‘What do you mean, “appears to be”?’ Sam asked.
‘I’ve checked with my colleagues at the CIA and they have no record of an ambulance being dispatched to Newark Airport on the day of the flight, which suggests the paramedics were not what they seemed.’
‘I…I’m not sure I follow.’
Steele made a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘What I’m suggesting is that the seizure was feigned, and this team of so-called paramedics were, in actual fact, part of the plot. If so, it seems certain that everything you witnessed that day was part of an elaborate deception intended to plant both the jamming device and trigger on board the plane. Whomever we’re dealing with is both highly organised and well-funded.’
Sam sat still for a moment, unable to move, his head spinning as he tried to take in what Steele was telling him.
‘You said there’s surveillance footage of them leaving the airport?’ he said after a while.
‘That’s correct.’
‘Wouldn’t it be possible to enlarge the footage to get a better look at this guy?’
Steele smiled, a brief twitch of his lips that contained no humour. ‘We’ve tried that and, unfortunately, it seems they were prepared for such an eventuality. The man on the stretcher was wearing an oxygen mask and the medics used baseball caps to obscure their faces, meaning we weren’t able to get a clear shot of any of them. An external camera did manage to capture an image of the ambulance’s registration plate, but that only led to a twenty-year-old Toyota belonging to an elderly couple who’d reported the vehicle stolen two weeks earlier. As the only eyewitness, your importance to the investigation becomes paramount. Do you remember what the man you saw looked like?’
‘I’ll never forget as long as I live,’ Sam said.
‘Good.’ Steele settled back in his chair and crossed his legs at the knee. ‘Over to you then, Clive.’
Kalinsky took Hinds’s place next to Sam on the couch, removed a laptop from his canvas shoulder bag and opened it. ‘I’m loading a facial composite programme,’ he explained. ‘We can use it to make a graphical representation of the suspect.’
They spent a few minutes experimenting with faces of different shapes and sizes until Sam found one that roughly matched the man on the plane. He then instructed Kalinsky to make it longer and thinner, with a sharper jaw. They adjusted skin tone and played about with different features, altering the eyes, hair, nose and mouth.
In less than fifteen minutes Sam had managed to produce an image that bore a strong similarity to the man.
‘What do you think?’ Kalinsky asked, stroking his beard.
‘Almost,’ Sam said, ‘but there’s something not quite right. It’s the eyes, I think. Is there any way to make them more…bulging?’
‘Like this?’ Kalinsky dragged the cursor and the eyes popped out as though they were about to burst.
Sam laughed. ‘Too much, back a bit.’
A sudden chill swept over him like a draft from an open window.
Kalinsky glanced across, his eyebrows arched. ‘Well?’
‘That’s it,’ Sam said. ‘That’s him.’
5
Sam heard the door slam in the hall. Steele shot from his seat, elbowed Kalinsky out of the way and twisted the laptop towards him. The handle to the sitting room door turned and Sam’s grandmother came in carrying a bag of shopping in each hand. Sam looked back to Steele, who was gripping the laptop so tightly it seemed he might snap it in two.
‘You know who it is, don’t you?’ Sam said.
Steele closed the laptop, handed it back to Kalinsky and stood up. ‘Thank you, Sam, you’ve been a great help. We really must be going now.’
‘But you recognise the composite,’ Sam said. ‘You know who it is.’
‘We’ve already taken up enough of your time,’ Steele said. ‘I’ll be in touch if you can be of further assistance to the investigation.’
Hinds and Kalinsky muttered goodbyes and followed him out of the door, leaving Sam wondering whether or not he’d just imagined the look that had crossed Steele’s face.
6
Saturday, the day of the funeral, came as Sam knew it inevitably must. It was a cold, overcast winter’s morning with a sky the colour of ash. A film of drizzle coated the windows of the car as it followed the hearse to Sam’s grandparents’ village in Hertfordshire.
As they pulled up in the lane outside the church, Sam thought back to a holiday many summers ago when, bored and desperate to escape Chrissie for a few hours, he’d set himself the task of building a tree house in the woods beyond the graveyard. His dad had come to inspect it on the last day of their stay. The tree house, which was loosely held together with bent nails and frayed rope, had swayed and creaked under their combined weight, but the look of pride in his dad’s eyes as he clasped Sam around the shoulder and congratulated him on his work had been unmistakable. No matter what accomplishments lay ahead in his life, Sam knew he would never see that look again.
There must have been close to fifty mourners waiting outside, only some of whom he recognised. Lance, looking distinctly uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit that revealed two inches of sock below his trouser leg, opened the car door for Sam’s grandmother and helped her out. Sam linked arms with Chrissie and she with their grandfather, and together they followed after, the wind blowing soggy leaves against their legs. It was the first time Sam had been out without his crutches and although Chrissie had pressured him to bring them, he’d flatly refused. On this of all days, he didn’t want to be seen as the sick kid.
Auntie Laura, his dad’s childless sister, came over. As she hugged them each in turn, Sam noticed that her eyes were swollen. His mum’s cousins from Cardiff, the only members of her side of the family Sam really knew, were huddled in a group next to the church doors. There were also a few of his dad’s old friends, as well as the surviving members of Cannibal’s Kiss, the band he’d played keyboards for in the 1990s.
As the pallbearers unloaded the coffin from the back of the hearse, Sam saw Lewis and his parents in the distance. Lewis said something to his mother and then walked over, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Sam said. ‘It means a lot.’
Lewis shrugged. His wild tangle of curls had been flattened and combed into something resembling order. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I wanted to.’
‘He always liked you, you know.’
‘I liked him too,’ Lewis said. ‘He was miles more fun than my old man.’
They stood facing each other as people drifted towards the doors.
‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ Sam said eventually.
‘What are you talking about? Course you can.’
Sam’s hand went to his pocket, searching out a folded piece of paper. ‘I wanted to say something. I wrote a few words, but…well, look at all these people. I don’t know if I can do it.’
‘Mate, you can do anything if you really want to.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Never been surer.’ Lewis put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Good luck. I’ll catch you after.’
The pallbearers made their way inside with the coffin balanced on their shoulders and soon the crowd started to thin as people followed after. Sam went to join Chrissie and their grandfather again. On hearing someone call his name, he turned to see Doug Bernstein. Doug had lost weight and grown a beard since the last time Sam had seen him, which, he now realised, was the day they’d first arrived in Montclair; a day when his dad had been sipping wine and guzzling pizza in the sun, so full of excitement at the prospect of their ‘clean slate’. It was also the day he’d first met Eva.
‘This is hard,’ Doug said. ‘I’m really sorry for your loss, Sam. I didn’t know Matthew all that well, but I’m sure going to miss him.’
‘Thanks,’ Sam said. ‘Is it just you here?’
‘Unfortunately so. Things back home have been a little, er, strained. Lots of upheaval. The girls send their bes
t wishes though.’
‘Right,’ Sam said, unsurprised. ‘Say hi to Eva for me, will you?’
‘You’ve got it. Look, I want you to know that if there’s anything you need, just ask. I mean it. Rebecca’s a friend, not just someone I work with. Until she’s back on her feet I want to be here on a personal level for both you and Chrissie. I can’t help but feel kind of responsible for what happened.’
‘Don’t,’ Sam said. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
Doug scratched the back of his head. ‘I appreciate your saying so. Still, I can’t help but think that if it hadn’t been for her job then you guys would have never been on that plane.’ He handed Sam a slip of paper. ‘Here’s my address, personal number and email. I’ll be working out of London for a few months at the minimum. Call by if there’s anything you need, anything at all.’
By the time Sam entered the church most people had already taken their seats. He didn’t think that he could handle any more sympathies or condolences, no matter how heartfelt, so he put his head down and made his way to his place in the front pew alongside Chrissie and their grandparents.
The pallbearers had placed the coffin on a stand at the front and moved away. The organist finished a hymn and, in the silence that followed, the vicar stepped up to the pulpit, staring over the rows of mourners with sad, grey eyes. ‘Dearly beloved,’ he began in a scratchy voice, ‘we are gathered here today to commemorate the life of Matthew Rayner, who was taken from his loved ones far too early in the tragic events of September. Before we have a reading from Sam, Matthew’s son, I would like to say a few words from Romans 8:38.’ He opened the bible and raised his voice to fill the room. ‘For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ our Lord. Amen.’
Chrissie glanced across and took Sam’s hand, linking their fingers together. She was wearing a simple black dress and shawl, but looked beautiful. Her hair was full and glossy, her cheeks touched with colour. The resemblance to their mother was uncanny. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ she asked. ‘You don’t have to, you know.’
‘Yes, I do. I need to.’
‘All right then, let’s go.’ She helped Sam up and guided him to the aisle, where she released his hand, allowing him to make his way to the pulpit one careful step at a time. The vicar smiled and moved aside so that Sam could take his place.
Sam turned to face the audience, reached into his pocket and pulled out the speech he’d written. A lump rose in his throat. His head began to ache, a fiery drilling at the base of his skull. ‘You can do this,’ he muttered to himself. ‘You will not cry.’
Gripping the corners of the pulpit, he looked up. Suddenly the headache was much worse. He rubbed his temples with thumb and forefinger and looked down at the page. The words swam before his eyes, his handwriting incomprehensible.
Sam blinked, trying to clear his vision, and began with what he could remember. ‘Matthew Rayner meant different things to different people. To some people he was a teacher, to others a friend, but to me he was simply “Dad”.’ He paused and looked up again. The colours of the church had become sharper, like truer representations of their actual selves. The scene throbbed, as if a wave of energy were passing through it. Sam detected the sickening stench of burned caramel.
Suddenly the cold, hard stone of the church floor was flickering up to meet him. He saw the impact but felt nothing. Shocked faces crowded around. Through a gap he could see a circle of the vaulted ceiling high above, and then everything blurred and went dark.
7
Sam blinked and the world slotted into focus. He was on the couch in his sitting room, sandwiched between Lewis and his grandmother. They were all in their black funeral wear. Lewis had a plate on his lap and was shovelling shepherd’s pie into his mouth. The curtains were drawn and a log smouldered in the fireplace. The television showed a group of Emperor Penguins huddled together against a blizzard.
Sam looked across to his grandmother. ‘What happened? How did I get home?’
‘You’re fine now, pet,’ she said. ‘Remember what the doctor told you. It’s only natural for you to feel a bit confused.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Before she could answer, the door flew open and Grandpa burst in. His face was red and he was breathing heavily. ‘Switch it over, Maureen. Put the news on!’
She scowled at him. ‘Whatever is the matter, Alfred? Calm down or you’ll give yourself another stroke.’
‘Hush and do as I say, woman. I just turned the radio on to check the football results. There’s been another attack!’
Sam grabbed the remote and changed the channel.
A news reporter stood in the foreground, her hair tussled and her expression grim. The scene behind her looked like a war zone: a building in ruins, smoke billowing and lumps of shattered masonry strewn across the pavement. Emergency workers rushed here and there, their faces sooty and their uniforms smeared with blood.
The reporter placed a finger over her earpiece and spoke into a microphone. ‘You join us live from central London where, shortly after nine o’clock this evening, an explosion ripped through Thames House, the headquarters of the British Security Service. Early reports indicate a heavy loss of life, although exact figures have yet to be established. An official report from the Ministry of Defence suggests the explosion was detonated from a device concealed in a vehicle in the building’s underground car park. Police are believed to be searching for a lone bomber. They consider him armed and extremely dangerous. The public are advised not to approach him under any circumstances.’
The screen cut to a grainy image recorded on a closed circuit camera. It showed a man in a Royal Mail uniform glancing over his shoulder. Although the picture was of poor quality, there could be no mistake. It was a face Sam would never forget as long as he lived. It was the man he had seen on the plane.
8
Chrissie let out a scream that echoed through the church. Lewis strained his neck to see what was happening, but the circle of people swarming around Sam blocked his view.
Somebody shouted, ‘Call an ambulance!’
Lewis jumped to his feet.
‘What’s happening? I can’t see,’ his mum said, grabbing him by the arm. Lewis shook free and pushed through the crowd until he reached the front.
Sam was lying on the floor, his body convulsing violently. His head thrashed from side to side and his clenched fists pounded against the stone slabs. His eyes were open, but the pupils had rolled up into their sockets. A thin stream of white foam bubbled from the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his cheek.
Chrissie was on her knees, clinging to Sam’s hand and wailing. She looked up as Lewis knelt beside her. ‘What’s happening, Lewis? Make it stop, I can’t lose him too.’
Lewis felt like he had to do something, although he didn’t know what. Sam was slamming his head up and down so hard that it looked as though he might crack his skull. Lewis reached over and tried to hold him still, but the vicar knocked his hand away.
‘Don’t do that! It looks like an epileptic fit. You can’t disturb him. Move back everyone, give the boy some space!’
Lewis took his phone out of his pocket. He’d switched it off before entering the church and it seemed to take forever to receive a signal. By the time he’d managed to call an ambulance, Sam’s twitching and thrashing had slowed. Another minute passed and then Sam sat up, blinking.
Lewis helped him to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s get you some air.’
Sam nodded weakly. Lewis put his arm around his shoulder and, supporting Sam’s weight, staggered from the church. The air outside was bracing. Sam took a breath and straightened his back. Some of the colour had returned to his cheeks.
Lewis realised that he was shaking, and it wasn’t just that he’d left his jacket inside. ‘Don�
��t worry,’ he said, leading his friend to a bench. ‘I’ve called an ambulance. It’s on the way.’
‘Give me your phone,’ Sam said.
‘What?’
‘I need to make a call. I think something terrible is going to happen. Give me your phone.’
Lewis heard sirens approaching and saw blue lights flashing up the lane. ‘Just relax―’ he began, but before he could finish Sam snatched the mobile phone from his hand.
9
Sam’s mind felt like a shaken snow globe. Gradually the fragmented flakes of his memory began to settle. He remembered sitting on the couch when his grandfather had come dashing in. He remembered the news report. He remembered seeing the building in ruins and he remembered the bomber’s face.
There was going to be another attack.
He snatched the phone from Lewis’s hand. At that moment an ambulance came swinging around the corner, its lights flashing and sirens blaring. It screeched to a halt just outside the gate. The back door flew open and a pair of paramedics jumped out and jogged up the path towards them. Sam reached into his pocket and took out his wallet.
The first to reach them was a girl roughly Chrissie’s age. She had a round face with podgy cheeks and an upturned nose. The second paramedic was an older man with a stringy ponytail and long sideburns.
‘My friend had some sort of seizure,’ Lewis said. ‘He was shaking all over and his eyes rolled back in his head and there was foam coming out of his mouth and…’
Sam’s wallet seemed full of things he didn’t need; a coffee shop loyalty card with only one stamp, an old library membership, the photo ID for his child’s Oyster card.
‘Sir?’ the female paramedic said. ‘Young man?’
Sam ignored her and continued rummaging through his wallet.
‘How long did this seizure last?’ the male paramedic asked Lewis.
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