Death of a Murderer by Rupert Thomson Page A

wearing a fawn leather jacket that looked expensive, and his skin was lightly tanned.
    “Raymond! What are you doing here? I thought you’d be in London.”
    “Oh, you know,” Raymond said. “I get around.”
    He had the same mocking smile that he’d had as a teenager. It had been amusing then, even necessary, as much a part of his image as his haircut or his flared trousers, but in a man approaching forty it looked much more like provocation. It didn’t seem as if Raymond knew that, though—or perhaps he just didn’t care.
    “So,” Billy said, “how are you?”
    “Could be worse. What about you?”
    “Not bad.”
    “I almost drowned him once,” Raymond told the girl, his eyes still moving over Billy’s face. The girl’s mouth opened a fraction, then she laughed quickly and reached for her champagne.
    For a moment Billy saw the water, almost black, and seeming to slope uphill, away from him.
    “I suppose you’re running Scotland Yard by now,” Raymond said.
    Billy smiled faintly. “Something like that.”
    So Raymond knew what he did. He was sure Raymond found it not only ludicrous but incomprehensible. After everything they had been through together, he would be bound to see it as a betrayal too. But that was years ago, all that…
    Raymond introduced him to the girl. Her name was Henry, Raymond said. When Billy stared at her, she smiled and told him it was short for Henrietta. They shook hands, hers cocked slightly at the wrist, and bright with rings. She had a pair of sunglasses in her hair. Billy thought she was probably a model.
    He turned back to Raymond, his eyes dropping briefly to Raymond’s jacket. “You look as if you’re doing all right for yourself,” he said. “Nothing illegal, I hope.”
    Raymond laughed. “You want to join us, Billy? You want to pull up a chair?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m with someone.”
    Raymond looked past him. “Who’s the lucky girl?”
    “My mother,” Billy said.
    They both smiled, but their smiles didn’t reach their eyes.
    “Well, anyway,” Raymond said, brisker now, “good to see you.” You’d think they ran into each other all the time. It had been twenty years, though. Maybe more.
    “Take it easy, Raymond,” Billy said, then he turned to Henrietta. “Nice to have met you.”
    He walked over to the bar. As he ordered the drinks, he heard Raymond and the girl start laughing. On his way back, he passed their table again and nodded, but he didn’t stop, focusing instead on the two glasses he was carrying, as if worried they might spill.
    Sometime later, he looked through the window and saw Raymond standing near a low-slung sports car. The girl was with him. Though it was already dark, she had her sunglasses on. Out of habit, he made a mental note of Raymond’s number plate. BOY 1DA. If Raymond wanted to, he could drive to London tonight with that beautiful girl beside him. Or Paris. He could do anything.
    “Are they friends of yours?” Billy’s mother asked.
    “That’s Raymond,” Billy said. “Raymond Percival.”
    “You were at school with him, weren’t you?”
    Billy nodded. “I went on holiday with him as well. We travelled all round Europe.”
    “I remember.” His mother’s eyes lingered on Raymond as he climbed into the car. “Good-looking boy.”
    Billy smiled to himself.
    “Your father had something of that about him,” she said.
    “Really?”
    “He was glamorous.” She took a sip of wine, then put the glass back on the table. She kept her hand on it, though, and twisted it from time to time. “Imagine falling for a musician…”
    They both watched through the window as the sports car moved noisily out on to the road.
    “Was he ever violent?” Billy asked.
    “He got drunk sometimes. I was frightened of him then.” She looked across at Billy. “He never hit me, if that’s what you mean.”
    Billy stared at the table. His father had been drinking the night he died, apparently. A tram had knocked him