Remix (2010) by Lexi Revellian

sitting there. The red awning wouldn’t help a lot if it rained. I sat while he went inside to order coffee.
    He joined me, and there was a pause while I added sugar and stirred. I’d have preferred tea. Dog sniffed his trouser legs, then settled well away from him. Phil Sharott could only have been seven years older than Ric at most, but he seemed more, as though he belonged to another generation. Maybe it was the conventional clothes and haircut. And his manner…
    “I had a look at your website. D’you know, I was most impressed. I had no idea of the craft skills that went into the sort of work you do. It took me back. We had a much-loved rocking horse when I was small; it fell apart in the end.”
    “What make was it?”
    “I don’t know.” No one ever does. “Quite old, it had been in the family for generations.” Probably an Ayres, and they put it on a bonfire. “I’d love to come and have a look at your studio some time. I don’t have children, but when I do I’ll definitely be buying them a rocking horse.”
    I didn’t feel I had to say anything as I listened politely to these niceties. He’d get to the point eventually.
    Phil Sharott glanced at the sky. “I hope it won’t rain, I thought if we sat out here we could talk privately.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s lucky for Ric that you’ve taken him under your wing. You didn’t know him before, I take it?”
    “No.”
    “How did you meet?”
    “Oh, we just bumped into each other.” I’d decided on a policy of telling Phil as little as possible.
    “Very kind of you to help him out - and he’s not an easy man to help. So few people these days are discreet…it really would be a disaster for Ric if it became known he was in London. I’m not sure he fully realizes that. I’ll come clean, Caz; I’m hoping you’ll agree to support me in persuading Ric he’d be safer in Scotland. He might listen to you.”
    “Ric will do what he wants to do. It’s up to him.”
    “If he’s recognized, the decision will be out of his hands.”
    “It might be for the best. The police might find the real murderer.”
    Phil Sharott looked at me thoughtfully through his designer spectacles. They were metallic blue-grey to tone with his silk suit. “Ah. Has he told you he didn’t do it?”
    I returned his gaze. “Yes.”
    “And you believe him?” he asked mildly.
    “Don’t you?”
    “I’m a lawyer, Caz. I believe in what can be demonstrated in a court of law. I try to avoid forming opinions based on too little data. In this case, all the evidence points one way. There was a public quarrel, Ric visited Bryan the following day, was seen to leave Bryan’s flat with blood on him; Bryan was found dead, Ric’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. Against that, we have Ric’s assertion that he is not the killer.” He sipped his coffee. “I would not feel confident, were I the barrister putting this case before a jury, that they would find Ric innocent. That is why I suggested to him at the time he should plead guilty with mitigation. Had he taken my advice, he would most likely be a free man by now.”
    “With a criminal record for a crime he didn’t commit, while the real killer goes free.”
    “Indeed. If your supposition is the correct one.”
    It was blowy and spitting with rain now, the road’s tarmac darkening. The bushes in Hoxton Square moved in the wind, and litter blew along the patched and seamed pavement. I shivered and zipped up my fleece. “What I don’t understand is why a reputable lawyer should help an accused man fake his own death.”
    A faint smile passed over Phil Sharott’s face. “That’s an entirely reasonable comment. But you didn’t see Ric in prison after Bryan died. I was there. He was in a horrendous state - partly of course the withdrawal symptoms - any long-term illegal drug and alcohol abuser would experience those - but also the horror of what had happened affected him badly. He was terrified, frantic, close