Neon Madman by John Harvey

bastard, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Only since I woke up.’
    â€˜When was that?’
    â€˜The day I realised that the world didn’t stop at the end of my pram.’
    Patrick didn’t say anything to that. I didn’t blame him. He was a married man with kids and a good job, a retirement pension, and a savings account in the building society.
    To agree with me would be to make a lie of his own life.
    â€˜Okay, Patrick, you’re right. I’m a bitter, cynical sod and I exaggerate and our British policemen are still wonderful. Or most of them are. But not all. Just possibly not the men who looked at the Mancor books.’
    â€˜What do you want from me?’
    â€˜Is there any way of finding out who did the inspection?’
    Another pause.
    â€˜I know an inspector in the Fraud Squad. He comes to me for a snippet of information sometimes. He might know; or find out. If I wanted to know badly enough.’
    â€˜Could you put me on to him?’
    â€˜Sorry, Scott. I couldn’t do that. Besides, he wouldn’t talk to you. And after that he wouldn’t talk to me either.’
    â€˜Well, can you …  ?’
    â€˜How important is it?’
    â€˜It could be very.’
    Silence. Possible moves ran through Patrick’s mind. Sometimes there were reasons for running risks, for offering an opponent the opportunity of check. As long as it wasn’t checkmate.
    â€˜I’ll try to see him, Scott. Will Monday do?’
    â€˜You can’t manage it this weekend?’
    â€˜All right, if it’s that urgent.’
    â€˜Thanks a lot, Patrick, only … ’
    â€˜Only what, Scott?’
    â€˜Take care.’
    I’d said it again; meant it again. Perhaps I was softening up. In the head, perhaps, not the heart.
    â€˜I mean it, Patrick, there are some very nasty people involved. I don’t want you to get hurt.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, Scott. I won’t get hurt talking to a friend of mine who happens to be a policeman.’
    I didn’t answer. I was too busy hoping that he was right. Probably he was. After all, I had a friend who was a policeman, too. One.
    We said our goodbyes and hung up. I wondered how he would explain it to Frances and didn’t envy him the expression on her face when he did so. Not that I blamed her at all. She had every reason to feel about me the way she did. I hoped that she wouldn’t have any more before this thing was over.
    I collected the two sets of prints and the negatives. He said that if the chick in them ever wanted to earn some good money he could fix her up with some sessions. The kind of sessions he had in mind, I reckoned that she’d probably jump at the chance.
    I went in for a coffee and gave the prints the once over. They were hot stuff all right. Perhaps I was missing my vocation. The girlie mags would welcome me with open legs.
    Tricia had gone home and her replacement was a coffee-skinned youth with oddly purplish lips and a small silver ring in his left ear. The coffee didn’t taste the same.
    I left without having my usual second cup and started the drive across London. I guessed that somebody might be trying to follow me, so I made a few sharp changes of direction and followed some pretty odd routes with the hope of throwing them off. Once I’d crossed the river, I slowed down and found myself some clear, straight roads. I couldn’t pick out anybody behind me so maybe they weren’t bothering. Maybe they were just very good.
    Either way, there was nothing to do but get to Richmond and see what was up with Caroline Murdoch.
    She opened the door herself. The miniature Chinese didn’t seem to be anywhere around. It must have been his night off. I followed her into the same room where we’d had our first little chat. It didn’t look any more cosy, but perhaps that suited what she didn’t have in mind.
    I let her pour me a drink and sat toying with it, watching