Another lonely soul that didn’t want to form a bond, for fear of being let down by life again.

 

His alarm clock went off at 6:30 a.m.

He knocked it off the table and it continued ringing and rattling on the floorboards, spiteful in its rejection. The bells finally petered out and Rossett rolled onto his back, shielding his eyes with his hand.

He groaned. It was still dark. There was only a hint of yellow light from the streetlamp outside his window. He got out of bed and waited for a thirty-second coughing fit to pass. His body ached, his head ached, and his stomach ached. He stared at the rung-out clock on the floor at his feet, listening to its quick tick echo off the wooden boards.

The view out the window wasn’t much, just the streetlamp, his old battered Austin Seven car, and a terrace of sooty brown houses staring back like a solid wall of misery through the early-morning fog.

He crossed to the sink, flicked on the light that was hanging over it, and stared at the fresh bruises on his chest and arms from the fight the day before.

He remembered Hall.

He turned on the tap, and the pipe in the wall rattled with a choking airlock before coughing some water into the sink. He drank from his hand and spat before staring into the mirror again.

Hall had had to die.

Rossett had had no choice.

Kill or be killed.

Rossett filled the dented metal kettle and dropped it onto the two-ring stove in the corner of the room. As the stove hissed some warmth into the bedsit, he did some push-ups to get some heat into his body and some ache out of his muscles.

By the time the kettle had boiled he was blowing hard, lying on his back on the floor staring at the stained ceiling. He was slowing down, he knew it. A life of drinking and smoking, coupled with old wounds, was working against him now. The shootings, the stabbings, the scars on his back and on his front made him feel like he was wading through water.

He wondered when he would be swept away.

 

The top deck of the bus was empty except for two office cleaning women on their way to work. They didn’t stop talking from Battersea to Vauxhall Bridge, where they got off, their wide backsides bouncing off alternate seats as they headed for the stairs. When they were gone Rossett sat in silence, gently rocking his way to Scotland Yard as the bus rattled down the early-morning streets.

At Scotland Yard he sat alone in the canteen. He drank another cup of tea and pushed the cooked breakfast he had ordered around the plate. He finally settled on hiding the food under a piece of toast, same as he always did, and slid the plate away across the empty table.

The canteen was filling up with early-rising and late-to-bed coppers. Some chatted, some sat alone, but none of them acknowledged him.

Rossett looked at the Rolex and then up at Harding, the admin sergeant who telephoned him once a week to complain about his poor paperwork skills. Rossett had gotten good at avoiding Harding, but obviously not good enough.

“Sergeant.”

It was the best Rossett could manage as a greeting.

“Sir.”

“What?” Rossett asked, even though he knew what was coming next.

“Sir, this is very difficult for me.”

“Say what you’ve got to say.” Rossett tried to sound friendly, failed, and realized it was something he should maybe work on.

“Sir . . . your paperwork. It is late and it is causing a backlog.”

“I know.”

“You’re a month behind.”

“I know.”

“I’m under a lot of pressure, sir.” Harding wrung his hands together as Rossett sipped his tea, all the while staring over the top of the cup. “I know you don’t want to be dealing with admin, sir. I know it isn’t what you . . .” Harding glanced around. “It isn’t what you are good at, I know that.” Harding dropped his voice and bent forward a little at the waist. “I respect you, sir, despite what people say. I genuinely respect you. Maybe I can help you?”

“What people say?”

Harding held up a hand.

“I didn’t mean to . . .”

Neumann appeared next to Harding, who looked ready to kiss him for helping him out of the hole he had just dug for himself.

“Good morning,” Neumann said in his excellent English.

Rossett held up a hand to cut Neumann off so he could continue interrogating Harding. “What do people say?”

“They don’t say anything, sir.”

“What?” Neumann looked confused.

Rossett held up his hand again. “You said—”

“I didn’t mean anything, sir. I only wanted to—”

“What did he say?” Neumann again.

“I didn’t, sir.” Harding looked like he was going to faint. “I just wanted to know about the paperwork.”

“Paperwork?” Neumann smiled.

“Please?” Rossett looked at Neumann and then back at Harding.