The first thing he saw was a long-bladed knife, impaled in a seat cushion. No blood on the knife, but smears of red on the floor, along one of the intact windows, and dripping from the edges of the broken glass.
The two women hugged on the row behind the knife, heads bent towards each other as if scared to look.
Other than the women, the bus was empty. Then he heard it - a creak of metal over his head. Callum looked up. Another creak, then another. Someone was on the roof. When the footsteps reached the front of the bus, they stopped. The silence that followed was thick as soup. One woman whimpered.
"It's okay, pet." Callum sounded just like his dad when he was stressed. "They're gone now. It's over."
The next moment, he shrieked along with them as the whole bus shook with the noise above. The footsteps were running now, smacking the roof as if it were a toy drum played by a toddler with a sugar high. Speeding up as they reached the back of the bus, the footsteps suddenly ceased.
A transit van was parked beyond the bus stop. Callum saw a bulky shape plunge from the end of the bus, land on the van's roof, roll with the impact, and drop. Seconds later, the figure climbed a low wall and vanished into the park beyond. The van's alarm screamed, its indicators flashing. Sirens contributed their wail to the soundtrack, adding a dissonant note as they got closer, washing the horizon in pulsing blue light.
"Are either of you hurt? Do you want to come downstairs?"
The nearest woman raised her head. Before answering, she looked at the broken window, and at the streaks of blood. Her friend was still shaking, and the first woman stroked her hair as she replied.
"Police?"
"They're coming, pet, don't you worry. Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, her eyes fixed on Callum. "They'll arrest him, won't they?"
Callum didn't need to ask who she meant. "I expect so. I mean…" he gestured at the damage, and through the broken window towards the three men lying crumpled and bloody on the pavement. "Yes. They'll arrest him."
The woman nodded. She had glitter in her hair, some of it sticking to her wet cheeks.
"He saved us. They would have raped us. Or worse."
Callum thought about speaking, but something in the woman's expression stopped him.
"I didn't see what he looked like," she said, slowly. "Neither did you, did you, Suze?" Her friend sniffed and shook her head. The first woman looked back at Callum. There was no mistaking the steel in her expression. "What about you? Do you remember what he looked like? If the police ask you, could you describe him?"
Big, broad, early to mid-twenties. Jeans, grey hoodie, brown jacket. Plain black beanie. Quiet. Wouldn't meet your eye. Hunched over, awkward, shy. Always covered his head, even when it was warm. If not a beanie, then a bandana. Dark green eyes, blonde eyebrows. He'd been a regular for a few weeks now. Took the bus to the end of the line, got off at Barking.
Callum thought about the gang, how they'd got on without paying, the leader showing his gun and bullet tattoos. Three kills. And looking for the chance of more.
"No," he said, with the faintest of nods, "can't say that I could. Didn't notice what he looked like."
The woman returned his nod. The first police car came to a screeching stop alongside the bus. Callum led the two of them downstairs as a second police car and an ambulance arrived.
Later that night, after a cheese sandwich and half a pint of cheap whisky, Callum Perkins went to bed and stared at the ceiling. For once, he was glad of the city sounds beyond his window; the horns, the dull thump of dance music, the laughter and the shouts. He listened to them as he drifted into a fitful sleep, but even then, he could still hear that voice on the top deck of his bus, as one man put another three into hospital. Not shouting. Not swearing.
Singing.
Chapter Fourteen
Rhoda Ilích got out the ingredients for the thermos, humming to herself. While the milk warmed on the stove, she added cocoa powder, brown sugar, Rohypnol and a glug of gammahydroxybutrate. No need to measure anything out. One look at a candidate told her if a whole teaspoon of Rohypnol would be necessary. Too much and those passing by would see the kid was drugged; not enough and the candidate might fight back.
As she stirred the mixture, Rhoda's tongue found the two capped teeth she'd gained after underestimating a dose in the early days. These days, she didn't make mistakes. She'd learned her business from the best, watching the way her mentor appraised potential candidates, how she approached them, how long it took to gain their trust. The only part of the process Irene had excluded her from was preparing the drugged drinks. Trial and error, plus two broken teeth, taught Rhoda how to estimate body weight and get the dose right.
Nearly half-past nine. Summer was over, and the newest batch of homeless kids were getting their first taste of cold nights on the streets. Rhoda aimed to pick up the candidate just before ten. Something else she'd learned from Irene. Too early and the city would still be busy. Too late, and you risked catching the theatre and pub crowd, plus the candidate might have succumbed to the lure of a bottle, or worse.
She heard the diesel rattle of the black cab before Andy beeped the horn. Time to go to work.
Andy drove in silence, which Rhoda appreciated. He wasn't as good a driver as Marty, but he was better company. No small talk. Andy stuck to his job and didn't eye the female candidates with Marty's greasy hunger. Rhoda always showered after working with Marty. She wasn't sorry he was dead.
They picked up her wingman twelve minutes after leaving Crouch End. She didn't ask his name. He was young, muscly, and he used too much hair gel. He barely looked up from his phone the entire journey. The wingman made sure the candidate stayed in the taxi until they reached the house. A perfect job for the strong, silent, morally vacuous type.
Winter stopped everything for ten days after Marty and Tays' murders. Rhoda lost the candidate she'd been working on. Winter sent Strickland to visit her the evening after the deaths, asking questions. His reputation terrified most people, but during Rhoda's time with Irene she'd seen things that woke her up in the early hours, paranoid, sweating. She could deal with Strickland. He left satisfied Rhoda knew nothing about the murders. It was Winter's way of reminding her he didn't trust her. And that was okay. She had a recording of Winter ordering an execution. It would keep her alive if their business relationship turned sour.
"Drop me here. There's building work by the bridge. Meet me there in fifteen minutes."
Andy pulled over. A white-haired man held up his newspaper to hail the cab, but Andy kept the orange Taxi sign dark, shaking his head when the man approached.
"Mirror," said Rhoda.
Andy craned round in his seat. " You're fine."
It wasn't his call. She didn't move, waiting until Andy shrugged and tilted the rear-view mirror for her. Rhoda checked her face. She thought of herself as Madge this week, which meant a blonde wig, too much makeup, an ochre shawl, and a hemp shoulder bag for the thermos. She tilted her head, tucking away the last strands of her own hair. Another lesson from Irene. Any eyewitness would describe a woman that didn't exist.
This was her fifth encounter with Sunny, the new candidate. The first had been wordless, a concerned frown as she dropped a two pound coin into Sunny's paper cup. The second time she passed Sunny's doorway, she'd eyed the girl's thin jacket before handing over her burgundy shawl, nodding in response to the quiet, "Thank you."
The cocoa came out during the third visit. Not drugged. Not yet. Rhoda offered Sunny a cup. Sunny shook her head, dark eyes already suspicious after less than a week on the street. Rhoda drank alone that night. On the fourth visit, Sunny accepted a cup after Rhoda finished hers. Tonight was the night. She'd gained enough trust, but no one would remember 'Madge' later.
When Rhoda found Sunny tonight, the young woman was still wearing the burgundy shawl. She offered Rhoda a shy smile. The girl looked thinner every time Rhoda saw her. Grimier, too. No doubt she wouldn't smell too fresh. Well, the parlour
would feed her, clean her, and make her beautiful.
"Hello, Sunny. Chilly tonight, isn't it? How are things? Are you hungry?"
"I'm okay, thank you." Still polite, soft-spoken, vulnerable. Perfect. Leave her on the streets, and the reality of eking out an existence in the gutter would either turn her feral, or kill her trying. From the way she spoke, Rhoda guessed Sunny came from a middle-class home. A rare find. Her new stepfather might have started paying her visits during the night. Or she'd been grounded for stealing from Mum, fleeing to London to teach her parents a lesson. Rhoda didn't want Sunny to tell her how she'd ended up in a shop doorway. She doubted she was still capable of caring, but why take the risk?
"Hmm. Well, a snack never hurts. Hang on." Rhoda rummaged in the shoulder bag, pulling out a protein bar. "Here you are. I've overeaten today, so you'll be doing me a favour."
Sunny consumed the bar in three greedy bites.
Rhoda pressed her advantage. "Confession time. I couldn't wait. I'm cold, so I've already started on the cocoa. But don't worry, I left a cup for you."
She unscrewed the thermos and poured while she spoke. Sunny accepted it without a word, inhaled the sweet steam, then sipped. The sugar hit the spot, and Sunny gulped the rest down.
Rhoda took the cup back and replaced the thermos in her bag. She kept up a stream of inane chatter, describing the plot of a new film, asking Sunny what books she liked. All the while, Rhoda watched the candidate's pupils and listened for the beginnings of slurring in her speech. Sunny lost her train of thought after a few minutes, patting the concrete underneath her sleeping bag as if to reassure herself it was there. She giggled.
Rhoda held out her hand. Sunny took it with the trust of a child.
"Tell you what, Sunny. There's a hostel half a mile away. The people who run it go to my church." The mention of church didn't work on every candidate, but a nice middle-class atheist like Sunny would associate the word with comforting images of harvest festivals, weak tea, and well-meaning old ladies.
Sunny stood up more unsteadily than Rhoda would have liked, but that might be lack of sustenance rather than Rohypnol and GHB.
"Here. Let me help with your stuff." Sunny leaned against a wall while Rhoda filled the sleeping bag with the few items that made up the homeless girl's belongings. Two books, both poetry. A spare jumper, underwear, a hand towel, tampons and some soap in a plastic bag.
"Let me give you my phone number. In case we get separated."
Sunny nodded dumbly and fished a phone out of her pocket, nearly dropping it. Rhoda caught it as she fumbled and took it out of her hand.
"I'll put my number in. Come on, I'll do it while we walk."
Sunny let Rhoda take her arm as they made their way to the rendezvous. To anyone watching, they might have been mother and daughter. Rhoda felt a touch of professional pride in how well she'd judged the dose. Sunny remained docile. She would be unrecognisable when the parlour finished with her. Rhoda estimated her cut would be ten grand. Possibly twelve, with that lovely home counties accent.
From the deepest shadows under the bridge, Bedlam Boy watched Rhoda Ilích approach the girl in the shop doorway. He had followed Rhoda the first time she stopped there. After that, a bird shit cam monitored the homeless girl's patch.
He hung well back as the pair walked to the taxi. Rhoda got in beside the girl and they drove away. Halfway over the bridge, the window went down, and someone dropped a fast-food bag in a bin. The Boy guessed it contained the girl's phone. Her last link with family and friends.
The taxi's next stop would be a house run by Winter. Nothing good happened there. Intercepted phone messages and emails referred to them as parlours. Grooming parlours.
He pulled his hood over his head before breaking cover, jogging out onto the pavement, his route mapped out in his head. He would visit the Traitor tonight.
The Boy grinned as he ran. Soon, Winter would find out what was coming for him. Winter showed no fear, but it was an act. You couldn't be intelligent and fearless.
Unless, the Boy reminded himself, laughing out loud, you were mad.
Chapter Fifteen
It was three in the morning when Rhoda got back to her ground-floor flat in Crouch End. She rinsed the thermos, placing it on the drainer to dry. The wig and the shawl stayed in the shoulder bag, which she hung on the hall cupboard door. Careless people ended up in prison. The taxi always dropped her somewhere different, a few minutes walk from home. By then, blonde Madge had gone, replaced by Rhoda's short grey hair.
She felt wrung out after delivering a candidate to the parlour. Part of her job involved a pep talk, acclimatising new arrivals to the reality of their situation. Rhoda drank cheap tea with the maid and two of the parlour crew until Sunny was in a fit state to listen. The maid's title didn't reflect her duties - it was a hangover from her days running a brothel. It said a lot for the woman's life choices that she saw overseeing the parlour as a promotion.
The talk with Sunny went as well as could be expected. Experience showed that candidates were less likely to resist, try to escape, or attempt suicide, if Rhoda explained their situation. It would be best if they accepted their changed circumstances as soon as possible. Freedom brought them pain; why mourn its loss? Sunny, tired and dazed, wept silently as she listened, but Rhoda didn't detect much resistance. Whatever put her in that shop doorway had already taken the fight out of her. Good. If Rhoda hoped to clear five figures' commission, Sunny needed to be undamaged when auctioned.
In the bathroom, Rhoda eyed the packet of sleeping pills. She'd taken them for a decade, on and off. More on than off since Marty's murder. The forger died twenty years to the night after the Lewis family. A strong enough coincidence to send her back to the pills. She was weaning herself off again now, but it took all her willpower to close the medicine cabinet door and go to bed.
In the darkness of her bedroom, Rhoda counted her breaths, visualising her calm place. Such a cliché: a beach with golden sand, the fine grains trickling between her bare toes. Deep blue sky, turquoise sea kissing the sand, warm sun on her face. The other people in Rhoda's calm place never disturbed her, but they were there - playing in the water, fetching drinks from the straw-thatched bar, stretching out to bask. All keeping their distance. Rhoda didn't like to be alone, but she didn't trust anyone enough to enjoy their company. Her imagination provided the only respite.
A tired smile crept onto her face as her body relaxed. Without the pills, her beach retreat soothed her mind, and Rhoda began a swift, untroubled descent into sleep. She couldn't remember the last time this had happened. Maybe there would be no nightmares.
She woke up an hour later. Someone was standing at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep.
Rhoda's bedroom was dark, but a deeper darkness began beyond her feet. An outline; a human shape.
She was a light sleeper. The odds were slim that anyone could get into her bedroom without waking her. Despite this logical piece of reassurance, Rhoda kept her breathing as quiet as possible. She stared at the shape.
One straightforward way to dismiss her paranoia suggested itself: reach out to her left and turn on the bedside lamp. The shape continued to stare down at her. She blinked to clear its blurred edges. The shape didn't move. It couldn't be real. Turn on the light. Take away its power.
She began by taking her left hand out from under the duvet, sliding her palm along the cotton sheet. The gap between the bed and the table was three inches, but her fingers found nothing. A knot of panic fluttered in her throat.
Be calm. Think it through.
Rhoda's head wasn't on the pillow. She was further down the bed than she'd thought. Reaching out in the wrong place. She moved her hand backwards, and her fingers brushed the smooth wood of the table. The knot in her throat loosened, but her breaths, despite her efforts, came short and fast.
Her fingers reached for the lamp's cable. She traced the plastic cord up the side of the table until her index finger encountered the switch.
/> Slide it up, the light comes on, and this is over.
The shadows who pursued her in nightmares were dead, buried, gone. Rhoda was in the bedroom of her flat in Crouch End. Alone. She refused to be terrified of an imaginary shadow. This stopped now.
She slid the switch. Nothing happened.
A strange, whimpering gulp broke the silence, such a pathetic sound that Rhoda barely believed she'd produced it.
She tried the switch again, then a third and fourth time.
The shape didn't move. Rhoda pushed herself up until her back rested against the headboard. The lightbulb must have blown. Bad timing, but nothing sinister. Okay. Her phone was on the table. She'd use the light from that to dispel the shadow figure. No more sleep tonight, she conceded. A bottle of Chardonnay, and plenty of shitty reality shows to catch up on.
Rhoda slid her hand back onto the bedside table, finding her glass of water. The phone was just beyond it. Except it wasn't. Rhoda's fingers explored the table's surface until she found something that stopped the breath in her throat. The end of the charging cable. She reviewed that night's bedtime routine, her mind flitting from image to image. Bathroom, no sleeping pill, bedside light on—working perfectly—plug phone in. Had she done that? Yes. Definitely. Her fingers squeezed the cable as if the action might summon the phone.
The shadow moved, stepping away from the foot of the bed.
"No." Rhoda's lips shaped the word, but there was no air to support any sound. Her neck prickled with sweat, but her body stayed cold.
Once the shadow figure was standing next to her, it bent over the bed like a parent watching a sleeping child. Rhoda became aware of her full bladder. She stared up into the darkness, telling herself no one could stand so still. She was imagining this. Some kind of waking nightmare.
The Forger & the Traitor Page 6