by Mayo, Simon
A smiling man with ginger hair under a black cap was hurrying to catch him up. Twenty metres away. White, five six, stocky, khaki cargo shorts, red T-shirt.
‘Hey, wait up!’ he said, lengthening his stride.
Tommi hesitated.
‘Saw you back at the petrol station,’ said the man. ‘You don’t have a light, do you?’ He waved a crumpled pack of cigarettes in his hand.
Ten metres.
Tommi shook his head, resumed his walk, brisker now. ‘Don’t smoke!’ he shouted, too loudly.
‘Please,’ said the man, ‘maybe some money for matches?’ Accented English. Eastern European.
Five metres.
‘Fuck off!’ yelled Tommi, reaching for his phone. He was approaching a junction, a postbox marking a sharp right turn.
‘Please!’ said the man. ‘Fifty pence would help.’
Two metres.
Tommi started dialling. He only looked up as he completed the 999, and the knife stuck him in the ribs, pinning him to the postbox. He dropped his phone, the man caught it one-handed, cancelled the call, posted it in the slot. The two men stared at each other, Tommi’s wide, panicking eyes and his assailant’s sparkling, smiling ones. He made a feeble attempt at a struggle, a kick, a punch, but his life was already draining out on to the grass. The man covered Tommi’s mouth with his free hand, then pushed the knife till it hit metal. Gave it a quarter-turn. Tommi howled into the man’s palm, blood and spittle forcing their way through his fingers. The man checked his watch, glanced up the road. He smiled, then leant in close, as though he might be overheard.
‘We are waiting for the bus, you and me,’ he whispered.
Tommi spluttered more blood against the man’s hand.
‘Shush now,’ said the man. ‘Not long.’
With what remained of his senses, Tommi heard the night bus approaching. He felt the man pull the knife out, then balance himself. He was grabbed, held tightly in two arms, positioned. Tommi closed his eyes.
The last words he heard were ‘embrace the butcher’.
The night bus hit him at thirty-five miles an hour.
45
Wednesday, 13 June, 12.21 a.m.
FAMIE HAD RUNG Charlie every five minutes. From the flat, from Sam’s car, then finally from the concourse at Paddington station. Her words, somehow measured and calming, had had to be wrestled from somewhere beyond the seething panic threatening to overwhelm her. Charlie had said she was with a family of Germans who had bought her wine but they had got off at Swindon. Soon after that, her phone had gone dead.
‘She said her battery was low,’ Sam reasoned. ‘If it was low and she came without her charger, then of course it’s dead now.’
‘I know all this,’ said Famie. ‘You told me before. And I know it’s a big, well-lit train with plenty of passengers and crew. But I’m her mother, so all of that counts for jack shit.’ She looked at her watch. ‘How can it still be two minutes away? I thought you said it was on time?’
‘It is on time, Fames. Twelve twenty-three it’s due, and that’s two minutes away.’
They were arm in arm by the entrance to platform two, fending off the drunks, the beggars and the miscellaneous lost. Each approach caused Famie to grip Sam’s arm tighter. She looked at each one not as an unfortunate in need of charity but as an assailant with a hidden knife.
‘I swear my heart rate is running at a thousand beats a minute,’ she said. ‘And if that cleaner comes any closer with his trolley it’ll probably explode.’
The station was still busy even if most of the vendors had closed up for the night. A chemist, a fried-chicken shop and a coffee cart were all that was left of the traders of Paddington. Everyone else was running for last trains, tubes and buses, or waiting, like them, for the arrival of the eight forty-five from Exeter.
Famie scrutinized everyone within twenty metres. ‘Talk me through our closest company,’ she said to Sam.
He swung through a hundred and eighty degrees. A dozen or so people stood watching the departure and arrival boards.
‘OK, we have two students,’ he said, now back to back with Famie. She felt his shoulder bag press against her. He spoke slowly, analysing those closest to them. ‘Both male, both drunk. A middle-aged woman with grey hair, a stoner with a skateboard. Some Dutch or Scandinavians on holiday looking confused and an oldish couple maybe waiting for a child. Or grandchild. Then a man in a suit and a bored, bearded hipster. That’s it.’
‘Keep watching,’ she said. ‘It’s hard not to feel exposed here. Christ, this is scary. Did Tommi get home OK?’
‘Didn’t say. He sent all his results through but he’s not answering now. I’ve tried a few times, just ringing till the answerphone kicks in.’
‘Hmm,’ said Famie. ‘Let’s hope he’s in a beery haze and in his own bed. Passed out. Any new board-watchers to report?’
‘None. Same crowd. Any trains to report?’
‘None. And it’s twelve twenty-three. Fuck.’
Platforms two and three were empty. Their shared polished brown tiles and white pillars ran under the arched glass and metal roof between them and the west London night. The tannoy system echoed news of an imminent departure, accompanied by the rat-a-tat of slamming doors. Some drunken rugby fans sang and staggered down the escalator. Then Famie saw the lights.
‘It’s here! She’s here!’
She was about to take off down the platform but Sam’s hand pulled her back.
‘Wait. What carriage did she say?’
‘Coach J. If she stayed put.’
‘Can be at the front. Worth waiting.’
Famie, agitated, pulled away from Sam. She ran forward a few metres, through an open barrier, till she was alongside the incoming engine. The driver and the train’s enormous logo slipped past. She stepped back to widen her field of vision and saw a J on the first carriage, then a face against the first door’s window. It was Charlie.
Famie pressed both hands to her face, waved, then pressed them back again. Charlie flew from the carriage and Famie felt her daughter’s sinewy arms wrap tightly around her. She smelt the wine, the sweat and her daughter’s hair. She inhaled deeply.
Famie managed the hoarsest of whispers. ‘Oh my God, I’m so happy to see you!’
‘Mum, it was terrible,’ blurted Charlie, pulling away. Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks blotchy. She’d pushed most of her hair under a red baseball cap. ‘It was so terrible. I’m sorry if I panicked you but she—’
Famie put a finger on her lips. ‘No apologies and no time. Tell me in the car. Sam’s parked just outside.’
Sam nodded, smiled broadly. ‘Hi Charlie. We’re kinda pleased to see you. But we need to move. Now.’ He turned and ran towards the exit.
Famie grabbed her daughter’s hand and they sprinted till they could tuck in behind him. Two minutes later, they all tumbled into Sam’s Fiat and he pulled into the late-night traffic.
46
1.30 a.m.
CHARLIE ASKED FOR the hottest bath ever. The night temperature had barely dropped but she said she felt like being ‘cleansed’. The attack, the three-and-a-half-hour train journey, the terror of not knowing who to trust, had left every muscle in pain. Famie added bubbles, then poured the Jack Daniel’s. A typical small London bathroom, engineered to make the most of every centimetre, it didn’t take much steam to turn it misty. Famie opened the top window but still the condensation ran from the tumblers, the window and the mirrors.
When Charlie appeared, swathed in towels, Famie made to leave. ‘No, stay,’ said Charlie. ‘Really. There’s too much to talk about.’
‘Hang on then,’ said Famie.
The briefest of trips to the freezer and she reappeared with a tub of ice cream and two spoons. Charlie, neck deep in the water already, managed a smile.
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Classic Mum. Half one in the morning and we’re eating salted caramel.’
Famie sat on the floor, her back to the bath. She scooped up
some ice cream then handed the tub and a spoon to Charlie. ‘You eat, I’ll talk,’ she said.
Famie told Charlie everything. About Sophie, her baby, the laptop, the photos (‘how incredible that at your great age you can be such an idiot’) and about Hari Roy. She showed her a photo.
‘So he’s the guy sending you messages?’
‘Yes, it seems so. And he’s scared too. The DC we spoke to – Hunter – said she was going to check him out. Whatever that means.’ Her phone buzzed. ‘Sam’s home,’ she said. She sent a thumbs-up emoji and texted ‘Thanks’.
Then it was Charlie’s turn. She explained about the movie, the lookalike, the ocean of blood and the run for the train. ‘I spent the first twenty minutes under a table,’ she said. ‘The Germans got on at Tiverton. I listened to them mucking about and realized they had to be safe. There were four of them. I told them I was worried about my sick mother and asked to join them. They were just great. We drank a lot of wine.’
‘Still want the JD?’
‘I’m not old like you,’ Charlie said. ‘Course I do.’
Famie handed her a tumbler. Charlie took a mouthful.
‘Should I have told the police?’ she said. ‘Back at the cinema? I don’t know.’ Her hair was piled high and tied with a band, her face red and running with sweat.
‘But you didn’t see anything,’ said Famie. ‘What could you have said? That you look like the girl who had been attacked? That it was intended for you? Don’t think that would have been taken very seriously.’
Charlie found a submerged flannel, rinsed it and placed it over her face. Famie drank from her tumbler, allowing the fumes to fill her senses. She swallowed slowly, relishing the ice and the burn.
Her phone buzzed again. She wiped the screen then read the text.
‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ she whispered.
Charlie peeled the flannel away. ‘What is it?’
When Famie read the message again, Charlie understood. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she.’
‘Yes,’ said Famie. ‘It’s from Sam, he just read it online.’
Charlie’s face crumpled in an instant. Tears flowed with the sweat, and her shoulders shook. Famie turned, reached over and wrapped her arms around her daughter. Charlie hung on to her as though she were drowning. Famie felt the soap and hot water seeping through her T-shirt.
‘I don’t know what to say, Charlie. I know I’m supposed to have all this sorted but I really haven’t. It might have been coincidence but you’re not going to believe that. And neither am I. But you know what? They failed. The fuckers failed and some poor kid died instead of you. I’ll call the DC tomorrow. All we can do is tell her what happened.’
Still Charlie clung on.
‘What do they want, Mum?’ she said. ‘I don’t understand what they want. Why try to attack me?’ She slowly untangled her arms from her mother’s neck, slipped back into the water.
‘When the bombs started going off in Pakistan,’ said Famie, ‘everyone knew why. Knew what it was for. It was for jihad mainly, then maybe it was political rivalry, then it was business disputes. It was messy. Christ, it was messy.’ She sipped some more of the liquor. ‘But there was always a point, an argument at the heart of it. And there’ll be one at the heart of this too. Politics, religion, money, race. Pick one. Pick all of them. But this? Tonight? This is about power. About intimidation. My name is in the paper. It’s out there. I was once with Seth. Maybe they came looking for me, but you were an easier find.’
‘Maybe this Hari told them. Maybe he’s part of it.’
Famie sighed. ‘Maybe. Who knows?’
Charlie wiped her face. ‘I called Dad,’ she said.
Famie froze. ‘OK,’ she said, flatly.
‘When I got here,’ said Charlie. ‘When you were saying goodbye to Sam. He didn’t pick up though.’
‘Well. I’m sure he’ll call you back.’
‘Are you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Just thought he should know,’ said Charlie.
‘Of course.’
‘And, Mum. Look at me. Why wait for the morning? Seriously. If the copper gave you her card, use it. Tell her now. A girl in Exeter died instead of me. That doesn’t wait till morning.’
Famie’s head swam with whiskey and emotion but she knew her daughter was right. If someone had tried to kill Charlie, what was she waiting for?
‘I’ll get the number,’ she said.
She retrieved the card from her bedroom. When she returned, Charlie was out of the bath and wrapping the towels around her again.
‘What’s her name again?’ said Charlie. ‘This policewoman you’re calling.’ Famie held the card up. ‘Detective Constable Channing Hunter,’ read Charlie. ‘OK, let’s do it.’
Lid down, Famie sat on the toilet. From the street, the sound of a car engine and a muted door closing. Charlie tensed. Famie stepped into her bedroom, peered through the curtain.
‘Black cab,’ she called. ‘I doubt it’s ISIS.’
Charlie joined her. She had wrapped a towel around her hair, turban-style. Her face, red and glowing, was still etched with worry. ‘Who is it then?’
‘Couldn’t see.’
In the bathroom, Famie’s phone rang. She stepped back in to retrieve it. ‘Huh,’ she said. ‘Really?’ The screen display read ‘Andrew Lewis. Be nice.’
‘Who is it, Mum?’ Charlie’s voice was suddenly fearful again.
‘It’s my boss. My ex-boss. This won’t be good.’ She answered. ‘Andrew? It’s nearly two a.m., for Christ’s sake. What’s up?’
A deep intake of breath from the phone. ‘What’s up is that I’m outside your house,’ said Lewis. ‘I saw the light was on. I checked. I’m sorry, Famie, but I need to come in.’
47
THERE WERE FIFTEEN stairs to the front door, then two locks and a security chain. In the time it took to descend those steps and unlock, Famie had imagined every possible disaster. What could possibly have triggered a home visit from the bureau chief? She flung the door open.
‘Andrew. What the fuck?’
Lewis looked wrecked. Shirtsleeves, suit trousers, stains on both. He’d lost the tie. Behind his glasses, his eyes were bloodshot. His hair was at all angles. He smelt of alcohol.
‘Like I said, I need to come in. The taxi will wait.’
‘Sure.’
Famie stepped aside, let him climb the stairs first. He grasped the wooden banister, hauled himself up. Fumes drifted in his wake.
‘My daughter Charlie is here too,’ Famie said to his back. ‘We … have just been talking.’
Lewis reached the top of the stairs.
‘Straight on, Andrew.’
Famie followed him in. He was standing with a steadying hand on a table. He flipped his glasses to the top of his head and she realized he had been crying. ‘Andrew, what is it?’ She stepped towards him but he held up both hands.
‘It’s Tommi,’ he said, his voice a croaked whisper. ‘I got a call. He was in a crash.’
That gut-flip again. Followed by the crushing realization. She swallowed hard. ‘You wouldn’t be here if he’d made it.’
Lewis shook his head slowly. ‘He didn’t. Dead at the scene.’ He wiped his face with his hand. ‘Bus driver said he’d appeared from nowhere. Said he didn’t even have time to brake.’
Famie slumped on the sofa. Numb. Regretting the Jack Daniel’s.
‘But he’d just gone in to talk to Carol Leven,’ she said. ‘He sent us all the information from his chat. He …’ She checked herself. ‘He was following a lead.’
Lewis stood with both hands on the table, fingers splayed. ‘I spoke to Carol. She said she offered him whisky. He took a couple of small bottles with him when he went.’
Famie frowned. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning he’d been drinking.’
‘That’s bollocks and you know it. He could drink that ten times over and he still wouldn’t walk in front of a bus by mistake.’
She sto
od up, paced the room, the enormity of what had happened still sinking in.
‘That’s number eight, Andrew,’ she said, a tremor in her voice. ‘You know it. IPS journalist number eight. It’s an assassination.’
Lewis looked uncomfortable. ‘We can’t say that, Famie. It could be, I grant you. It was my first thought too. Many will make the link as we have.’ He wiped his face again. ‘But the bus driver stopped. He reported that Tommi fell in front of his bus. And we know he’d been on the whisky. They’re the facts.’
‘They’re some facts,’ said Famie. ‘You’ve missed a few. First, he wasn’t “on the whisky”, he’d drunk some whisky. Big difference. Second, IPS journalists are under attack and being killed. That’s the big one. And fact number three? Tommi was following a hunch that there were other deaths on the twenty-second. He makes an enquiry, he falls in front of a bus. Don’t tell me that doesn’t sound fucking suspicious.’
Famie could feel the colour in her cheeks, knew she was getting loud. Charlie clearly thought so too – she appeared in the doorway fully dressed, hair almost dried. Famie recognized the look she gave her: she was taking control.
‘Oh hi. I’m Charlie. Think we met some years back.’ Composed. Apparently clear-headed. Famie took a moment to be impressed.
Andrew straightened, stuck out his hand. Preposterously formal. ‘Er yes, I’m sure that’s right.’
‘Charlie,’ said Famie. She pressed her lips together, dropped her head. ‘Tommi got run over. Killed by a bus.’ She felt the tears now, the act of saying the words out loud making them real. ‘The driver says he fell in front of him. Apparently.’ She wiped her eyes.
Charlie nodded her understanding, took her mother’s arm. She was listening, thought Famie.