At the station she cut under the railway bridge and within five minutes was at Stamoran’s address: a terraced house that backed onto the river, and had three doorbells replacing a knocker. Stamoran was on the top floor, or was when he was in, but Sid rang twice, and then a third time, to no avail. She thought about ringing one of the other bells, but if he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there. The college was her next best bet; on the other hand—the city’s geography returning to her—she could reach the safe house by walking up the canal, and the weather made that an attractive prospect. Besides, Stamoran was old-school, she was guessing—a pensioner, Taverner had noted—and safe houses were where the old-school hid themselves when sins had been committed. And also, maybe she should give herself time to wonder whether she was doing the right thing.
Cash was cash, and presumably wouldn’t be unwelcome. It also suggested that manacles weren’t awaiting him, but Stamoran had attempted to extort money from the Park, so any amount of fucking him about was within the acceptable range of responses. And now she was part of that, her own agenda weighted by self-interest, or River-interest at any rate. Did she want River back at the Park? Not as much as he wanted to be there. All of this, though, was after the event. She was hopping to Taverner’s beat. There was no point leaving the dance floor now, even assuming the choice was hers to make.
Up the canal, across the meadow, over the railway line once more. A northwards stroll through suburbs where the houses were large, the pavements leafy. The safe house itself was on a busy thoroughfare heading out of the city, and was small—a cottage—and out of place, though might be cosy inside. Walking past on the opposite pavement she saw no signs of life, though all that meant was, there was nobody hanging out of a window or sitting on the roof. A wheelie bin had the next door’s number painted on it. A hundred yards up the road, whose curvature meant the manoeuvre couldn’t be spotted from the house’s window, Sid crossed the road and headed back.
Charles Cornell Stamoran. She was composing a mental picture: greying, benign, a corduroy jacket. Spectacles on a chain. He’d ride a bike—a black step-through with a basket up front—and tuck his trouser turn-ups into thick woollen socks. Would open the door when she rang the bell and pretend to be someone else, but the elbow patches would give him away. His home address: Spook Street. Here’s a grand and here’s a phone.
But this one opened. “Yes?”
It was a woman of sixty or so, Sid’s height, with grey hair, wearing jeans and a thin lilac sweater, and whose eyes glittered in a way Sid found disturbing, not least because she recognised their sparkle. It was the same look she caught in her reflection, on mornings when her wound felt recent. The phantom bullet lodged in her head pulsed. “I’m sorry, I might have rung the wrong—”
“Daisy!”
A man appeared at her shoulder: an apologetic figure was Sid’s first thought, a little raggy of sleeve, a little threadbare at the hem. Bullish of frame, reddish of face, whitish of hair. And also, to her stifled satisfaction, wearing a pair of spectacles on a chain around his neck. But his gaze was piercing. He placed a hand on Daisy’s forearm, adding irritation to the sparkle in those eyes. “You are?”
Good question. She hadn’t thought to prepare an alternative identity, though why would she want one? If what Taverner had said was true, it was this man who needed a cover: He was the one shaking down the Park. She said, “My name’s Sidonie Baker. If you’re Charles Stamoran I’ve something for you.”
“How did you know to find me here? No, don’t answer. It’s obvious.” Something went out of him: air. As if he’d been keeping himself aloft on hope, and had just seen that blow away down the road.
“May I come in?”
