Where was he?
He stopped at the first phonebox, “Salvatore, can you meet me?”
“I suggest you stand down.. for your own good.”
It was too late – there was nothing more he could do.
He had to find the tramp who had accused him of stealing his accommodation.
Buzz.. buzz.. BUZZ.. they were swarming again.
By the time Kelly had finished the bottle of champagne it was time to go.
Branen told her he had nowhere to stay and explained how much she needed to be walked home and how much he needed a cup of coffee.
She had a first floor flat above a deli which looked out over Old Compton Street.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked.
“I’ve got a smallholding.”
“What, in Soho?”
“Yeah sure, in the middle of the square.”
She closed the fridge door and leant back on it, “Why are you so secretive?”
In the warmth of Costas’ flat Branen started to thaw out.
He was tortured by the image of the contorted body being flung forward over him. He kept feeling the warm blood as it ran down his face and the taste as it crept into his mouth. He was at the kitchen table for an hour when Costas appeared from the bedroom, “What’s happening Ben.. what have you got yourself into?”
Friday the thirteenth had dawned and Costas felt uneasy.
Branen tried the door, noticing it swung both ways, he suspected like some of the guests, it also made it easier to eject unwanted customers.
Branen had hoped for a reply to the email, but by four o’clock in the morning he’d given up.
The figure was shadowy and Harry continued to stare intently at the screen trying to make out any movement, then he finally fell asleep where he sat.
Harry had put a four-hour tape into the VHS recorder before going to work; he wanted to keep an eye on Carrie’s flat.
It recorded until the tape ran out a couple of hours before he got home.
When Branen got back onto the street the man had vanished.