He outlined the conversation with the detective.
Colin sipped his tonic as he listened attentively, every inch the solicitor. “Well, you’ve got two choices,” he said when Ben had finished. “You either tell him to fuck off, or pay up and hope he really does know something useful. If you do that you’ve got to decide how much you’re prepared to fork out, and how to make sure Quilley doesn’t stiff you completely.”
“You think it might be worth taking a chance, then?”
“Can you just ignore it?”
Ben reluctantly shook his head.
“So there’s your answer. But make him give you some idea what it is he’s selling before you pay him, otherwise he might just take the money and tell you that Kale has All-Bran for breakfast. If he really does know something, and he’s as strapped for cash as he sounds, he’ll give you some sort of clue. If he won’t then he’s probably just trying to rip you off.”
“If he is I’ll fucking kill him.”
Colin dropped his lemon rind into an ashtray. “That’ll certainly help you get Jacob back, won’t it?”
The anger died as quickly as it had appeared. After the vacuum of the past two weeks the sudden onslaught of emotions was like eating over-rich food after a fast.
“There’s no guarantee that what he tells me’ll help anyway,” he said, despondent again.
“No, but there’s only one way you can find out.”
Ben stared into his beer but found no inspiration.
“If you decide to risk it you still shouldn’t let him think you’re too eager. He’ll only try to screw you for as much as he can if you do.”
“He warned me not to leave it too long.”
“He’s hardly going to tell you there’s no rush, is he? I’d make the bastard sweat for a day or two. Play it cool.” Colin looked at his watch. “Sorry, I’m, er, going to have to go.”
“Where are you meeting her?”
Colin tried to hide his awkwardness with activity, putting his glass on the cigarette machine, slipping on his overcoat. “Just some restaurant in Soho. Not Lebanese,” he added, wryly.
“What have you told Maggie?”
He regretted the question immediately.
Colin looked momentarily stricken. “She thinks I’m working late. What a cliché, eh?” He smiled wanly. “Let me know what happens.”
Ben said he would. He watched Colin walk out of the pub, the expensive coat still wet on the shoulders, the thinning hair now becoming an actual bald patch, and hoped he hadn’t spoiled his mood. Then he thought about Maggie, at home with the two boys, and felt sorry for her too. He hoped for Colin’s sake the girl was worth it. He began feeling sorry for her as well before he caught himself.
Fuck it, he thought, resisting the drift towards self-pity. Who am I to feel sorry for anyone?
He finished his beer. Then, because it was still snowing outside and he had nothing better to do, he bought himself another.
He followed Colin’s advice for a whole day before he gave in and phoned Quilley. The resurgence of hope had unsettled him, and when he heard the mechanical tones of an answerphone the anticlimax was killing. He waited ten minutes and tried again, with no more success. He continued trying throughout the afternoon, but each time was greeted by the secretary’s recorded voice telling him to leave his name and number. He hung up without speaking. When there was no answer by the early evening he accepted that he would have to wait until the next morning.
He got the answerphone then as well.
This time he left a message, brusquely telling Quilley to call. After that he felt better for a while, knowing he had committed himself. It was up to the detective now.
But Quilley didn’t get in touch.
Ben waited another day before he rang again. He phoned from home, and then from the studio, where he and Zoe were preparing for a shoot. He was so accustomed to hearing the recording that it took him by surprise when someone answered.
The secretary sounded even more truculent than he remembered. “He’s not here,” she snapped when he asked for the detective. She didn’t enlarge.
“When will he be back?”
“No idea.”
“Will it be later today or tomorrow?”
“I’ve told you, I don’t know.”
He tried not to lose his temper. “Is there another number where I can get hold of him?”
There was a bitter laugh. “Not unless you want to ring the hospital.”
“He’s in hospital?”
Some of his paranoia receded at hearing there were no darker motives behind the detective’s absence.
“What’s the matter with him?”
“He got beaten up.”
The paranoia returned. “Who did it?”
“How should I know?”
“When did it happen?”
“I don’t know, a couple of days ago,” she snapped. “Look, it’s no good asking me anything. I don’t work for him any more. He owes me two months’ wages, and I bet I’m really going to see that now he’s stuck in there. I’ve only come in to collect some things. I don’t even know why I bothered to pick up the phone.”
He sensed she was about to hang up. “Just tell me which hospital he’s in.”
She gave an irritable sigh, but told him before she broke the connection. Ben slowly set down the receiver. There were probably dozens of people who would like to give Quilley a kicking, he told himself. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
He could have been mugged, even.
But he didn’t believe that.
The shoot wasn’t scheduled for a couple of hours. He promised Zoe that he’d be back in plenty of time and drove to the hospital. It took him a while to locate Quilley’s ward.
He’d been prepared to make up some story so he’d be allowed to see him, but it was all-day visiting. No one stopped him as he walked in.
The detective’s bed was half screened by striped curtains.
He didn’t appear to notice Ben. He was lying flat on his back and wore a creased blue hospital gown. A drip fed into his arm from the chrome stand beside him. His face was so blackened with bruising it looked as though he’d been burnt. A dressing was taped across his nose, and another covered one ear. The hair around it had been shaved. An old man’s silver stubble frosted his hollowed cheeks and the loose wattles of his throat.
He was staring at the ceiling. He glanced briefly at Ben when he reached the bedside, then away again. He showed neither recognition nor interest.
“Your secretary told me where you were,” Ben said.
Quilley didn’t respond.
“It’s Ben Murray,” Ben added, not sure how aware the man was.
“I know who you are.” The voice was a weak croak.
Quilley’s gaze remained fixed above him. Some of his front teeth were missing, Ben noticed. He sat on the armrest of the vinyl chair.
“Have you told the police?” There was no response. “You told him you’d found something out, didn’t you? What did you do, say you’d tell me if he didn’t pay you? Then what? Were you going to go with whoever offered the most, or take money from both of us? Except Kale beat the shit out of you instead.”
Quilley didn’t look at him, but his chin was quivering.
Ben leaned nearer. A smell of antiseptic and unwashed body came from the bed.
“What did you find out?”
The detective stared resolutely at the ceiling. The tremor in his mouth grew more pronounced. His Adam’s apple looked as though it would break through the skin as he swallowed.
“I’ll pay you,” Ben said.
Quilley closed his eyes. A tear ran out from the corner of one and ran sideways towards his ear.
“Please. It’s important. Was it something about Kale?”
It seemed that Quilley was going to ignore this also. Then he moved his head fractionally from side to side.