by Rachael Blok
Filip frowns. ‘He did. I’ve been trying to remember. It was loud, stuff was going on. I think he said, “It was never meant…” and then a few words in Norwegian, no sentences.’
‘Everyone’s out? And Aksel. Is he…’ Maarten doesn’t finish, and waits for Filip. There’s a pause.
Filip nods. But he is pale. ‘They’re out. But Aksel’s dead.’
43
IQBAL
Handing out water, Iqbal is tense. The fire is getting to him. The pennies are back in his mouth, and he will need to get inside soon, get to his room. It’s all come back. The fire, the chaos. The suspicion.
Marieke’s words remind him of when Obaidur was rocking back and forth under the desk in the fire; when he’d pulled him out, almost wrenching both their arms, he’d been saying something over and over.
‘It’s my fault. What have I done?’
And he hears it again. Guilt that somehow it could have been averted. Marieke is muttering, taking the water from him with barely a glance. Ebba, Filip, shells of themselves. He’d helped Sarah up the lawn. Richard had been in one of the first ambulances, but there are more coming, and so far, only the unconscious have been taken.
‘I could have stopped this!’ Sarah was weeping. ‘I knew Richard wasn’t happy with the weekend, with Aksel. Why did we ever put ourselves close to a man like that?’ She’d sobbed on his arm. ‘Thank you, Iqbal, thank you. He always liked you.’ Fresh sobbing.
He’d taken out her phone. ‘Call your daughters,’ he’d said. ‘Call them.’ But her phone had been smashed, so he’d looked their house number up for her on the office records, then lent her his mobile to speak to them.
The bright day is dark with smoke. His longing for Rajita is a physical pain. This weekend is stirring up all the ghosts. The flames bring back his panic; he had searched for Rajita, he had searched and searched. He searches still. The fire has never left him. It had scorched more than his body.
Sarah returns his phone and he thumbs back to the messages from Obaidur. After no contact with him for so many years, Iqbal is still getting over the shock of being in touch with him again. Obaidur replied to tell Iqbal more about his meeting with the man. He never gave his name, just said he was a researcher for a new tech company. He looked official – ID, business card. He paid Obaidur five hundred dollars for an idea he’d had. Obaidur was proud, grateful to sell on his invention. Iqbal must word his reply sensitively, so as not to alarm his friend. But he shakes with rage, even now. A paltry sum. Exploitation. Theft. A criminal act. And if Obaidur saw this man pictured in an article about Archipelago, then it must be one of the men here today.
Iqbal has a sudden thought and flicks back to the group photo taken earlier on his phone. He sends it off to Obaidur. Which one is the researcher?
He wonders what he will do when he gets the response.
Lois approaches. ‘Iqbal, you look terrible. Don’t stay out here – the smoke… We’re fine. Don’t put yourself through it. I can’t believe it crashed. I just can’t believe it.’
It’s bad for her too, he can see it on her face.
Fire, the smell of burning. The screaming. It never leaves you. Not really.
44
MAARTEN
‘The doctor’s ready.’
Maarten takes a long last look at Richard through the glass. He’s connected to machines. Sarah sits by his bed, sobbing. She hasn’t changed and her clothes are dirty, torn.
Adrika waits for him, standing quietly. She speaks again. ‘The consultant is ready. Come on.’
*
Tired, grey, the consultant says, ‘Aksel Larsen was pronounced dead on arrival.’ There’s noise and shouting from the corridor. ‘I’m sorry, it’s a busy evening.’
‘What was the cause of death?’ Maarten asks.
‘Well, you’ll have to wait for the post-mortem. I can’t tell you that. Whatever the reason, you’re going to have to wait for more investigation. I’m not wrong, he was in a helicopter crash, wasn’t he?’
Maarten nods.
‘Well then. It could be any number of things. I’m surprised so many have survived. They’ve been lucky.’
‘He…’ Maarten is about to say that he’d heard Aksel had stood up on the ascent, but it’s not a symptom of anything, so he changes tack, tries professional courtesy.
‘There may have been some level of foul play. There have been some letters.’
‘Threats against him?’ The consultant nods to someone who passes, and hands him a form.
‘No. Not him, but someone else on the flight.’
The consultant shrugs; his eyes look dry, red-rimmed. Maarten wants to feel annoyed with the lack of additional offers of help, but it’s getting late, and he has no idea how long this doctor has been on for.
‘I wish I could give you a magic bullet answer,’ he’s saying. ‘From my point of view, it looks like a non-urgent post-mortem. There’s no obvious cause of death. How was he before the flight?’
‘Fine,’ Maarten says, thinking of Aksel’s more than fine appearance, his speech. He’d outlined the anti-slave-trade policies, been poetic about the new game.
‘Well, you know protocol. There’s clear trauma to the body, in line with a crash. But nothing apparent apart from that. I had a look at him quickly. You’ll have to wait for the pathologist at the hospital. You’re welcome to request a Home Office post-mortem. You know that will be much faster.’
A bell rings somewhere, and a group of people walk past them. Maarten squeezes into the side of the corridor.
‘Look, if we weren’t so busy…’
‘It’s OK. Thanks for your help,’ Maarten says. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘As well as the helicopter crash, we’ve had two RTAs arrive in the last hour. One clearly drink-driving. We’re stretched to the limit.’
‘I’ll get going with the HO pathologist. Hope the rest of the night is easier.’
Maarten watches him disappear down the corridor and then lifts his phone, speaking to Adrika, as he taps at the screen. ‘We’re going to need to move quickly. And hope the super is on our side. Come on.’
*
Stepping outside, Maarten leans his head back against the wall of the hospital. A few smokers are dotted around.
Adrika takes a deep breath. ‘I hate the hospital smell.’ She shakes her head, shivers. Dusk has taken over. ‘How come it’s nearly five already?’ she says.
Maarten looks at the darkening sky. There is so much to do. His head is crammed.
‘So…?’ Adrika says, pulling out her notebook. She checks they’re far enough away from the smokers.
‘Well, we’ve heard he stood up on take-off, took off his belt. No one behaves like that unless something’s wrong. Apparently, he said, “It was never meant…” but I can’t see yet if it’s important.’ Maarten thinks of all the threads.
‘So, what made him stand?’
‘Well, it could be anything. A heart attack? He was fine before. Adrika, the man gave a speech and practically skipped on to the flight. Something happened in that last half an hour.’
‘What are you thinking?’ Adrika asks.
‘I have no idea. It’s a helicopter crash, so there’s no real sign of anything. However, with so many threats to Marieke in the last month – we can’t ignore an incident like this with her on board.’ Someone walks by, and Maarten pauses, waits until they’re out of earshot. The cold is setting in.
‘Maybe Aksel’s taken a dart, been shot with something through the glass that was supposed to hit Marieke? Maybe someone did tamper with the controls last minute,’ he says.
‘I suppose he could have simply had a heart attack?’ Adrika says. ‘Or maybe he was poisoned?’
Maarten nods, thinking they feel far from the truth. ‘It’s possible the helicopter itself was shot with something and Aksel stood up to warn everyone.’
Adrika writes and Maarten wonders what else is playing out here. Something is tapping away.
�
�Whatever it is, we can’t act on it until we’ve got confirmation. We’re going to need to get permission to search wider than the crash site. The Roman theatre’s our incident scene. The house is different. We’ll need permission or a warrant to search it.’
‘Think we’ll get permission quickly?’ Adrika asks.
‘No idea. But with one guest in a coma, it’s going to be difficult. If this does prove to be more than a heart attack, we need to be ready. It will be tricky – the super will not want anyone upset. This is still a high-profile event.’ Maarten thinks of the press who were waiting in town somewhere. They had delayed the confidential press briefing but many had come up from London. They will sniff out a story. With Archipelago, a film star and a high-profile politician involved, there’s no way this will stay out of the press for long.
‘We need to get a warrant, but to do that, we’re going to need some evidence, maybe toxicology, fast. If there is something in his blood, then we can move forward. You know the cost involved in an HO pathologist, at this point in the weekend.’
Adrika nods. ‘Think the super will agree the additional spend?’
Maarten breathes in the damp air of Halloween, laced with the cigarette smoke and traffic. ‘I hope so. Let’s head back to the crime scene. I need to finish up there. If there’s anything of interest, I want a look. And can you phone ahead, let them know we’re coming? Get ready. It’s going to be a long night.’
45
IQBAL
Iqbal presses his nose up against the glass of his window, overlooking the crash site. One floodlight remains. It is quiet now.
The panic attack has calmed. Lois had pressed a packet of jelly babies into his hand. One sits in his mouth, on his tongue. But he doesn’t have the energy to chew.
Lois has gone to the hospital with Ebba, and he’d asked her to let him know how Richard was. Surrounded by machines, she’d said, when she called him.
Had it been Richard who had tricked Obaidur? He’d been in Dhaka by his own admission, at the right time, which means he’d been there for the fire.
Richard would have been able to see the chaos. If he’d had the opportunity to speak to Obaidur, and Obaidur had told him about his idea…
Richard had been an early investor, so it would make sense. Someone at that point would have had the chance to influence the company, to enable them to make the products that had the edge over their competitors. They would have had the chance to rip off Obaidur and make a multi-million-pound steal.
The thought creeps like salt working its way into a wound, that maybe Lois knew too.
He had protected her this weekend. His hands still feel the weight. He had acted on instinct, thinking only of her and not of the consequences.
What had he done?
*
His hands shake and he puts a fistful of sweets in his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he ate. He needs to investigate, he needs his wits about him. While they’re all at the hospital.
‘Obaidur, Rajita,’ he whispers, the names falling from his lips like prayers. He closes his eyes, reaching for Rajita in his memory, asking her for help, for strength.
Shivering, despite the heat of the house, he stumbles across his room. He has some time, at least, before anyone else comes back. He burns with the need to find out who it was that stole Obaidur’s idea. Who it was that has put the whole company in danger. But he can’t be caught. His hands shake as he rummages for the torch.
The house is empty. It stands, hoarding its secrets.
And Lois. She’d been out there, in the garden. Had she been meeting him? Obaidur’s ‘researcher’? His instinct had been to protect her. But he needs to know. Is she involved?
Not daring to put the light on, Iqbal creeps along the corridor. His feet are bare and the wooden floorboards are warm and solid beneath his toes. The dark is frightening, even though he’s chosen it. It presses, it threatens.
He turns on the torch; shadows flicker, shape-shifters.
There’s a noise downstairs. The front door bangs.
Sweat, like a fever, consumes him, and he shakes as he tries to open the door. He catches his thumb; the skin breaks.
There is another door bang, not the front door this time, but somewhere else downstairs.
Running, as quietly as he can, he crosses Lois’s room. Hating himself, he finds her laptop and opens it. He knows her password. He skims straight to her email, then her personal inbox. The problem is, he has no idea what it is he’s looking for.
Something creaks on the stairs. It’s like a footfall, but a slow one. Measured.
He hesitates, breathing in a heavily perfumed breath. The house is stuffed with fresh flowers for the weekend and the heat intensifies the scent.
Still nothing.
Then one, in her drafts folder. To Aksel, but unsent.
Entitled: Our secret.
Holding his breath, he goes to click on it. His finger trembles. His darkest fear is that Lois has known all along. Then everything he has believed in is a lie. He skims the first line:
This isn’t an easy email to write. I feel guilty about keeping this secret. But it’s not just me who is involved now.
There is another noise outside; his heart leaps and pounds. Dizzy with the fear of being discovered, he slams the laptop lid down and makes his way to the door. Opening it a fraction, he sees a bobbing light much further down the corridor. It goes round the corner and he has seconds to cover the ground to his room.
Someone else doesn’t want to be discovered.
He pulls the door open quickly; the corridor is still in darkness. He closes it behind him, gently, softly – his breathing loud in the dark.
Someone else is here, creeping.
Another door bangs, further down the west wing, and he almost yelps, biting his tongue to stop the noise, tasting blood.
Were Aksel and Lois in it together? Had Aksel been threatening her? Now Aksel is dead. And she hadn’t got on the helicopter…
No, not Lois. Surely not? But he of all people should know that in the right circumstances, gentle people are capable of violent acts.
He sits hard on his bed; tiredness sweeps him.
He waits for sleep. Would it erase the bitter taste in his mouth?
What is the secret between Lois and Aksel?
It’s impossible. The room is dark, silent. The ticking of the clock is soft. Sleep will not come.
His thoughts turn to Rajita. Could she be in England? Trafficked? Kept hidden in fear and silence beneath the hum of the daily pattern of UK life? So many are, in nail salons, houses, farms, restaurants…
Please, let them find Rajita.
He still wakes at night and reaches for her. Wakes with the smell of her skin, just out of reach. He has a photo of their wedding by his bed, and he lifts it now, holds it.
The wind picks up outside. It will be light soon. The smell of the flames yesterday has stolen his sleep; stolen his peace of mind.
His fingers tremble.
Lois had offered him a job when it had been clear Rajita had vanished. She’d stayed with him for weeks. He’d searched everywhere, tried everyone he could speak to. But then the other factory collapsed and there was no work anywhere. He was struggling to survive; he ran out of leads. One day he couldn’t pay for food.
When he’d asked about the products, Lois had explained in detail, and she’d made them magical. She’d taught him the rudiments of coding and it had been wizardry speak. Maths come alive. He’d made a suggestion about something and they’d worked long and hard, solving a number of problems with the first game with which Archipelago had achieved success.
Lois had paid him for his work, and he’d searched again. There was no sign of Rajita anywhere. Whichever route she had followed to find work as a maid, she’d been swallowed up. He wasn’t sure she was even in the country any more. Obaidur was nowhere. They’d both vanished.
In the end, when it was clear Rajita wasn’t coming back, that she was no longer in D
haka, he’d accepted the job. He couldn’t search for her if he starved.
Archipelago had paid him well, and now this deal activates his employee share scheme, which makes him wealthy. It’s finally time to go home.
Lying down, he closes his eyes to the crackle of fire, the smell of smoke. Everywhere, with eyes shut tight, he sees the flames. Trembling for what happened; trembling because he plans to return to Bangladesh.
Dhaka, for all the bad memories, is his home. It’s where he first met Rajita, the only place that smells of his childhood.
He will return. And he will find his wife.
46
MAARTEN
‘What have we got?’ Maarten asks.
Adrika sits next to him on the perimeter of the amphitheatre. Night-time has settled in, but the floodlights set up are bright. The remains of the crash are vivid under the dark sky.
The wreckage, smoky and black, sits mainly on the old stage. It has been picked over by the team. Parts have already been taken away, and they are beginning the clear-up exercise. It’s almost 10.30 p.m.
‘No sign of any malfunction with the helicopter itself, not yet anyway. No sign of any engine blow-out; they don’t think we’re looking for an explosive device.’ Adrika stretches out her arms, bending them back, and fights a yawn.
She continues, ‘We can’t rule out someone tampering with the controls, but it’s highly unlikely. Everything was checked over first thing this morning. The pilot is still out cold, but we know it happened very quickly.’
‘And the other statements?’ Maarten asks, wanting clearer answers than those he has already. Filip’s account had made no sense.
‘That for some reason, on take-off, Aksel stood, fell against other passengers, and tried to wrestle with the controls. They never recovered.’
An officer waves and shouts, ‘All done, sir.’
Maarten nods his thanks.
Adrika continues. Rain begins falling, starting as a mist. They both stand as she speaks. ‘No hint of anything unusual so far. Could just be a straight heart attack, sir.’