Nocturne (15 page)

‘
Kevin Witcher,
’
he said,
‘
10a
Denman
’
s Hill, Crouch End.
’

It was Saturday before I made it to Crouch End. I had a phone number
for Mr Witcher but when I tried it I got the unavailable signal so in the
end there was no alternative to turning
up
on his doorstep. The more I
thought about the idea, the keener I became, not least because - for
once
- I
was taking the initiative. Gilbert had been making the running
for far too long. My turn now.

Crouch End is only a couple of miles from Tottenham and I went
over on the bus. I
’
d located Denman
’
s Hill on the A-Z, and it was early
afternoon when I stepped in through the gate of number
10
and rang
the
door
bell.
The houses were similar to Napier Road - street after street of
redbrick terraces - but the area felt more cared-for. Judging by the
extravagant display of blooms in his window boxes, Mr Witcher knew
a thing or two about geraniums.

When he came to the door, he was wearing a scarlet dressing gown.
He was medium height, early forties. His hair was receding over an
enormous head and his eyes were slightly bulbous, as if he had a
problem with his thyroid. He wasn
’
t
, by any stretch of the imagina
tion, good looking.

I was still explaining the reason for my visit when I noticed the
plaster cast on his right arm. It was poking out of the sleeve of the
dressing gown, and judging by the state of the plaster, the cast must
have been on for a while.

‘
So what do you want from me?
’
he asked when I
’
d finished.

‘
Just a chat, that
’
s all.
’

‘
Now?
’

‘
If you don
’
t mind.
’

He peered at me, uncertain. His toes were curling on the bare lino
but there was a nice smell coming from somewhere inside and what
little I could see of the hall looked more than interesting. How many
people hang glass chandeliers in a shared entry?

With some reluctance, Witcher finally let me in. He led me through
to the kitchen. It was neat, spotlessly clean, and extremely chintzy.
Amongst the carefully arranged display of cups and saucers on the
Welsh dresser was a line of thick ornamental candles, rich blues and
reds.

I sat down in a rocking chair beneath a framed black and white
poster for a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition. That was an obvious
clue, of course, but I was far too busy trying to put a name to the
delicious smells from the casserole pot bubbling on the stove to take
much notice.

‘
Does your wife do the cooking?
’

Witcher was draping a cloth over a small mountain of chopped
courgettes.

‘
I
don
’
t have a wife,
’
he said with a tiny frown of concentration.

It occurred to me then that he must be expecting company but he
waved aside my apologies for disturbing his arrangements, turning
down the gas under the casserole.

He offered me coffee from a cafetiere and I said yes.
The coffee was a
bitter roast, absolutely delicious, but when I asked him where he
’
d got
it, he ignored me. He was sitting at the little kitchen table, plucking at
the sleeve of his dressing gown.

‘
Did he send you? You might as well say.
’

‘
Did who send me?
’

‘
Phillips.
’

For a moment I wondered who Phillips was. Then I remembered the
name on the envelopes that dropped on the mat for Gilbert.

‘
God no,
’
I said.
‘
He has no idea I
’
m here.
’

‘
He doesn
’
t have the address?
’

‘
Not as far as I know.
’

‘
And
the new phone number?
’

‘
I
don
’
t think so.
’

Witcher nodded, and I was finally able to put a name to the
expression on his face. He was anxious. In fact he was more than that.
For some reason, I
’
d frightened him. Quite badly.

On the doorstep, I
’
d given him just a hint of the problems I was
having with Gilbert. I
’
d also told him about the bruise I
’
d noticed, and
about Gilbert
’
s version of events. I
’
m no expert on violence between
males but what I
’
d seen of Kevin Witcher made me wonder about the
billiard cue
Gilbert had mentioned
.

‘
So what happened?
’
I ventured.
‘
Between the two of you?
’

‘
I don
’
t intend to talk about that.
’

‘
Why not?
’

‘
It
’
s none of your business.
’

‘
But was there some kind of fight?
’

I told him about
Gilbert
’
s black eye again but he shrugged, reaching for
a long, thin, wooden ruler hanging from a hook on the wall. He rolled
up his sleeve and inserted the ruler into the plaster cast, sawing back
and forth.

‘
Bloody thing itches,
’
he said
.
‘
All the damn time.
’

I smiled, watching the ruler. He
’
d rolled up his sleeve and I could see
the scrawled signatures mapping the surface of the cast. One of them,
much bigger than the rest, was a phone number.
581 7201
.
I
made a
mental note.

‘
Have you had that thing on long?
’

‘
Yes, too long.
’

‘
Is the arm broken?
’

‘
In three places.
’

‘
How awful. Have you been off work?
’

Once again, he didn
’
t reply. He
’
d finished with the ruler now, the
relief visible on his face.

‘
You
’
re quite sure about Phillips?
’
he said.
‘
Not knowing
where I live
?
’

‘
Yes, as sure as I can be.
’
I paused to sip the coffee.
‘
Were you there
long? Napier Road?
’

‘
Five weeks.
’

‘
Five
weeks
?
’

‘
Yes. It wasn
’
t
…
’
he frowned,
’
…
quite what I
’
d expected.
’

‘
T
he
flat?
’

‘
Everything. The area, especially.
I expect you
’
ve noticed.
’

‘
Noticed what?
’

‘
The blacks. The litter. The state of the place. It
’
s disgusting. I
’
d no
idea.
’
He frowned.
‘
Crouch End I find far more acceptable. Have you
finished your coffee by any chance? Only I
’
ve a great deal to get on
with.
’
He gestured towards the stove and I realised rather belatedly
why it was that he
’
d invited me in. He needed to be sure that Gilbert
didn
’
t know where he
’
d ended up after his five weeks in Napier Road.
Now he had a sort of answer, our little chat was plainly at an end.

I stood up, thanking him for his time, and we were back in the hall
before I had a chance to ask him the one question that really mattered.

‘
Did Mr
Phillips ever do anything
…
’
,
I
shrugged,
‘
…
unusual?
’

Witcher was standing by the front door. I thought, at first, that he
was scowling. Only when he answered did I realise that he was
attempting a smile.

‘
Unusua
l
?
’
he said softly.
‘
Are you serious?
’

I phoned the number on Witcher
’
s plaster cast from a call box on
Crouch End Hill. The number took a while to answer but when it did it
turned out to be a pub. I could hear laughter in the background, and
the clink of glasses, and the
ker-ching
of a cash register. Lost for what
to say, I mentioned Kevin Witcher
’
s name. I said I was phoning on his
behalf. It was a lie, of course, but it seemed to do the trick with the
woman at the other end.

‘
You
’
ll want Frankie,
’
she said.
‘
He
’
s busy just now. Call back later.
He
’
s off at half four.
’

She put the phone down and I stood there in the call box for a good
minute, wondering just how far I wanted to take this little adventure.
I
’
d
sensed that Witcher had a great deal to say about Gilbert, but it was
equally obvious that he wouldn
’
t be confiding in me. I
’
d done my best
to establish that Gilbert and I weren
’
t on the same team but I don
’
t
think he
’
d begun to believe me.

I glanced down at the number I
’
d scrawled on the palm of my hand
and checked my watch.
Twenty to three.
I picked up the phone and
dialled the number again. Mercifully, it was a male voice this time.

‘
Red
Lion?
’
I asked.

‘
Queen
’
s, love. Wrong pub.
’

‘
That
’
s the Queen
’
s
…
?
’

‘
In The Broadway. Dunno a Red Lion.
’

I thanked him and put the phone down. According to my
A-Z
,
The
Broadway was just up
the road. I walked slowly in the sunshine,
stopping to look in the knick-knack shops. I felt slightly light-headed,
as if the power of decision had mysteriously deserted me. A chain of
events was unfolding, I told myself, and I had no choice but to be
tugged along in their wake. It was a strange feeling, not at all
unpleasant, and I marvelled at my compliance. Normally, as you
might have gathered, I like to seize life by the lapels and give it a shake
or two. I
’
m not wild about surprises, or losing control. Gilbert,,
though, seemed to be changing me. Even in this small respect, he
’
d
somehow got the upper hand.