The Widow(66)

Kate had patted Tim’s arm sympathetically and headed for home.

As Tim had predicted, the Herald had quieted down, and the libel action appeared to have stalled in the chambers of both sides.

But she was ready to have another go. She needed to find her notebook from a year ago. There, scribbled on the cover, was an address in Peckham for one Mike Doonan.

“Slipping out to knock a door on a tip,” she told Terry. “On my mobile if you need me.”

It took an age to cross Westminster Bridge and crawl down the Old Kent Road, but the cabbie finally pulled up in the shadow of a grim relic of 1960s cutting-edge architecture. A gray concrete box, studded with filthy windows and satellite dishes.

Kate went to the door and pressed the bell. She knew what she was going to say—she’d had plenty of time in the taxi to plan—but there was no answer. The flat echoed with the bell ringing, but it was the only sound.

“He’s out,” a voice called from next door. A woman’s voice.

“Bugger. I hoped I’d catch him in. I thought he was housebound,” she replied.

A head appeared out of the door. Ancient, tight perm, and an apron. “He’s down at the bookies. Doesn’t go out much now, with his back, poor Mike. But he tries to get out once a day. Was he expecting you?”

Kate smiled at the neighbor. “Not really. It was on the off chance. I’m doing a story about a man he used to work with when he was a driver. Glen Taylor. The Bella case.”

The neighbor opened her door wider. “The Bella case? Did he work with that bloke? He never said. Do you want to come in and wait?”

Within the first five minutes, Mrs. Meaden had told Kate about Doonan’s medical condition—“degenerative osteoarthritis, getting steadily worse”—his betting habit, ex-wives, kids, and diet—“beans on toast practically every night; can’t be good for him.

“I do a bit of shopping for him every week, and the kids on the estate run errands.”

“That’s kind of you—he’s lucky to have a neighbor like you.”

Mrs. Meaden looked pleased. “It’s what any Christian would do,” she said. “Tea?”

Kate balanced the flowered cup and saucer on the arm of her chair and took a shop-bought mince pie out of the proffered cake tin.

“Funny he never mentioned he knew this Glen Taylor man, isn’t it?” Mrs. Meaden said, brushing crumbs off her lap.

“They worked together. At Qwik Delivery,” Kate prompted.

“He drove for years. Says that’s what did it for his back. He doesn’t really have friends. Not what I call friends—people who come and see him. He used to go to a computer place around here—said it was sort of a club. Used to go regularly before he retired. Funny thing for a man of his age to be doing, I always thought. Still, he’s on his own, so he must get bored.”

“I didn’t know there was a computer club around here. Do you know what it’s called?”

“It’s on Princess Street, I think. Shabby-looking place with blacked-out windows. Oh, there’s Mike now.”

They could hear the heavy sound of dragging feet and the stabbing of a stick onto the concrete walkway.

“Hello, Mike,” Mrs. Meaden called as she opened her door. “Got a lady from the press here for you.”

Doonan pulled a face as Kate emerged. “Sorry, love. My back is killing me. Can you come back another time?”

Kate moved closer to him and took his arm. “Let me at least help you in,” she said. And did.

The smell in Doonan’s flat was nothing like the cabbage and Dettol disinfectant permeating next door. It smelled of men. Sweat, old beer, stale cigarette smoke, feet.

“What do you want to talk to me for? I told the police all I knew,” Doonan said as Kate perched on a hard chair opposite him.

“Glen Taylor,” she said simply.

“Oh, him.”

“You used to work together.”

Doonan nodded.

“I’m writing a profile on him. Trying to get a better picture of who he really is.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong person. He was no friend of mine. I’ve told the police. Stuck-up little prick, if you want to know.”

I do, she thought.

“Always thought he was better than us. Slumming it until something better came along.”

She had found his sore spot and scratched it. “Heard he was a bit arrogant.”

“Arrogant? That’s an understatement. Lorded it over us in the lunchroom with his stories of when he ran a bank. And then he got me into trouble over my back problem. Told the boss I was having them on about how bad it was. Said I was faking.”

“That must’ve caused you problems.”

Doonan smiled bitterly. “Joke of it is that I helped him get the job at Qwik Delivery.”

Kate pounced. “Really? So you knew him before. Where’d you come across him?”

“On the Net. On a forum or something.” Doonan sounded less sure of himself.

“And at the club in Princess Street?”

Doonan flashed a look at Kate. “What club?” he said. “Look, I need to take my pills. You’ll have to go.”

She put her business card down beside him and shook his hand. “Thanks for talking to me, Mike. I really appreciate it. I’ll let myself out.”