'I was your ex-wife at the time, and no, it wasn't like that. He wasn't badmouthing you.'
'Wasn't he?'
'No.'
I ask the all-important question, my voice quiet. 'Are you still seeing him?'
Her response surprises me. She lets out a derisive snort, and says, 'That's what I mean, Tyler. You just drift through life. You don't see anything you don't want to see, do you?'
'What do you mean?'
'Harry Foxley died two months ago. He took an overdose of barbiturates.' She looks at me incredulously. 'All your supposed camaraderie, and you didn't even know about it.'
I'm momentarily stunned into silence. It's as if this day is a constant stream of unpleasant surprises. Nothing is what it seems. No-one is who you think they are. I'm finding out things about people I'd rather not know. And none more so, it seems, than myself.
So, Harry's dead now. Added to the deaths of Maxwell and Spann, it means that of the five men court-martialled and imprisoned for the pub attack in 1996, only two are still alive.
And it's them I start to think about now.
39
We don't really talk much for the rest of the journey. In the end, there's not a lot else to say. Thankfully, the traffic's sparse and it's relatively quick. When Adine finally pulls up outside my house, it's a quarter to one.
She stifles another yawn, and looks at me. There's sadness in her eyes. It's an awkward moment which I do my best to soften by placing a hand on her arm.
'Thanks for tonight. I really appreciate it.'
She responds with a small nod. 'I'm sorry about what I said. I'm tired, that's all. It's been a long day.'
'I know, I understand. Why didn't you tell me about Harry dying?'
'I didn't want you to know that I knew about it. Harry and I hadn't been seeing each other for a while, and I thought if I said anything to you, you might suspect what had been going on. I also assumed someone else had told you.'
'No,' I say wearily, 'no-one did. Did you go to the funeral?'
She nods. 'It was quite a small affair.'
I wonder why he killed himself, but I don't ask any more questions. Instead, I lean over to kiss her, but she deftly turns a cheek and I end up missing her altogether. It seems an apt way to say goodbye.
Coming back to my dark, empty house feels strange after the frenetic events of the day. I'm tired but awake, wired almost. I know I won't sleep well tonight. There's half a bottle of red wine in the kitchen from a couple of nights ago. I take out the metal stopper and pour myself a glass, thinking how different my life was when I first opened it. But even then there was a storm brewing, a storm so strong it's almost swept me away.
Slowly, I'm beginning to piece together what I think might have happened. There are still huge unanswered questions, but for the first time I have a strong idea who may be able to answer them. Finding the people I need to talk to is going to be no easy matter though, and I wish Lucas was here to help. Then I think back to what Adine said about me picking people up and dropping them later, and I wish I'd taken issue with her on this, because I was never that way with Lucas. He was my best friend. No-one can take that away, and when I have the time, I'm going to mourn him properly. But not yet.
I take a long gulp of wine. It's a light Rioja, and it goes down well. I also pour myself a pint glass of water and drink half of it before retiring to the lounge. I need to sit down and recharge my batteries.
It strikes me that at no point today have I watched the news to find out how the mayhem I've been involved in has been reported, so I collapse onto the sofa and switch on the TV. Sky News is doing a sports round-up, so I use Sky Plus to bring up a recording of the latest headlines. I join it in the middle of a feature on the brothel fire. There's aerial footage of the building as it burns, thick cloying smoke taking up much of the screen. The commentator says that four people were taken to hospital suffering from smoke inhalation and that firefighters and investigators are currently sifting through the wreckage to see if there are any bodies inside. He adds that police are still not confirming any connection between the fire and the discovery of the body of a man who'd been stabbed to death fifty yards away.
The next story centres on some supermodel having been filmed snorting cocaine, which doesn't seem like news to me, but then what the hell do I know? She's followed by a piece on a spaniel called Egremont who can apparently do simple arithmetic by barking the total of two added numbers. Egremont's shown successfully adding two and three, and then the music comes on to signal the end of the headlines and the recording loops back to the beginning.
I'm still trying to work out how the dog's owner first realized he could add up when an image appears on the screen that causes me to choke on my wine.
It's a close-up shot taken by a CCTV camera. And the person in it is me.
It's not a perfect picture, thank God. I'm running, which blurs the image very slightly, and looking down and away from the camera so that my face is partially obscured, but it's clear enough for anyone who knows me. The commentator says that police are anxious to trace the man in the image in connection with the deaths of four men in a shooting incident in east London earlier today. I am, apparently, armed and extremely dangerous and should not be approached by members of the public. My picture disappears from the screen to be replaced by daylight footage of the house where I met Iain Ferrie. Scene-of-crime tape surrounds it, and white-overalled SOCO officers can be seen going in and out of the front door while a uniformed officer stands guard outside.
I don't wait around for the next story. I suspect it'll be the Eddie Cosick murders, but that's not important now. What's important is that I get the hell out of here, because every moment I remain makes my capture more likely. I can only assume that the police who were interviewing me tonight haven't seen this CCTV image, otherwise there's no way they'd have let me go. But that's not going to remain the case for long.
I have no grand strategy for a way out of this, certainly no chance of a long-term escape. But I have two key advantages. One, I don't give up. And two, for the moment at least, I'm free. If I keep moving, I'm going to make it hard for them.
I drain my glass and stand up. Not for the first time in the past twelve hours, it's time to start running.
40
The mobile phones I was carrying when I was arrested have been kept by the police for further analysis, so I use the landline to phone the local taxi firm, who've always been a reliable outfit. The controller says he'll have a cab with me in five minutes.
I run up the stairs, grab a change of clothes and a few toiletries, and thrust them into an overnight bag. I put on an old black leather jacket and a cap to act as camouflage, and arm myself with a large buck knife and a can of pepper spray, both of which I keep in a drawer by the bed in case of unwelcome night-time visitors (even my quiet area of London can be a dangerous place). I hide them both in the inside pockets of the jacket, knowing they're not going to be a great deal of use to me, but they're better than nothing. By this time I can hear the sound of a car stopping in front of my house. I poke my head out of the window and feel a surge of relief as I see it's the taxi. Bang on time.
I'm out the front door quickly and straight into the back of the cab. I give the driver the address of my showroom, and he pulls away without speaking. I wonder when I'll see my house again, or indeed if I ever will. Whether Adine gave me sensible advice or not, now that the police can connect me with yet more killings, convincing them of my innocence will be even harder. Just the fact that I keep popping up at all the murder scenes is way too coincidental.