Chapter Text
It was late in the afternoon when the phone rang again, rousing me from what I like to think of as a thoughtful mood but what Annie would call a light doze.
"Gene Hunt."
"Hello, Mr. Hunt, I've been trying to get hold of you."
Recognising the voice at the other end, I bit back a saucy reply. "Ah, Sister Dobbs. What can I do for you?"
"It's more a case of what I can do for you – this may be nothing, but I thought I should ring and let you know."
"Yes?" I prompted, sitting up straight.
"Nurse Watson has informed me that there were two men here asking about Mr. Tyler." She huffed. "They actually came in on Saturday morning, but the stupid lass only just saw fit to tell me."
"What did they say?"
"Well, they claimed to be friends of his and asked about his condition, whether his memory had returned and if he knew who he was."
"Did they give their names?"
"No. But one was a tall thin bloke and the other was a bit shorter and heavily built. Sorry if that's a bit vague, but it's the most she could remember."
A horrible suspicion started to form. "And did she tell them anything?"
"She just told them that he still had amnesia when he was discharged. Thankfully, she knows not to give out patient information but she gave them your name and number instead."
My head started to ache and I closed my eyes, the horrible suspicion now growing into a fully-fledged theory, compete with flashing lights and ringing bells.
Sister Dobbs continued. "And perhaps I'm worrying with no need, but if they really were friends of Mr. Tyler, then why didn't they know more about who he is when she asked them?"
***
I thanked her and rang off. The two men had found me, all right; no sense in getting Nurse Watson into even more trouble by telling Dobbs that.
Because it was far too much of a coincidence for it not to have been Lanky and Smiler. What was it they'd said? Keep your nose out of other people's business. Not exactly the most informative of warnings. Maybe there'd been more, but by that point I'd been a bit distracted by the boots and fists, so I couldn't claim that I'd been paying much attention to whatever they were saying.
They were clearly thugs for hire, so who had hired them? And what, apart from beating me to a pulp, were they hired to do?
Were they looking for Tyler? They hadn't asked me any questions – well, not that I could remember. But what if they'd managed to find him?
I got to my feet, wiping my suddenly clammy palms on my trousers. I was intending to pop round to see Tyler tonight, anyway. Might as well go now.
***
I knew there was no-one following me, but I took a roundabout route just in case.
Tyler answered his door looking tired and wan, his hair ruffled as though he'd been running his hands through it the wrong way. He seemed to brighten as he let me in and busied himself making some tea, bringing it over to the sofa. I sat down, looking pointedly from the mug to him and then back again, and after a moment of confusion he rolled his eyes and with a resigned sigh he produced a bottle of Glenfiddich from the cupboard and plonked it on the table.
My eyes widened. "Blimey. You are spoiling me."
"Just don't drink it all at once," he grumbled.
I didn't dignify that with an answer, but poured a decent measure into a glass as it was really too good to go into my tea.
Setting the bottle to one side, I turned my attention to the papers spread out on the coffee table. There were pages and pages of notes written in a neat, cramped hand and Sam gestured towards them as he sat down next to me.
"I've written down everything I can remember. It's still very patchy, but some things are starting to make sense."
I swigged my tea and let him talk. He re-capped what we knew, using a fancy-pants graph thing he'd drawn to show the sequence of events. Then I filled him in about his car.
"Where the hell is it, then?" he asked, frustrated.
I shrugged. "I imagine it's wherever you left it before you lost your memory."
He shot me a narrow sideways glance. "Helpful, Gene, thanks."
"Besides, you might have more to worry about." I paused to sip my scotch, savouring it for a blissful, all-too-brief moment, then told him about Lanky and Smiler and the phone call from Sister Dobbs. Judging by the way his jaw tightened, he could work out the odds of a coincidence just as well as I could.
"Jesus." He ran his hands over his face and through his hair, making it stand up even further. "What the hell am I in the middle of?"
I didn't know the answer so I poured us both another drink.
"Gene...there's something I didn't tell you." He paused, biting his lip, and I wondered where this was going, an increasingly sordid variety of alternatives flashing through my head as he got up and went into the bathroom.
Tyler came back holding out a gun – at least this one wasn't pointed at me.
"I found this hidden with the money," he confessed.
I raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise and met his gaze, his eyes dark and wide with worry. He swallowed thickly. "What if it's the murder weapon-"
"Tyler, we don't have a body – we don't even know there's been a murder."
He put the gun on the table and sat back down next to me with a frustrated sigh.
"If only I could remember who those men were...I don't suppose you've heard anything from the police about a body being found, have you?"
"No. Tell you what, I'll give DCI Morgan a ring tomorrow – he'd be delighted to help, what with no body and our only witness being an unreliable amnesiac with a gun hidden in his bog!"
"I could look at some mugshots," he persisted, sounding mulish.
"They'd only have your word that a crime had been committed-"
"But a crime has been committed!"
"- and we don't know how you're mixed up in it! You might be..." I tailed off and he shot me a sharp glance.
"Guilty?"
"I was going to say 'a convenient scapegoat'."
Sam gave a pained groan and slumped back on the sofa, his knee brushing against mine. I stilled and took a deep breath.
"Look, Tyler, it's up to you: if you want to throw yourself at the mercy of the coppers then don't let me stop you. Morgan's a hard bastard but he loves his rulebook so he's unlikely to fit you up, at any rate." I peered into my scotch for a moment, holding myself back from swigging it down. "But my advice to you would be to wait until we know more – and can prove more." I took a mouthful; it was smooth and peaty but something had a bitter edge to it.
We exchanged a look: his anxious but determined, mine sure and just as determined.
"Okay. I'll wait," he said finally. "– for now."
I gave a curt nod and downed the last of my scotch as I got to my feet.
"Right. I'll be off then, and tomorrow I'll try to find out who owns that mill." I picked up my coat and stepped towards the door. "And in the meantime be careful – we don't know who might be looking for you."
He nodded, then his expression softened.
"I was just thinking of having dinner - you could stay if you want." His voice was deliberately casual. "I've done a stew and there's plenty to go around."
What was it Annie had said? He was just lonely.
He'd told me about me the gun, which I suppose meant he trusted me.
Didn't mean I trusted him. But then again, he did cook a surprisingly decent dinner.
I sniffed, setting my coat down over the back of a chair. "I suppose my 'oops can wait for another night."
***
Despite – or maybe because of – the tense and uncertain situation, we managed to spend the evening talking about other things. Football and food and music and TV and Westerns, and whether Eric and Ernie were funnier than Dave Allen, and although Sam sometimes stopped himself mid-sentence, suddenly silent and pensive, I managed to make him laugh out loud a few times which was strangely rewarding. It should have been odd; awkward and stilted. But it wasn't.
And later as I made my way home, full of lamb stew and beer and a warmth that may have been the Glenfiddich and may not, I had to remind myself that I still didn't trust him.
***
The next morning dawned gloomy and overcast, and I braced myself for a day of stupefying boredom as I headed off to the planning office at the Town Hall.
Of course, I couldn't assume that the owner of the mill necessarily had anything to do with the killing (if indeed there had been a killing), but it seemed a good place to start. If Tyler's story was true, then there must have been some reason for those men to have been in the old mill at that time of night: maybe the shooting had been deliberately planned, or maybe it had been some sort of meeting gone wrong, but either way someone had chosen that location and then locked it up securely afterwards.
At the planning office I had to queue to request the information, then wait around for what seemed like an age listening to a bloke argue about an extension to his house. By the time I was called over to the counter I'd worked my way through one hipflask, read the newspaper three times and knew everything there was to know about load bearing joists.
Still, the wait was worth it. There it was, in black and white on page two of the file: Porter Street mill; owner: Mr. Stephen Warren.
***
Grabbing an egg buttie from Noreen's on my way back, I finished it off just as I walked into the office. Tyler was already there, perched on the edge of Annie's desk as he looked through one of her psychology books. Annie was by his shoulder pointing something out to him and I came to an abrupt halt as something in my guts twisted.
They had both looked up at the sound of the bell ringing and Sam hopped off the desk to greet me as Annie stepped swiftly away from him, moving to put the kettle on.
"Gene. Annie was just showing me this study on psychogenic amnesia. It says that if the memory loss is psychological, rather than due to physical injury, the chances of the subject regaining their memory is higher if they try psychotherapy."
I nodded as though I'd actually taken any of that in.
"Great. I'll remember all that in case I'm ever on Mastermind."
His face fell a bit, like I'd taken the wind out of his sails, so I clapped him on the shoulder, steering him into my office.
"I've got news, too."
He brightened, watching me with an expectant air as he took a seat by my desk.
"You ever heard of Stephen Warren?" I kept a careful eye on his face as I spoke.
The glassy-eyed look was there, the one I was coming to know all too well, but this time it had to compete with mingled fear and revulsion which spread across his features. He tried to control it but I could see he was fighting to breathe, gulping in air like a landed flounder.
I held out a flask but he made no move to take it, curling forward in his chair instead, his arms wrapped around his middle.
"Here, come on, Sam." I reached out a tentative hand to his shoulder. "You all right?"
Of course he wasn't, but I was momentarily stumped. With an upset woman, a cup of tea and a sympathetic ear usually does the trick - or a slap as a last resort in the case of genuine hysteria (so I've heard – haven't had the opportunity to try that one out myself). I didn't know what this was, and Tyler was no woman, but I found myself rubbing small circles on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin material of his shirt.
I was just considering giving Annie a shout for some strong tea when he gave a shudder and his breathing started to calm down. He gradually uncurled, leaning back, and I removed my hand, stepping away to give him some breathing space. I nearly told him to pull himself together and stop being a right jessie, but I had no idea what was wrong with him and didn't want to risk setting him off again.
"If you feel faint you're supposed to put your head down between your legs." I said, sounding lame even to my own ears. To my relief, the ghost of a smile crossed his lips.
"I don't think that's going to be necessary," Sam said, his voice hoarse.
"And you're not going to heave up anywhere?"
He gave a weak laugh. "Not today."
His eyes were shining wetly, the lashes clumped together, and the image of him in the photo I'd taken, blurred and shadowed, flashed through my mind.
"All right then." I perched on the desk in front of him. "You feel up to telling me what that was all about?"
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, but stayed silent.
I waited for a moment, listening to his breathing even out. "Look, Sam, I can't help you if you won't confide in me..."
He was shaking his head, his lips pressed together.
Frustrated, I ran my hand through my hair.
"Warren is trouble. He owns that mill, and he owns The Den, and he's up to his neck in dodgy deals. I need to know what you might have been involved in before we get in any deeper."
"I can't...I mean, I don't know." His jaw had that obstinate set to it that made me want to punch him one. I looked away before I gave in to temptation, and took a swig from my flask instead.
Tyler finally broke the tense silence.
"I do recognise the name. I think...I think I know him. And I don't think I like him." He looked up at me, the stubborn expression belied by something in his voice altogether more raw and desperate. "I can't explain it, but there's something about him that makes me feel...angry. And...a bit sick."
"If it's any consolation, I think he has that effect on a lot of people," I told him. But Tyler, still hugging himself, didn't look remotely reassured.
"Did you know Warren owns The Den?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"And you have no idea what you were doing there, or how you know Warren?"
Another shake of the head.
"Ok. I'll have a look into The Den. Meanwhile, I think you should talk to Annie about getting that psycho-whatsit thing arranged. It might help you remember more."
Under the cover of putting the kettle on, I nipped out and asked Annie to talk to him. Tyler was clearly rattled, and I didn't know how much of that was to do with Warren and the memories his name had evoked. Maybe Annie would have a better idea what was wrong with him – although I was starting to think that my original diagnosis of loony wasn't far off the mark.
I left them in my office and retreated to Annie's desk, getting out the file on Tyler as their voices murmured on softly in the background. There was a manila envelope tucked inside the file and I took it out, shaking the contents onto the desk and sifting through the items. I set aside the small key and the match book and after a cursory glance, took a closer look at the dirty scrap of cloth that I had assumed was a hanky. The fabric, I realised, was thicker than a normal pocket handkerchief, and most of the grime seemed to be dust rather than anything less savoury. I knew what this was. I had one myself, albeit decidedly cleaner. It was a lens cloth, crumpled and well-used. Tyler didn't wear glasses – nor did he seem like he needed to – so did he have a camera? No, I definitely hadn't seen one in his flat.
I pocketed the key and the matches, and was just sweeping the thin notebook and the lens cloth back into the envelope when Annie popped out of the office to retrieve her handbag.
"I'm just getting Dr. Crabtree's phone number," she explained as I looked up.
"Look, will you be all right if I nip out for the rest of the afternoon?" I nodded meaningfully in the direction of my office where Sam was still sitting. I had serious misgivings about leaving them alone but I couldn't babysit Tyler all day.
She glanced back over her shoulder then smiled back at me. "Yes, of course. He's calmed down now and he's fine." Annie lowered her voice. "Really Gene – he's all right. Once I've called Dr. Crabtree I'll send Sam off home. Or to the library – I think there's more reading he wants to do."
Although my instincts said not to leave her with him, I knew that I had to learn to trust Annie's judgement and she seemed sure about this.
I stuck my head around the door and Sam looked up, giving me a rather sheepish smile.
"Sorry about earlier," he said. "I'm not quite sure what happened, but I guess I'm still a bit out-of-kilter."
"Hm. Well, I've got to see a man about a dog so I'm going to leave you to Annie's tender ministrations."
For once, he just nodded in agreement instead of arguing to come with me, which threw me a bit. I sniffed.
"Right then. Well. Mind you do as she says, and don't hang around all afternoon getting un-"
"..under her feet. Yes, I know. This isn't a babysitting service." But he tempered his words with a grin which, if tired, looked genuine enough.
After a moment's hesitation, I gave a nod and left.
***
My first stop was Davey Robinson's locksmith shop. As luck would have it Davey himself was there, rather than his part-time help. He was perched on a stool behind the tiny counter, squashed in between a display of padlocks and a sign advertising key cutting. It was a long shot that he'd be able to tell me much but I showed him the mystery key, anyway. He folded away his newspaper and leaned forward, scowling as he peered through a magnifying glass to examine the small item.
"Thought it might be a padlock key," I suggested, but he shook his head.
"Nah. More likely it's from a locker or a heavy-duty filing cabinet. Or a safety deposit box, maybe."
I thought about all the places in the city which might have public lockers, and all the banks with safety deposit boxes, and gave a groan.
"That would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial. Can't you narrow it down at all?"
He shook his head, setting aside the magnifying glass. "Sorry, Mr. Hunt."
Just as well I hadn't got my hopes up, then.
I slipped the key back in my wallet, thanked Davey, and left, getting back into the Cortina and driving on to Trevor's.
He'd just finished developing the mill photos and handed them to me to look through as he dealt with another customer. The flash had worked pretty well and the colours had come out all right, but even so the blood stain was little more than a rusty pattern: darker brown against a paler background, making me think of those weird ink blot tests in one of Annie's books.
I wondered what it said about me that I thought it looked like a poodle.
***
"Is he a crackpot, then?" I asked conversationally, swinging my feet up onto my desk.
Tyler was long gone by the time I got back to the office for which I was grateful - once I pushed aside my nagging sense of worry over where he was and what he was getting up to. At least it meant I could pick Annie's brains freely.
She plonked a mug of tea in front of me and gave an exasperated huff at my question. "No. But I think he's been through something traumatic."
"What, apart from being run over?"
"Quite possibly, yes. And it's left his brain still trying to cope with it."
I frowned. "Like shell-shock, d'you mean?"
"Yes, that sort of thing." Annie took a seat opposite and sipped thoughtfully at her tea.
"All right, then, tell me what this psycho-thingy amnesia is."
"Psychogenic. Well, basically it's when there is no physical explanation for the amnesia, so the cause must be psychological."
I tapped out a fag and lit it. "But Tyler did get hit on the head – he had concussion, for God's sake."
"Right, so we don't know for sure why he's lost his memory, but judging by his reactions to things that prompt his recall, I'd say there is a psychological dimension to it."
I squinted at her through the lazy coils of smoke. "So, you're saying he had a nasty experience and his mind made him forget about it?"
"It may not be a single experience. It could be several things, or a period of intense stress." She put her mug down. "Gene, who is Stephen Warren?"
"A scumbag masquerading as a businessman." I took a deep drag on my ciggie. Annie wasn't a delicate flower, but I wasn't sure how much to tell her. She met my gaze squarely and I sighed.
"You know The Warren?"
She nodded.
"Well, the club is just a front. A very nice, useful front where he can be seen hobnobbing with coppers and local bigwigs, all butter-wouldn't-melt, upstanding pillar of the community stuff. But behind the scenes he's got fingers in all sorts of pies – drugs, prostitution, extortion, gambling - you name it and he's had his grubby paws all over it." I didn't mention his taste for rent boys, who he also had his grubby paws all over – there were some things Annie didn't need to know.
"Why would Sam be involved with someone like that?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Cartwright."
I swigged some tea and we both fell silent. My fag had nearly burnt down before Annie spoke again.
"Whatever happened to make Sam lose his memory, I'd lay good money on this Stephen Warren being linked to it. When we were talking after you'd left, Sam was still worked up by the mention of Warren's name. And his body language was really defensive."
I thought back to the way Sam had wrapped his arms around himself. Stephen Warren could be brutal – not that he did much of the physical work himself, mind you, he had heavies for that. But he wasn't above getting his own hands dirty if he wanted to, Catholic guilt notwithstanding, and I knew he was none too gentle with the rent boys he manhandled. I wasn't sure I liked where my thoughts were heading.
"When you say defensive – do you mean as in being attacked?"
Annie pondered for a moment. "It could be, but not necessarily. It can be a reaction to something very frightening or shocking...something that would make him feel vulnerable." Annie's eyes dropped to her hands where they twisted in her lap.
"Did he..." She trailed off and swallowed and tried again. "Sam's injuries – were they just from a car accident?"
Leaning over I stubbed out my cigarette with more force than strictly needed, my mouth suddenly dry. "So far as I know." I drained the dregs of my tea before continuing. "If he'd been beaten up or...something – would that account for the amnesia?"
She gave a small shrug. "It could do, I suppose."
Forcing my mind away from that particular avenue, I asked: "So what's the cure? He goes to see a quack for some psycho-bollocks-therapy and Bob's your uncle, good as new?"
Annie smiled wanly. "It's not quite as easy as all that. There are different things a doctor can try. Hypnosis, for instance. Getting Sam to re-live things. There are drugs that can help in some cases."
I looked out of the window, seeing the clouds gathering overhead. "So there's no guarantee that he'll get his memory back?"
"No."
The rain began, fat drops hitting the window and running down the glass in rivulets, patterns within patterns.
"If he's been through something that bad," I mused, "maybe amnesia is a blessing."
***
Annie left and I relaxed with a second glass of scotch, savouring its bite as I took a large swig.
The more I thought about it the more obvious the answer seemed to be. Tyler's connection with Warren; his presence in the mill that night; the fact they'd tried to kill him...
Tyler was a copper. A copper working undercover. He had to be.
Except that Ray had rung to say there was no record of him at Manchester or Lancashire.
It wasn't conclusive, of course. It was possible that he was with a different force. But then what was he doing in Manchester? And why had no-one come looking for him when he failed to report in?
I sighed, getting to my feet and sweeping my coat off the hat stand. There was only one thing for it: I would have to go to work.
***