The Killing Hour Read Free

the boot. He can imagine the hard time he’d get if one of his colleagues knew he’d thrown up. The address book he takes out of the bag and goes through once again, looking for any reference at all to Charlie Feldman, but there’s nothing. Which is strange. Because in a third evidence bag, this one tucked inside his jacket pocket, is a memo-pad he found beside the corpse. Landry wants very much to find out how Mr Feldman’s name could end up on a pad soaked with blood.

3
    I pull up the driveway. A dozen or so of the paving stones wobble beneath the weight of the car, stones I wanted to cement back into place but never got around to doing so. I come to a stop in front of a garage with freshly painted black doors and shiny new handles. The house is fawn with black trim and a black concrete tile roof. I helped to paint it. A couple of the weatherboards at the bottom have rotted more since I last saw them. They’ll need replacing within the next year. I wonder who’ll do it.
    The best thing I can do right now is back out of the driveway and never come back, and every muscle is telling me to leave but I can’t bring myself to walk away. I should catch a plane somewhere. Things might look different from a pilot’s point of view. All of my problems would fade away as we climbed towards the sun. I feel like I’m not really here, that this is all part of the same dream I’ve been having all day. I reach out and trail my hands along the weatherboards of Jo’s house. The wood is hard and smooth. When I reach the door I suck in a few breaths and bite down on my lip. This is crazy. I knock and my hand doesn’t pass through the wood. I don’t wake up.
    Jo’s smile disappears when she sees me. She lets one arm fall to her side; the other she keeps up high on the side of the doorframe. Her greeting towards me doesn’t include the word ‘hello’. She has this look on her face that suggests she has just eaten a bad piece of chicken. I can smell freshly brewed coffee.
    ‘Hey, Jo, can I come in?’
    ‘What do you want, Charlie?’
    ‘I need to talk to you.’
    ‘You think I care about what you need?’
    ‘Please. It’s important.’
    She looks me over, studies the wounds on my face. Then she sighs as she reluctantly decides. ‘Make it quick.’
    ‘Can I at least come in?’
    She sighs again, this time more loudly, then steps aside. When I’m in she closes the door and leans against it as if to block my exit. Jo’s a few centimetres shorter than me, a couple of years younger, but twice as mature. She has hazel eyes, soft until she frowns at me, which she’s currently doing. The tanned skin of her face is sprinkled with light freckles. Her hair has been cut, stopping just above her shoulders. Her body is toned and athletic from her visits to the gym. She looks better than the last time I saw her.
    ‘So no “How are you doing, Jo?” or “You look nice, Jo,” or “I’ve been missing you”?’
    ‘I was getting to that. You look good, Jo. I like the new haircut.’
    ‘I haven’t had a new haircut, Charlie. Now, if that’s all …’

    ‘I need your help.’
    ‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. Does needing my help involve that bump on your head?’
    ‘In a way.’
    ‘Somebody finally decided to beat the crap out of you. Wish I could have been there.’
    ‘No, you don’t.’ I shouldn’t be here. ‘I’m in serious trouble. I don’t know what I’m doing.’
    ‘You never know what you’re doing.’
    ‘But you always seem able to help.’
    ‘I’m not your shrink.’
    ‘Please, Jo, just hear me out.’
    ‘If it’s serious go to the police.’
    ‘I can’t.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘It’s complicated.’
    ‘I’m clever.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘You don’t think I can understand?’
    ‘That’s why I’m here. I need somebody to understand.’
    ‘So you argue that you want my help, then argue against telling me?’
    ‘I’m only arguing against going to the police. You’ll