Dead Men's s Boots

‘I got your name from Cheryl Telemaque. She said you’re good. I’d like to hire you.’"

"‘Okay if I sit down?’ I asked, and she took her handbag off the table to make room for me to put my drink down. I carefully neglected to ask what Cheryl had said I was good at: given the way my relationship with her had gone, that seemed like it might be kind of a loaded question.

I took a seat opposite Janine Hunter and she swivelled round to face me.

‘So what’s the problem?’ I asked – the standard opening phrase for doctors, mechanics and ghostbreakers.

‘My husband,’ she said, and then seemed to hesitate. ‘He’s . . .’

The pause went on: whatever the next word was, she couldn’t get over it. I tried to help.

‘Passed on?’ I suggested.

She looked surprised. ‘No! He’s on remand, at Pentonville.’ Another leaden pause. ‘For sexual assault and murder.’

‘Okay,’ I said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

‘And he didn’t do it, Mister Castor. Doug looks really tough, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

So it’s – I’ve got to find the real killer. I want her to tell everybody what she did. So they’ll let Doug go.’

I noted the female pronoun in passing. This was getting stranger by the second: it was also veering gracefully away from what I think of my core competencies.

‘I’m an exorcist, Mrs Hunter,’ I reminded her, as gently as I could manage. ‘I could only find this killer for you if she happened to be—’

And before I could get the word out, Jan Hunter cut across me with the inevitable punchline.

‘She is, Mister Castor. She’s dead. She’s been dead for forty years.’

4

I stared at Jan Hunter for a moment, letting the idea grow on me.

‘Okay,’ I said at last. ‘Provisionally, I mean. Okay with provisos. You’d better tell me the whole story. Then I’ll tell you if there’s anything I can do for you.’

By way of answer, Jan rummaged in her handbag and came up with a photo, which she handed to me. It showed a man – the same age as Jan or maybe a couple of years older – with a suede-head haircut and slightly over-large ears, looking to camera with a goofy grin while holding up two dead fish on a hook.

The background was a river bank; the props, a canvas chair and a keepnet. He was wearing a lumberjack shirt, a wedding ring, and that was all I could tell you about him from memory. It wasn’t a face that left a deep impression.

‘Doug,’ I said.

‘Look at that face,’ Jan said, with a slight tremor in her voice.