I went through into the kitchenette. It reeked just as bad as the living room, being separated by only a thin party wall, but at least I no longer had to look at the cat. I put the post on the worktop, and began to sort through it. There wasn’t much that looked interesting. Most of it was for the flat downstairs, and it was all in different names. There were only three envelopes for this flat, which seemed weird. Surely, a flat that had been empty for months should have a backlog of junk mail a metre deep.

I’d stood there for a few moments, pondering the significance of it, when I heard a noise from outside the flat. Footsteps, light and cautious. Someone was coming up the stairs. I quickly stuffed the three envelopes inside my jacket, bundled the rest in my hand and strode out onto the landing.

Whoever it was had turned the light on. I looked down to see the tenant from the downstairs flat staring up at me. She looked frankly disgusted. ‘You again,’ she said. It was less a statement and more an accusation.

She’d stopped halfway, and I was able to take her in more clearly than I had the day before. She was fairly pretty, with long bleached hair that was growing out. The roots were black, like the thick make up daubed around her eyes. She was also barely half-dressed, in a flimsy red house-coat that barely covered her thighs. It was all frills and didn’t seem to do up. Right now, it was gaping open, exposing more crimson and more frills, in the way of a long-line basque. It would probably have looked cheaply erotic, had it been on a better figure. As it was, she bulged out of it all over and the whole package just looked cheap.

In a heartbeat, the whole situation dropped into focus. There were no prizes for guessing what this girl did for a living, or why she’d seemed so pleased to see me the last time. Working girls weren’t normally picky about where their clients came from, or when they turned up. She’d probably been waiting on one when I’d arrived.

‘Is that my post?’ she demanded. Her whole attitude was hostile, but guarded. ‘Give it here.’

She came up the stairs and stood at the top, blocking my way out. I held out the post, feeling tired and impatient. She snatched it and immediately started rifling through it. ‘There’s nothing for that flat,’ she said. ‘Have you taken it?’

I shrugged. ‘There wasn’t any,’ I said, casually. ‘I think that’s pretty strange, to be honest.’

‘Well, no one lives there,’ she said.

She was trying to sound disinterested, but I could tell she was on edge. Her hands were shaking. Not much – the tremor was almost imperceptible – but it was enough for me. I’d got her rattled. She might, after all, prove helpful. If I could just keep the pressure on…

‘I’d have thought there’d be some,’ I said. I leaned back against the wall, and folded my arms, making sure to keep the envelopes inside my jacket secure. ‘Makes me think you might be collecting it for someone.’

I stared at her, watching her face for any further signs of discomfort. There…the eyes darting to the side, not meeting my gaze…the tremble of the lower lip.

‘If you’re after Charlotte,’ she said, looking up at me finally. ‘You’re too late. She’s gone.’

‘She was never here, Jane,’ I said. Looking through the post had given me her name at least. ‘As you know very well.’

She didn’t like me using her name at all. Her eyes widened and she looked almost fearful. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what she’s done, but I’m not getting involved. I collect her post for her, that’s all. She’s been good to me. I wouldn’t have this flat without her. Don’t ask me to grass.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ I said, putting out a hand towards the stairs. She looked down at herself, as if suddenly realising she was exposed, and pulled the house coat around her, defensively. I gestured again at the stairs, and she stood back, allowing me to pass.

I started down the stairs, the facts beginning to gel in my mind. Jane was a pro. Charlotte had got her this flat. Charlotte…was never a journalist. They might do most things, but even the most hardened hack didn’t screw around just for a story. When she’d said she was selling her story, she’d meant just that. Selling it, not writing it. She was a prostitute looking for a quick buck. And I was an idiot.

The girl must have gone into the flat, because she suddenly screamed, and shouted down the stairs at me. ‘Oh my god, that’s my cat, you sick fuck! And look at the front door!’ She came back out onto the landing. ‘It’s knackered. You’re paying for that. I’ve got your number plate.’

I stopped briefly and shook my head in disbelief. The bitch had seen me coming in. She’d probably been waiting for a client again. Of course she had. The outfit said it all. And now she had my registration number. She’d warn Charlotte and she’d be another step ahead. I had nothing to lose. I might as well put some pressure on.

I turned and looked back up the stairs at her. She sounded defiant, but her eyes told a different story. They were huge and staring. She looked scared to death. ‘You said you wouldn’t get involved,’ I said, making sure to use my most threatening tone. ‘You’d be wise to stick to that and, if you do see Charlotte, be sure to give her this.’

Following the Fliss episode, I’d had some new business cards made. I hoped Charlotte would see the humour and relent a little. Maybe even get in touch.

They were plain, black on white, and had nothing on them but my title and my mobile number. I took one out and scribbled two words on it, before letting it fall onto the bottom stair.

It landed face up, and I threw it a backwards smile as I left the flats.

Call me, it said.

The Filth Monger

Sixteen

I rang Giles again en route to the Castle. I knew now why the Herald hadn’t run the story yet. It would take time to get it written, and she might even be touting it around different papers. From the minute I’d seen that business card, I’d been jumping to conclusions. I was willing to bet, now, that if I’d managed to get the rest of the cards out of that case, they’d all have been different. Business cards for different journalists at different papers. Worst case scenario, this could all end in a bidding war between the tabloids, and then the shit would really hit the fan. It could be huge.

I didn’t care too much what they’d say about me. Everyone who knew me, knew what my life entailed, and why. Anyone else, I didn’t give a shit what they thought. But if they dug deep enough, all sorts of stuff could come out. Sordid stuff, the stuff of tabloid dreams, enough to derail the lives of people I’d sworn to protect. I couldn’t have that happen. It was essential I found her, and the only way I’d have time to do that would be if Giles could keep a lid on things for as long as possible.

There was no answer. His mobile went to answerphone every time. It was infuriating. At one point, I went to leave a message, before stalling and hanging up. I couldn’t leave one, couldn’t leave anything that could incriminate me. The Home Office were into everything, I knew that from the Fliss episode. Giles would do his best to fulfil his promise, but not at the expense of his career and, if he were questioned about his dealings with me, it could all come out.

I threw my mobile down on the passenger seat in disgust, and put my foot down. My brief stop at Charlotte’s fake address meant I’d be late to the Castle now, and I didn’t want to run the risk of missing Rick. I needed to speak to him urgently. There was something about all this that smacked of his handiwork. I had a mole – that much was clear - and, if I wasn’t mistaken, Rick was the small mammal with the shovel hands and the velvety black coat. If so, he was my best – and worst – chance of putting this whole thing to bed.