A Death to Remember by Roger Ormerod

right foot, and for five minutes we left rubber marks around all the corners until she got us back to the main road.
    ‘ He’s still there.’
    ‘ Then that settles it,’ I decided. ‘Forget Rock Street.’
    ‘ I thought you had.’
    ‘ I have now. I’m not having you hanging around there while I creep up to that room...’
    ‘ I thought I’d go up with you.’
    ‘ No.’ I’d said that too sharply, and glanced at her in apology as she changed up abruptly. ‘I’d be better alone.’
    ‘ Then you’re going to try it?’
    ‘ If you’ll promise me something.’
    ‘ Say it.’
    ‘ You’ll keep moving, with the doors locked, round and round the block, or something.’
    ‘ I could lose him, you know.’
    ‘ I don’t think so. A bike can always hold a car. So please don’t try. Just drop me at the end of Rock Street and drive straight on. He’ll probably follow me, anyway. And much good may it do him.’
    But now she was doubtful, wanting to park nearer the house, but in the end she did as I wished. When she stopped for a couple of seconds at the end of Rock Street there was no sign of the motorbike.
    ‘ You see,’ I said. She drove on. I walked along to number seventeen.
    It would have been difficult to find anywhere more depressing. In the dark the street really drew around itself its real character, withdrawn and suspicious, and unnerving. It hadn’t been too well provided with streetlights, but the locals had improved the situation by throwing stones at the ones they had, reducing them to two and a half, counting the flickerer. The lighted windows numbered five. I had to peer closely to check I was outside number 17.
    The front door opened at a gentle touch. There was no sound inside until I stood still in the lobby and listened, then only a distant dripping tap. I felt my way up the stairs, to the door of room C, and fished out my credit card. It was good now for nothing more than opening doors. It did that smoothly enough. Allowing the door to swing quietly shut behind me, I moved inside.
    Only the streetlamp four houses up lent me any assistance. The window was a pale glow. But I needed no light. I stood there, my feet feeling the thin sliver of carpet, and I could see, again, George Peters sitting at that table. I breathed deeply and slowly, allowing it to come more and more clearly. He’d had on a Fair Isle pullover and jeans. No shoes or slippers, just socks. His right arm was in a plaster cast. He was allowing its weight to hold down the minute sheet while he struggled for words. I’d offered to help him, but he was suspicious of my words, and it was bad policy to prime people. No, he wasn’t resting the cast on the paper, that was my right hand. I’d been standing at his shoulder, reaching past him, fingers spread...
    I, George Peters, state that ...
    What the hell was he stating? Certainly not the withdrawal I’d seen in his file. State that...State that...
    ... I got my arm crushed when I was lying under this car . I’d got it on a pair of jacks , and the front wheels off , trying to change one of the steering ball joints . I’d been told ...
    What had he been told? The image had faded. I dared not move, in case he got up from the table. I remembered, I had not dared to move, then, but that had been in case he backed out and refused to finish it. So why had I been holding my breath until he had it done? Had he been reluctant to tell me what had happened? But he must have told me, otherwise I wouldn’t have got round to asking him to put it in writing.
    ... nudged my car , and it was sliding ...
    My car? Had he claimed it as his? Did he own a car? He’d been working on his car...but where? Surely it had to be at Pool Street Motors.
    My heart was racing as I realised the link I’d established, but my head was throbbing with the effort of forcing my brain to work. The images were becoming random and erratic.
    ... warned I ought to have it on a hydraulic lift , but Charlie Graham was