The thunderstorm wasn't going away, quite on the contrary - it seemed to be staying here permanently. There is something about Mirkwood and thunderstorms. Sometimes I find that this city cannot survive without rains - it was like breathing for human-beings. You can hold your breath, maybe even for a few minutes, but eventually you would break down and open your mouth for some good old oxygen. Mirkwood could stay without pouring rain for a few days... but it was weird for this town. Thunderstorms was a violent type of rains, but they still suited this city more than a sunny day in late July.
I walked for a few miles, got enormously wet, before a taxi cab passed by me, and I could wave and stop it.
It was a simple plan. Get home, get changed, get to the police station, get some files, get to the office. Simple.
It is never simple in my profession, when something weird is involved.
When I was in the shower, my phone rang. Not the landline, but the mobile. The one that no-one had a number to. Apart from a few very important people. I opened the shower curtain and reached for the mobile. 'Yes?' I said. There was no point in looking who was calling - the calls were usually scrambled anyway.
'You are in deep shit,' the voice of the unknown Samaritan was deep and husky. It sounded very familiar, but I couldn't place it. Oh maybe I was just imagining things.
'Who is this?'
There was a brief silence, as if the Samaritan didn't think it through and didn't expect such question. 'You are going against something you can't stop.'
I laughed. 'Ok, if this is your idea of some kind of a joke, I must admit, it's funny. Now, how did you get this number?'
A brief silence again, and then he hung up. I cursed quietly to myself and for the first time in some long long time looked at the mobile's display. "Unknown number". Figured as much.
Suddenly I felt cold, even though I was still half-standing in my shower under hot water. But something was not right. No-one knew this mobile number. No-one knew except a few people who wouldn't be calling me without telling their names or just for the sake of saying that I was in deep shit. But because someone just did, and because this someone didn't sound like he was joking, I suddenly realised that I believed him. When something goes wrong, you do tend to find yourself in some deep shit.
Water suddenly became very cold, and I cursed a lot louder, jumping out from the shower.
Thunderstorm was still going on outside, and I sat in my living room, looking at my window and slowly ending a glass of whisky. Not some cheap local crap, but a nice imported brand. For my taste, it was somewhat similar. But it felt good to be sitting here, with an opened bottle of some expensive brand, and thinking. The last bit was not really doing any good.
I went through everyone who could have known my number, and people they knew who could have called me for some reason. Small Willy had just talked to me, he didn't need to call me again to tell me something I already knew. Joe was out of the country, shooting some wild animals in Africa. Erica, even when trying, couldn't pull of a trick of sounding like a man. Her friends? I doubt it. She didn't know what I was doing. Who else? Colin O'Leary was quite dead and wasn't coming back any time soon. His right-hand was dead as well, shot in the same building as his boss. There were only two others who knew the number. The Fatty and Trevor Hedgeland, my contact inside the police. Him and Alex were quite useful when I needed a few insights on how the police was doing.
Ok, why would the Fatty call me? He was an insider into the shadowy business of bookies. He knew everyone in there, and I was paying him off to get some dirty work done, including some gambling debts and stuff like that. He was amazingly useful, but not in the case of the recent shootings. He most certainly heard about O'Leary death, but it didn't really concern the bookies' world, did it?
So it left Trevor. Or someone who Trevor might have known. And this made sense. Trevor could have dug something up, saw some results, some indication in the Irishman case that I would be involved, and connected some dots, and now he was calling to warn me about... what? No, it didn't seem like Trevor. He quite enjoyed extra money I was paying him, he would have told me more. Had he really wanted to betray me and sell me out, he would not have called me in the first place. Ok, so maybe someone Trevor knew? That other cop, Alex? But he wasn't all that smart. He was just a scum, and as far as I knew, Trevor kept his connection with me as his private bonus, so that Alex couldn't get rid of Hedgeland and get all the paying for himself. Ok, maybe not Alex, someone else? But who else would Trevor tell about me without getting into trouble? No-one. He was a fucking policeman, after all! He wasn't supposed to have any connection with some ex-cops turned to, as they called it, "the Dark Side"!
It was a dead end. A mental dead end. I honestly didn't know who it was who called me, and why, and why telling me just a part of information. It bugged me, and I finished my drink with one big sip. Time to get my ass to the police station and get some files. Maybe he would call again. You never know.
While I was standing under this damn pouring rain, a figure that had been leaning against the wall stood up and caught the closing door to the apartment complex. When a cab stopped, and I turned around, feeling someone's gaze on me, there was nothing. I shrugged and got into cab.