Quick Before They Catch Us E-Book

Mark Timlin

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Family trouble! Growing old quietly was never really an option for Nick Sharman. When he takes on a job for a prosperous Manchester businessman looking for his runaway teenage daughter, Meena, he should, perhaps, have known better. He finds himself in a race against time to save he girl from the kind of trouble that gives families a bad name. Trying to do the right thing, Nick swaps sides and ends up starring in his own version of a Straw Dogs shoot out with family and friends, where nobody comes out the winner.

Leseprobe

QUICK BEFORE THEY CATCH US

Family trouble! Growing old quietly was never really an option for Nick Sharman. When he takes on a job for a prosperous Manchester businessman looking for his runaway teenage daughter, Meena, he should, perhaps, have known better. He finds himself in a race against time to save the girl from the kind of trouble that gives families a bad name. Trying to do the right thing, Nick swaps sides and ends up starring in his own version of a Straw Dogs shoot out with family and friends, where nobody comes out the winner.

About the Author

Mark Timlin has written some thirty novels under many different names, including best-selling books as Lee Martin, innumerable short stories, an anthology and numerous articles for various newspapers and magazines. His serial hero, Nick Sharman, who appears in Take the A-Train, has featured in a Carlton TV series, starring Clive Owen, before he went on to become a Hollywood superstar. Mark lives in Newport, Wales.

‘The king of the British hard-boiled thriller’ – Times

‘Grips like a pair of regulation handcuffs’ –Guardian

‘Reverberates like a gunshot’ – Irish Times

‘Definitely one of the best’ – Time Out

‘The mean streets of South London need their heroes tough. Private eye Nick Sharman fits the bill’ – Telegraph

‘Full of cars, girls, guns, strung out along the high sierras of Brixton and Battersea, the Elephant and the North Peckham Estate, all those jewels in the crown they call Sarf London’ – Arena

To my friend Judith and to

Peter Walker, for his invaluable input

1

In an ever changing world, it’s good to know that some things are constant. So, when I’m not hanging around some low life dive looking for an even lower life individual who’s run out on his child support maintenance or defaulted on a county court order or something similar, then Friday night is ruby night. A good medium to hot curry with some saffron rice and a few pints of lager before a large water ice followed by a couple of Irish coffees made with real cream, not something out of a spray can.

You can always judge a restaurant by its Irish coffee, and as I’ve mentioned before, by some strange quirk, Indian restaurants make the best. I’ve never been able to figure out why. The coffee’s got to be boiling hot, strong and dark, the cream cool and fresh, with lots of sugar stirred into the coffee, not left at the bottom of the glass, and it’s got to be a double measure of spirit. Nothing less will do, and that’s all she wrote.

And lately, the place to go for those thick and sticky treats has been Luigi’s. Not that it’s called Luigi’s any more, but it was a first-rate purveyor of pizza and pasta for so many years before Luigi took himself and his wife and all the little Luigis and Luigiettes back to Italy to live the full and prosperous lives they all deserved, that I can’t bring myself to call it anything else. Even though nowadays it’s been renamed Curry Nights and the white walls have been painted a gentle peach to match the new tablecloths and napkins and succulent plants strong and thick enough to hide a family of monkeys entwine themselves between the tables like you were in some exotic jungle on the Indian sub-continent. Real high class, I’m sure you’ll agree.

But that’s not the reason I still go there regularly and can call the waiters by name and always get a good table. No. The reason I go there is because, at half-nine or so when I’m slumped back in my chair and the Irish whiskey is beginning to kick in, the owner comes on in a tight white suit with a high collar and extravagantly flared trousers spattered with rhinestones, his hair slicked back in a greasy quiff, the karaoke machine spits out the backing track for American Trilogy, and the one, the only, bhangra Elvis in south London karate kicks himself back to Las Vegas circa 1969 when the King had made a triumphant comeback with a top five record and a TV show that had broken all viewing records. At least that’s what the owner had told me, and who was I to argue with an expert? And he was an expert. On Elvis’ life and death and everything in between.

I’ve never told him, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone, but I remember exactly what I was doing the night Elvis died. The 16th of August 1977, as clear as if it were yesterday. I was with a whore in west London. Not that I can remember precisely where she lived, I was too pissed for that. But roughly it must’ve been Chiswick or Hammersmith. That’s the only thing I don’t remember, the rest’s as clear as day.

I was in the job then, a detective-constable, keen as mustard, married to Laura, and living in Kennington, but Judith was yet to be conceived. Still a twinkle as they used to say. I’d been on at the Bailey for a long firm trial and we’d had a result. I had a few drinks after with my colleagues to celebrate, then headed further into town on my own, and as the pubs shut at three in those days I’d found a drinker in Goodge Street that stunk of piss where the barman, a heavy individual, entertained the punters with close-up conjuring tricks.

It said members only on the door, but there was no question of membership. I guess being able to find it was the requisite.

The girl was at the bar drinking gin and tonics and putting the lemon slices in the ashtray in front of her. I asked her why. She told me that then she knew how many she’d had, which was fair enough I suppose. When I started talking to her it was seven, when we left at five-thirty it was fifteen. We went straight into a pub over the road and I almost fell down the stairs when I went for a piss, I was so drunk.

We stayed there till eight and she told me she was on the game then invited me home with her. She was a big girl in a red dress, and underneath she was wearing red French knickers over her tights. I found that out when I put my hand up under her skirt and into her crotch.

I’d forgotten about Laura and the supper that was cooking by then and the girl and I left the pub and hailed a cab and it cost me a fortune. I think there was some trouble with the cabbie on the Westway but fuck knows what.

We got to her flat and it had started raining and inside there was another tart and a young boy of dubious sexuality, and the woman was cooking chicken curry and I had some. Then we got stuck into a bottle of Scotch and the evening vanished.

The girl and I finally got into bed around one and I couldn’t get it up. Not a flicker. Not a glimmer. The bird was well pissed off, and I wasn’t too happy myself. ‘Some nights you can’t even give it away,’ she said bitterly. I’ll always remember that.

I fell asleep for a bit and when I woke up Riders on the Storm by the Doors was playing on the radio. It was Radio Luxembourg, remember that?

There was something weird about the whole vibe and I had a horrible feeling the girl was going to come in with a kitchen knife and do me serious injury.

Then on the hour there was a news bulletin. Elvis had been found dead, it said, and after that it was nothing but his old records.

I got up and got dressed and left without saying goodbye. It was pissing down outside, thunder and lightning and all sorts and I didn’t have a coat. I took shelter under a tree in someone’s front garden. Then I saw a cab with its light on and stood in the middle of the road so it had to stop.

The cabbie was pissed off too. Said he lived about a minute away and was on his way home. I told him he should’ve turned off his light and showed him my warrant card and threatened to report him to the carriage office if he didn’t take me. I was in the cab by then and he took me as far as the Houses of Parliament and no further, so I had to walk the last bit.

It was almost four by the time I got home and Laura wasn’t best pleased. I told her Elvis was dead, and fell into bed beside her and slept till noon.

She never asked me where I’d been and I never told her.

She’s dead too now, but our marriage was over long before. I’m sorry for the way I treated her, but being sorry doesn’t cut it. Not in my book. Not any more.

That particular Friday, over twenty years since Elvis had overdosed on prescription medicine and junk food, I was planning to take my new chum Melanie Wiltse out to dine and drink and sing along to In the Ghetto, Blue Moon of Kentucky and other Elvis favourites. I’d met Melanie on my case: I’d been hired to find her best friend by her best friend’s husband and we’d become close. I liked her and we were becoming something of an item. She still had her flat in Walthamstow, but because she worked in Blackfriars and the Thameslink station was only a short stroll down to the bottom of my road and would deposit her at her desk in less than thirty minutes, she seemed to have become a kind of room mate.

I knew that when I found my shaving gear consigned to the tiny window ledge in my minuscule shower room and her make-up victoriously claiming the shelf above the sink.

I read somewhere that we are all just nine meals away from the breakdown of society. Three days from total anarchy and murder in the street. I reckon that when you find half a dozen pairs of clean women’s knickers in an M&S bag on the sideboard next to your bed you’re only nine meals and three days away from total female domination.

But then – who gives a shit?

Of course recently, she’s been getting on my case to make things more permanent. But then that’s what women do when they get into a relationship with a man. God made them that way.

So there I was that afternoon, safe and warm in my little flat watching TV without a care in the world, looking forward to an evening of hedonistic pleasure with my new girlfriend, just kicking back without a care in the world except whether to watch Jerry Springer or The Rockford Files, not knowing what fate had in store for me before I got as far as ordering the chicken korma and the Kingfisher lager.

2

Melanie came in around six-thirty that particular evening, all fresh paint job, flowery perfume and cold autumn air from the street outside, clutching four Tesco Metro shopping bags and a black leather shoulder bag, shucked off her coat and came over and gave me a kiss. I think I forgot to say she had a spare key. Female domination. Remember?

She smelt good, she felt good, so like I said, who the fuck cared if she’d moved in on me?

‘Hello duck,’ she said. ‘Had a good day?’ I knew she was in a good mood when she called me duck.

‘Are You Being Served? from the 1970s, The New Avengers from the 1980s and Between the Lines from the 1990s,’ I replied. Jesus, but I love satellite television.

‘You watch too much TV. You should get out into the world and earn some money.’

‘I’ve got some money. When that’s gone I’ll earn some more. And I’m not that fond of the world. It’s all too real out there.’

‘You could do with a dose of reality.’

‘I’ve had plenty, remember? The last dose of reality I had left me in hospital for a couple of weeks. I’m just happy to sit here and chill out with a bottle of beer and the TV.’

‘Ever heard the story of the ant and the grasshopper? GRASSHOPPER.’ She pulled her eyes slitty and pronounced it like the priest from Kung Fu.

‘And you say I watch too much TV,’ I said and gave her another hug. ‘How was your day?’

‘Not bad. Made my bosses a few thousand quid, had lunch with some mates from the office, talked about who’s going to bed with who they shouldn’t be. Filed my nails, bought some Tampax. Girly things, you know.’

‘Tampax. Does that mean PMT’s about to strike?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Hey, Mel. What’s the difference between a terrorist and a woman with PMT?’ I said.

‘Oh good Nick. More public bar jokes.’

‘No. Come on, what’s the difference?’ I pressed. I love to get her at it. I know it’s juvenile, but there you go.

‘I don’t know,’ she said patiently and with a thin smile.

‘You can negotiate with a terrorist.’

‘Cutting edge humour, Nick. You should watch it. You might hurt yourself, you’re so sharp.’

‘Just a boyfriend joke, Mel. I’ve got a thousand of them.’

‘I just bet you have,’ and she pulled off one of her high heeled shoes and threw it. I caught it one-handed.

‘You going to stay the weekend?’ I asked as she kicked off the other. See, I was glad she was there really. I just thought that sometimes I should put up a token resistance.

‘If that’s OK with you, and you promise not to tell any more boyfriend jokes.’

‘Scout’s honour,’ I said, giving her a salute with three fingers against my forehead.

‘OK, then, I’ll stay.’

‘Perfect.’

‘I brought food.’

‘We’ll eat that another day. I fancy an Indian tonight.’

‘Big surprise. Don’t you ever get tired of that bloke and his Elvis impersonations?’

‘No. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Course not. I wouldn’t be here if I did.’

‘I’d better take a shower and change before we go then,’ I said and got up from the sofa.

‘Good idea, you’re beginning to smell a bit ripe.’

‘Charming,’ I said and pulled off the sweatshirt and jeans that I must admit were a few days past their wash-by date and tossed them somewhere close to the laundry basket. I hadn’t seen Melanie for a couple of days and had been a bit lax in my personal hygiene. When you’ve got nothing to do, why bother? On the way through the kitchen dressed just in my shorts I grabbed Mel from behind and gave her a proper cuddle and rubbed my face into her neck.

‘Did I say ripe?’ she asked. ‘I meant rotten. And have a shave, will you? Your beard’s like iron filings.’

‘But am I still your sex god?’ I asked.

‘I’ll tell you later.’

I went into the bathroom, showered, shaved, rubbed my hair dry, then with a towel round my waist I went to find clean clothes.

‘That’s better,’ she said when I emerged. ‘Sex god is a possibility.’

‘Thank you so much.’

I dressed in fresh underwear and socks, a laundered shirt, pressed chinos and boots and had to admit to myself that it did feel good to be clean again.

‘Are we going to drive?’ asked Mel whilst I was combing gel into my hair.

‘I fancy a walk,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t been out all day, except to get the paper this morning.’

‘What a bloody life you do lead,’ she said, and found a pair of low-heeled pumps under the sofa and shoved her nyloned feet into them. ‘Are you fit then?’ she asked.

‘Not as fit as you are, darling,’ I replied with a leer.

‘Don’t you ever come up with any new lines?’

‘Not when the old ones work so well.’

I pulled on my old Schott leather, put cigarettes, lighter and wallet into the pockets, strapped on my watch and I was ready. Melanie put her coat back on and we left the flat.

3

It was Only about a ten minute walk up to Streatham High Road and we got to the restaurant about half-seven, quarter to eight. It was mostly empty that early and a familiar waiter came trotting over and wished us a very good evening before leading us to our usual table in the corner with a good view of the stage.

We ordered a couple of beers whilst we looked over the menu, but it wasn’t the waiter who brought them. Instead it was the boss, the surrogate Hillbilly Cat, Suri Agashe, dressed in the black dinner jacket and bow tie which was his uniform when he wasn’t strutting his Elvis stuff, who arrived a few moments later with the bottles and glasses on a tray.

‘Good evening Mr Sharman, good evening madam,’ he said in his peculiar accent that was somewhere between Bombay and Bradford, as he poured the drinks. Maybe I forgot to mention it. Suri’s family had settled up north somewhere when they came to this country, which, to me at least, made his obsession with a fat junkie from Memphis, Tennessee even more peculiar. But to each his own. ‘I am so glad you are in this evening,’ he continued. ‘Mr Sharman, can I see you a moment in private?’

‘What for?’ I asked. ‘Panic in the kitchen? Sorry Suri, my expertise with Indian food stops at Marks and Sparks meals for one in the microwave.’

‘No, Mr Sharman. I need a word. I won’t keep you for longer than a minute.’

I looked at Mel. She shrugged. ‘OK Suri,’ I said. ‘Where?’

‘In the back,’ he said, and I pulled a puzzled face at Melanie, excused myself, got up and followed him through the doors that lead to the kitchen area. Inside it smelt warm and spicy. Suri dragged me out into the tiny service area at the back of the restaurant which housed the rubbish bins for the place and believe me didn’t smell half as good.

‘What’s the story, Suri?’ I asked when the door to the kitchen was closed and we were alone.

‘There is someone coming to the restaurant tonight who wants to see you,’ he said.

‘Do I owe him money?’ I asked only half jokingly. I’ve got a history.

‘No, no, no. Quite the contrary. In fact it is me who owes him. He is my benefactor. His name is Mr Rajesh Khan.’ He said the name almost reverentially. ‘It is he who gave me the wherewithal to open this establishment. I worked for him for many years since leaving school. He is down here from Manchester at the moment, and when I told him about you he was most eager to make your acquaintance.’

‘What did you tell him about me?’

‘What you do for a living. A private detective.’

‘Semi-retired, Suri. Semi-retired.’

‘Oh Mr Sharman.’ Suri wrung his hands and for one horrible moment I thought he was going to get down on his knees. ‘Please see Mr Khan, I beg you. I have told him so much of your exploits and he says you are just the man for the job.’

‘Job? What job?’ I echoed. ‘I’m not sure I’m in the market for a job.’

‘Mr Sharman. Just listen to what Mr Khan has to say, that’s all I ask. He said he will look in at ten-thirty after my set to see if by chance you dined here tonight. I told him you usually did on Fridays.’

‘Just as well I didn’t go for sweet and sour pork and Singapore noodles down the road then, isn’t it? What kind of job is it anyway?’

Suri raised his right hand to stop further questions. ‘It is not for me to say. That is between you and Mr Khan. It is a matter of great delicacy and embarrassment to him, that I do know, and my heart bleeds for my old friend. Just be patient. And naturally this evening’s meal for you and your charming lady friend will be on the house.’

‘Even if I decline the job.’

‘Of course, Mr Sharman. No one could ever accuse me of being an Indian giver.’

I ignored Suri’s joke. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You just keep bringing the Irish coffees and I’ll listen to what the man has to say. But Suri – no promises.’

‘I understand, Mr Sharman. No promises.’

With that he allowed me to return to Melanie at our table. She had polished off all her beer and half of mine, at the sight of which Suri bustled off to fetch fresh supplies before leaving us to order our meal.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Melanie when he’d vanished off to get changed for his Elvis spot. ‘Did you bounce a cheque here last time or something?’

I told her what Suri had told me. ‘Good,’ she said when I’d finished and we’d ordered our food from our original waiter. ‘I said it was time you earned some money.’

‘I haven’t taken the job yet,’ I said.

‘If Suri bribes you with enough liqueur coffee you will.’

A great judge of character was our Melanie. But she wasn’t far wrong, and besides I’d been getting lazy and it was about time I did some work for a change. The world was beckoning. But if I’d known what delights it was going to reveal I might just have gone back to my TV.

4

The food came and it was good. Every speciality of the house including ones we hadn’t ordered were piled up in front of us until the table almost groaned with the weight of it. With it came as much beer as we could manage, and afterwards enough Irish coffee to float a battleship. Something told me Suri was trying to soften me up. Suri, or his mentor, or both. Whoever it was, it was working. Especially with Melanie. She was scarfing up the food and drink like it was going to be illegal come midnight.

‘This is great,’ she said.

‘Sure is,’ I agreed. ‘But remember –’

‘I know,’ she interrupted. ‘A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. Have you got any complaints?’

Looking at her svelte figure I shook my head.

‘Then be quiet,’ she said and went back to her food.

At nine-thirty as usual, as our empty plates and dishes were whisked away, the already dim lights in the restaurant were turned down even further, the fanfare from An American Trilogy thundered out from the PA system, a single spot illuminated the stage and Suri leapt into the light, rhinestones glittering on his one-piece white suit with the high collar and cape, and his hair piled up in a gleaming pompadour. He fell into a martial arts pose and let rip into the microphone he was holding in his right hand. I’ve got to tell you it cracked me up every time, but I never let it show. Suri took his Elvis Aaron Presley seriously, and when he was around, so did I.

He went through his usual repertoire from Heartbreak Hotel to Polk Salad Annie with plenty of stops along the way, until he encored with Unchained Melody, took a bow to applause from what was by then an almost packed restaurant and left the stage.

‘Pretty good,’ said Melanie when the lights came up and the usual Ravi Shankar greatest hits came over the speakers, and I noticed that there was just one empty table by the door with a reserved sign standing on the tablecloth like a little soldier on guard.

But the table wasn’t empty for long. A few minutes after Suri left the stage, round about half-ten like he’d said, the front door opened and a large Asian man in an expensive shiny suit came in flanked by two even larger Asians and was shown to it by a waiter, and I guessed that Mr Rajesh Khan from Manchester had entered the building.

A moment later Suri came back, dressed again in his tuxedo, spotted the newcomers and almost jogged over to them. There was a whispered conversation and he pointed in my direction then headed our way. ‘That is Mr Khan,’ he said in a whisper when he got to where Mel and I were sitting.

‘I guessed,’ I said. ‘It was a bit like the entry of the gladiators there for a minute.’

‘He asks will you join him?’

‘Both of us?’

‘No. You alone. The young lady will be fine here.’

‘My name’s Melanie,’ she said. I’d noticed that she didn’t like to be talked about as if she wasn’t there. Especially at that time of the month.

‘Miss Melanie,’ said Suri. ‘My apologies. Another coffee?’

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Mel.

‘I’ll have one too,’ I said. ‘Will you bring it to his table?’

Suri nodded, I winked at Mel and told her I wouldn’t be long and Suri led me over to where Khan and his party were sitting.

‘Mr Khan, sir,’ said Suri. ‘This is Mr Sharman who I have told you so much about.’

Khan pushed back his chair and rose to his full height which was about the same as mine, but he outweighed me by maybe five stone. I guessed he was fiftysomething, but his brown skin was smooth and unlined and his thick hair was so deep a black as to be almost blue. ‘Thank you, Suri,’ he said, and Suri bowed and backed away towards the bar.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Khan,’ I said and stuck out my mitten.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Sharman. Forgive me for interrupting your evening,’ said Khan and took my hand in a strong grip. His accent was middle class and refined. No trace of Bombay or Bradford. He could’ve been a doctor or a lawyer or anything along those lines, but with the two minders in tow I doubted if he was. ‘Join me.’ He flicked his free hand at his two companions who got up and did a fast shuffle in Suri’s wake. I took one of the vacant seats and Khan sat opposite. ‘Did you enjoy your meal?’ he asked.

‘Very much. I always do.’

‘Excellent. It’s important to know that my investments are being used wisely.’

‘Suri runs a fine restaurant.’

‘He had a good teacher. Me. And you enjoy his act?’

‘Always. I try not to miss it.’

‘Good. He told me you are a Friday night regular. Did he tell you why I wanted to speak to you?’

A little preliminary work and then straight down to business. It struck me Mr Khan was quite a powerful man whatever his business. Or probably because of it. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just that you wanted to see me on a private and delicate matter.’

‘Then let me explain.’ He took a brown envelope from the inside pocket of his expensive jacket and laid it, unopened, neatly in front of him between the unused cutlery. ‘I have a family, Mr Sharman. Not a large family. Three children in all, two boys and a girl. They are grown, but they are still children to me. Do you understand that?’

‘I have a daughter of my own, Mr Khan,’ I replied. ‘She’s sixteen now. Almost an adult, but I still think of her as a baby.’

‘Then you do understand. That is very good, it makes what I have to say easier. My children are older. The boys are in their twenties and Meena is eighteen. Just eighteen.’

I said nothing.

Khan undid the envelope and took out some photographs. He separated one from the pile and slid it in front of me. It was a girl. A very beautiful Asian girl. She looked straight into the camera’s lens and smiled. It was the kind of smile that would break hearts and it almost broke mine. It made me think of my daughter Judith, and lately that always makes my heart ache. ‘That is Meena,’ he explained.

‘She’s lovely,’ I said.

‘She is. That was taken last year on her seventeenth birthday. She was even more beautiful the last time I saw her.’

I made a puzzled face.

‘She is gone, Mr Sharman,’ he explained.

‘Gone?’ I queried,

‘Yes, gone.’ His hand played with the knife in front of him. There was a heavy gold ring on his little finger.

‘Gone where?’ I asked. I felt he expected me to.

‘I don’t know. That’s why we’re sitting here.’

‘Run away?’ I said. I remembered when Judith had run away years before and how helpless I’d felt.

‘Eloped.’ His mouth twisted as he spoke.

‘I see,’ I said.

‘I doubt it.’

‘With whom?’ I asked.

‘With him.’ He separated another photograph and passed it to me. It was a bad photo. A Polaroid lit by a flash that made the subject’s eyes red like a werewolf’s. He was in his twenties, white, with a spiky, Rod Stewart seventies haircut, wearing a T-shirt that showed his upper arms and the tattoo on the left one. In one hand was a pint glass half full of beer, in the other a cigarette.

‘Who is he?’ I asked.

‘Scum. A jailbird who inveigled himself into the life of my family and took the jewel I called my daughter.’

‘Called?’ I queried. ‘Do you think something has happened to her?’

He shook his head. ‘You misunderstand me,’ he said. ‘I mean that she is no daughter of mine until she returns without this… this… man.’

‘And does he have a name? This man?’ I asked.

‘Jeffries.’ Khan almost spat the word. ‘Paul Jeffries.’

5

‘Tell me more about Paul Jeffries,’ I said when Khan seemed to have regained his composure. I was interested, I’ve got to admit. It was quite a while since I’d had a job, and it was intriguing. Other people’s problems always are. And they take your mind off your own. And you don’t seem to hear about couples eloping like you used to. Gretna Green is not the place it was.

‘He met one of my sons at a club in Manchester some time ago. Sanjay – my younger son. They got friendly.’

‘How old is Paul?’ I interrupted.

‘Twenty-seven.’

‘And Sanjay?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘And you say that Paul has been to prison.’

He nodded.

‘What was he inside for?’

‘What wasn’t he? Burglary. Car theft. Actual bodily harm and drugs.’

‘Quite a record. How do you know all this?’

‘I got it out of Sanjay later. Paul had confided in him, but no one thought to confide in me.’

That’s families for you, I thought. ‘Has Sanjay ever been in trouble with the law?’ I asked.

‘Of course not.’

‘There’s no ‘‘of course” about it. How about your other son?’