‘And if your hunch is right, if it looks less and less like an overdose, you’re just going to leave it at that?’ Harry was sceptical.
‘What else can I do? I’ve no illusions about the British system of justice. Yes, if I got names and numbers, witnesses, whatever – I’d feel bound to pass that on, but it’s pretty bloody unlikely.’
Harry didn’t reply. Silence is consent.
I got up and shifted my lounger round, following the sun. Asked Harry about his work and lay, eyes half-closed, as he entertained me with tales of skulduggery in the world of journalism.
Maddie and I stayed for tea, enjoying a huge mixed salad, chips and veggie-burgers in the open air, It was after seven when I strapped a flagging Maddie onto the bike seat and pedalled home. She nodded off on the way. I woke her for a wee then put her to bed, grime and all.
I read the Sunday papers then ferreted out my library book. It was overdue. A crime story set on a cruise ship in the ‘thirties. I couldn’t concentrate. The mannered dialogue was too much effort and I found I didn’t really care whodunnit or why. I scanned the television page. ‘Twelve Angry Men.’ I’d seen it twice but it still gripped me.
On my way to bed, I sorted out clothes for the funeral. My only black clothes were heavy winter ones and the smoke-drenched dress I’d worn to Barney’s. Colour didn’t matter really. It was hardly going to be a big, formal affair. I found some lightweight navy trousers and a green sweatshirt. Casual but clean.
I’d not heard from JB’s friend. Would I be the only mourner? I’d hardly known him. Surely, he’d have lots of friends? She would let them know, wouldn’t she? He deserved that.
If they did turn up, would they talk to me? Maybe they all thought I’d been responsible for his death. But why? What had she meant?
I fell asleep defending myself against a charge of murder, not knowing what the case against me was. Only that I was innocent. Innocent.
‘I’ll give you a lift back to town?’
She hesitated. She’d be bloody daft to refuse. It was pissing down. Her pink cotton jacket and mini skirt were already sodden. Funeral weather. It fitted perfectly with the miserable rite we’d both witnessed. A few generalised platitudes from a cleric and JB laid to rest in the public grave. I still called him JB, though officially we’d just buried Philip Hargreaves. Dead and gone. But not forgotten. Not yet.
‘Alright.’
I bundled Digger into the back seat. Got in the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door. She climbed in. Her bare legs were mottled with cold. Water dripped from the lank strands of hair onto her shoulders. I wanted to towel her dry and put some warm clothes on her.
