Chapter II

Collette picked up the phone and pressed out Harry Gordon's number.
"Harry?"
"Hi there, Collette. What are you doing calling at this time of day?"
"Harry - have you seen The Chronicle?"
"No . . ."
"Another person's been killed on the Newlands estate. You know - the one where Chris was hiding out. It isn't Chris but June says that all three of the men killed so far are all of similar build and appearance to him and the police want anyone who may have any information to contact them urgently before any more innocent people get hurt." Collette's voice was desperate. "Harry, if you know where he is, you've got to do something. This is crazy."
"Collette, I've told you already - I haven't seen him since he was arrested, apart from on the box, of course. He called me once and told me where he was going to stay until things died down a bit but after they did Lynn I kept well away from him. Someone's out to get him. The police sure worked on all of us before the trial and I don't know about you but I don't fancy another visit."
"OK." said Collette. "I'm sorry. I just can't get that man out of my life. It's been two years now. First there's all the secret stuff at the office. Then he disappears and the Government starts asking questions. Then he comes back with this crazy story about being threatened and the police come running round asking questions. Chris gets away again and hides out with that girl Gill Chalmers. Sally Tyler, Lynn, June Franklin, Keith . . . God knows who else gets to keep quiet or else . . . now someone's trying to kill him!"
"Again." added Harry.
"Yes, well," said Collette, calming down a little, "at least we know it's for real this time."
"Look, Col. Stay out of it. We've all had one hell of a rough time. All I'm trying to do is forget the past and start afresh. I've got to think of little Mark. Lynn won't even let anyone speak about Chris in the house. He let us all down pretty badly and none of the old gang that I know are doing anything except getting on with whatever they can do to put themselves back together again. He's on his own now wherever he is. There's absolutely nothing we can do."
"OK, OK, cut the lecture. I just wanted to talk to someone. I don't suppose John..."
"Collette. Forget it."
"Sorry. I'll let you get on with some work."
"Don't worry. It's nice to hear from you again. You should come over and see us sometime - what about next weekend? It's Mark's second birthday.... ah, er, well, that's not really your scene is it.... er . . . well, look, just call in when you're over this way and we'll have a drink."
"Yes Harry. Thanks. I'd better go now. See you."
"Sure. Bye Col."
Collette put the phone down and went over to the window. Everything seemed so normal out there. Despite all that had happened she still felt guilty about leaving Chris. She had only worked for him. He had never touched her - never even hinted at anything - but there had been some sort of excitement about being involved with all the events and people around in those days. She remembered the parties. How happy everyone was. Then the drama. She had never really understood what it was all about but, being at the sharp end of clients' abuse over the telephone, she certainly knew that something had gone wrong. She had never thought that Chris had actually gone off with the million they said he had. Anyone that knew him would have said the same. They did and a brilliant young barrister convinced the Court that young Mr Austin had already suffered quite enough for his mistakes. As the sun broke through from behind a cloud Collette could not help wonder though, why all the violence had erupted afterwards. She had been lucky and had missed the worst. "But the others," she mused, "the others - God, had they been hit hard; and they knew hardly any more than she did. In fact, apart from Keith, they weren't even directly involved. And now people are getting killed!" She turned back and sat down at the kitchen table, her nightdress falling open as she reached for a cigarette. Drawing deeply she watched the smoke curl round towards the porcelain lamp Chris had bought her for Christmas. "The last Christmas in the 'good old days'". For a moment, she stared at the shapes in the smoke. "Bastard!" she muttered to herself and fleetingly she could make out the silver-haired head of Bob Lindon. Robert K Lindon, the charming and cunning citizen, apparently, of the world. "Where are you now?" she asked. "Just where the hell are you and your friends?" She swung her arm through the haze to slap the grotesquely distorted image of the man she had grown to hate. Almost as if she had really expected to make contact with the lined flesh of the sixty-year-old American, she started as her hand carried on through and in the next instant caught the lamp, sending it crashing to the floor, exploding into a myriad fragments of glass and china. Even before the patterned pieces had stopped spinning wildly over the cold kitchen floor she was on her knees, sobbing, as she tried to gather them up and rebuild them. Both hands cupped together, the pieces she had collected poured onto the solid base in a discordant cascade. A tear fell onto one of the fragments and she gently turned it so that the salty water ran along a rough edge. Picking up another she pushed the two pieces together, squeezing her tear between them as if the water were glue. Still holding the two pieces together tightly she stood up. The cigarette lay in the ashtray. Its smoke spiralled upward until the current of air from her movement scattered the grey.