To Kill For by Phillip Hunter Page A

sat opposite me, gin and tonic on the table in front of her. She looked at me with wide empty eyes.
    I blinked. She was gone. The pain wasn’t.
    I was into the H’s by now. I dialled another number.
    Something happened. The phone in my pocket vibrated. I pulled it out and looked at it. It took me a moment to realize the phone belonged to this Derek character, and I’d just dialled his number. I had him. Or, at least, I had an abbreviation of what I thought was his name: HAY. That was something, but not enough. Too many names started HAY. If it was his name. I remembered the phone call I’d answered from Derek’s wife or girlfriend. I still had her number. I went to the public phone in the corner of the pub, fed in some coins and dialled the number. I recognized her voice when she answered. Some of the concern had gone from it now, but it was still wary. I said, ‘I’m trying to reach Derek Hay…’
    I paused, like I was fumbling with an address book or something.
    She said, ‘Hayward.’
    â€˜Yeah, Derek Hayward. Is he there?’
    â€˜No. May I ask who’s calling?’
    â€˜Is this his wife?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Do you know where I can find him?’
    There were some seconds of silence. Then the line went dead.
    I had his name, though. Now I was looking for Derek Hayward, who must’ve been admitted to a hospital within the last few hours. Unless he was dead.
    I started calling the hospitals. There was nothing. No Derek Haywards. I tried the pub’s phone book and directory enquiries. I had a home number, so if any of the D. Haywards they’d given me had been the right one, I’d have known. I tried different spellings of Hayward, and different initials, in case Derek was a middle name or something. After a couple of hours I still had nothing. By now, the pub had cleared and my head was thick with pain. I couldn’t think straight. I quitted the pub and drove back to Browne’s.
    When Browne saw me, he said, ‘You’re still alive, then.’
    He didn’t bother to ask if my head hurt. He just handed me a couple of his knockout pills.
    The last time he’d seen me, Eddie and his men were taking me to see Dunham.
    â€˜Trouble?’ he said.
    â€˜Huh?’
    â€˜From Eddie. Is it trouble?’
    â€˜It’s something.’
    I downed the pills.
    â€˜I thought he was a friend of yours. Well, as much as you can have a friend.’
    â€˜He works for Dunham.’
    â€˜What does that mean?’
    â€˜It means he doesn’t have friends when Dunham wants something.’
    â€˜And what does Dunham want?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Something’s going on. They want Paget.’
    â€˜They want you to get Paget?’
    â€˜No. They don’t. They want him, but they want me out of the way.’
    â€˜Why?’
    It was a good question. Why?
    I hit the sack and let the pills work on me.
    She came to me again, in the dreams.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    One day, she said to me, ‘Do you think there’s a god, Joe?’
    It was late summer and still hot. I’d taken her up the West End to see a film, and then we had a meal in Chinatown. She was wearing the dress I’d bought for her at the market. I could see now that it was too small for her, too short on her tall body, and too tight. It clung to her and she’d have to pull it down every now and then when it gathered. It would fit her to a T, the geezer in the market had said. Bastard. He must’ve seen me coming.
    Brenda didn’t complain.
    Her skin was like black velvet against the dress which clung to her tall slim body so that she seemed unreal to me, a flowing thing, like she and the cotton were part of the same thing and a breeze would float her away. She held my hand. I was almost scared of touching her, scared that I’d crush her.
    After we ate, we wandered along Regent Street and Bond Street, Brenda stopping every five feet to