gooders working at the bank. Banks weren't like that. They were all about the money. Follow it if you can.

Jones coughed. 'Why on earth didn't anyone give us this at the time?'

'You new at this Jonesy?'

He tilted his head. 'In a way.'

'Well, I would say two reasons, either our mutual friend Thomson didn't know about it—'

'Thomson?'

'C'mon.'

Savage waited a beat, nothing.

'Or,' Savage continued, 'They, whoever they are, didn't want anyone to know. It wasn't in their best interests.'

'Or,' Jonesy said. 'You didn't want anyone to know you'd pushed him too far and hid it.'

Savage grunted. 'I obviously pushed him too far. No investigation needed there, but if I'd heard the recording maybe I wouldn't have gone to the Middle East for three years hoping someone would kill me so I could make amends.'

'Sir?'

'I was like you Jonesy, ripe, eager, and easy to bruise.'

'So, what made you go?'

'Apart from the guilt? Curiosity.' He sipped his drink and waited for Jones to fill the gap.

'I heard his wife made a scene.'

'Yeah, she did.'

'Public?'

'About as public as you could get.'

He remembered Thomson ran to her side, played the hero, another reason the Security Director still had a hard-on for him.

'Is that all, sir?'

'Sure,' Jones stood up to leave. 'But hey, let's reverse roles here for a second.' He gave Jones his card. 'If you think of anything else, call me.'

'You've been watching too much TV, sir.'

'Not for years. But I'd advise you not to leave town any time soon.'

'Good bye, sir.' He laughed.

Savage turned back to the window. He had been ripe for the plucking. He'd left because of shame, because of guilt, because he thought he was a killer. He was an investigator first though right?

Right.