Hannah spent the next twenty-four hours trying to persuade him. She told him it was their only option, that they had no choice.
They argued.
When, on Thursday morning, Hannah had to go into town to deliver a cake, she placed the prison phone in the hatch for his weekly allowance and left without saying goodbye.
She knew Jem was right and his reluctance was entirely sensible, but she also knew that if they didn’t try, if they just sat back and accepted that this was how it was going to be for the next twenty years, then it would be as if they had entered willingly into a kind of death.
Still, if he wasn’t in agreement, what could she do?
She dropped off the cake – a spherical sponge, iced and painted in red and peach food colouring to look like the planet Mars – to a private members’ club on Endell Street and was headed for the Tube when her phone pinged. It was a message from Colleen Blessop, the widow of Roddy Blessop, the Cambridgeshire detective whose funeral notice John had looked up again and again online. She said the charity had passed on her details and that she knew it was short notice, but she was in London for the day seeing friends and did Hannah want to meet, otherwise they could speak some other time on the phone.
Hannah replied immediately. After everything she’d learned she was now fairly confident that John’s interest in Roddy was unconnected to his death, but she remained curious as to how the men might have known each other.
They arranged to meet that afternoon at a cafe in Fitzrovia and Hannah decided to kill the two hours while she waited wandering the shops. In John Lewis she rode the escalators past the post-Christmas sales madness to the top floor and the baby department with its rows of prams and rails of tiny sleepsuits. Most of the women browsing had bulging stomachs, and their narrowed eyes assessed the merits of the different cots with impunity, but Hannah, with her as yet unchanged body, felt shy and waited till she was sure no one was looking to grip buggy handles or run her fingers across the tops of the fleece booties. She wondered if Aisling had done this in the early stages of her pregnancy, if she and John had ever come here together. She imagined Aisling pointing out the hangers of impossibly small dungarees and checked shirts, John smiling shyly, and then, as they headed back out onto the street, John surprising Aisling with a plush teddy for the crib, purchased while she was looking the other way.
She got to Fitzrovia well ahead of time and went into the cafe to discover it empty except for a woman nursing a baby in a chair by the window.
‘Hannah?’ she said, giving her a wave.
Tall with cropped hair, she wore a powder-blue shirt and jeans. A brown stain, coffee or food, covered the opposite side of the shirt to the suckling baby and as she reached out her hand to say hello she caught sight of it and tutted.
Hannah came to join her, her eyes drawn to the soft, chick-like hair at the back of the infant’s head.
‘How old?’
‘Six months,’ said Colleen. She used her pinkie to break the baby’s latch on the nipple and, after hooking her bra back onto the strap, placed the child against her shoulder and gently rubbed its back. ‘Roddy never got to meet him.’
The baby kicked his legs and batted his hand against Colleen’s mouth. She took his wrist and kissed his palm, one, two, three times. His fingernails were tiny crescents, the skin on his feet soft and smooth.
‘Your husband was in the Met?’ said Colleen loudly and Hannah realised she must have been staring at the baby longer than she’d realised.
‘He was murdered. Back at the start of the year.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Colleen and Hannah was reminded of the shared looks between the pregnant women browsing John Lewis. Colleen and she were in the same club.
‘I know John and Roddy served in different forces, but I’m trying to find out if they knew each other.’
‘I don’t remember Rod ever mentioning him,’ Colleen said, ‘but he worked with so many people. Did he come to the funeral?’
‘I don’t know.’ She showed her a picture of John on her phone. ‘Is he familiar?’
Colleen squinted at the image, thinking, and then once she was sure she nodded.
‘They didn’t know each other and I don’t remember him at the funeral. But I have seen him before.’ The baby winded, she brought him down to sit on her lap and once more clocked the stain on her shirt. ‘He got in touch a month or so after Rod died,’ she said, going at the mark with a tissue. ‘Said he was on the board of some new police charity.’
John had had nothing to do with any charity but Hannah did not correct her.
‘What did he want?’
‘To give us money. We hadn’t applied for it, we thought Roddy’s death in service payout was it, but he said the committee automatically made donations to families of deceased officers.’ The tissue was useless against the stain and so Colleen dipped it in a glass of water on the table, clearly hoping the liquid would make a difference. ‘I was grateful of course, but it was odd.’
‘How so?’
‘I would have expected a cheque, maybe a bank transfer. But when the money came it was in cash. Ten grand in a padded envelope he brought direct to my door.’
Hannah thought of the bag of money still hidden at the bottom of her wardrobe.
‘Dealing with him was a bit unpleasant, to be honest.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, God, he was your husband.’
‘It’s OK. Go on.’
‘He kept asking about the suicide. Wanted to know how and where Roddy had been found. He was fixated on it.’
‘Roddy killed himself?’
‘He’d been working undercover for months.’ The dampened tissue started to disintegrate, littering Colleen’s shirt with tiny white balls that clung to the fabric like snow. ‘It’s a lot, living like that, pretending to be someone else. He’d suffered with depression in the past, not that he ever disclosed that to his DCI. Clearly it came back with a vengeance.’
The baby wriggled in her lap and let out a yelp of protest.
Hannah remembered Mickey’s grief for the undercover she’d lost a few months before John. Could it be the same man?
‘Which force was he attached to? Who was his superior?’
‘He was never allowed to tell us anything and the Cambridgeshire constabulary certainly didn’t give us any details, even after he died. He hanged himself at a hotel in London but we still don’t know if he was based in the city or just passing through.’ She curled her mouth into disdain. ‘The Warlaby. Not Rod’s style at all. Too pretentious.’
Hannah stiffened.
‘The Warlaby, in Clerkenwell?’
‘That’s the one.’ The baby grizzled again, louder this time, and she jiggled him up and down, trying to soothe him. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. He needs a nap and he’ll only sleep if I walk him in the buggy.’ She got to her feet and a tiny avalanche of tissue cascaded from her shoulder to the floor. The brown stain was still there. It looked worse than before.
‘Hope that clears things up?’
She clipped the baby into his pram. He was wailing now, his back arched against the sheepskin liner, his tiny hands balled into fists.
‘It does and it doesn’t,’ said Hannah, trying to fit the pieces together.
Colleen pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded.
‘After Roddy died I looked for answers everywhere, still do.’
Hannah closed the front door, walked to the middle of the hall and stopped. She was clutching a plastic bag, its contents so slight it felt like there was nothing inside.
She’d spent the journey home trying to incorporate the things Colleen had told her into what she already knew. She was still unclear as to the source of John’s interest in Roddy Blessop, but the cash he’d given her under what were obviously false pretences spoke of guilt. Or was he repaying some kind of debt?
There was one thing she was sure of: Roddy’s having killed himself in The Warlaby couldn’t be simple coincidence. How this might conn
ect to John’s murder though was beyond her. Mickey was the one person who might be able to help join the dots, but who knew when she’d next be allowed calls or visitors.
Hannah broached the top of the stairs, the bag swinging at her thigh. She’d bought what it contained as a peace offering, but now she saw how Jem might see it as a dig, a continuation of their argument.
In the kitchen she went over to the hatch, retrieved the prison phone and, reaching through the bars, handed Jem the bag.
The babygrow was white and patterned with fat grey elephants, the fabric soft. When Hannah had taken it to the till she’d been furtive, scared in case the cashier might ask who it was for but also eager to tell someone, anyone, that this was for her newborn, that she was going to be a mother.
He held it up with both hands. The garment so tiny as to be improbable. The booteed feet swinging. He looked at it for some time and then came to stand opposite her. His fingers curled around the steel bars.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s try. Let’s get away.’
They spent the rest of the night planning their escape.
Timing, they decided, was a priority. The fence code was valid till Wednesday, so it had to happen before then, and they wanted to choose a day that meant there was as much time as possible between them getting away and the alarm being raised. Their best window of opportunity was Tuesday, five days from now. Jem’s DLO would arrive for his shower in the morning and, as Jem had no visitor planned, the officer wouldn’t be back until two days later, on Thursday, for his outside session. If they went that night as soon as it got dark, they’d have forty-eight hours in which no one would realise they were missing.
Hannah only knew the code for the back fence and so that decided their exit route.
The rowing boat would see them across the pond, but to where?
‘We get to the Heath and then what, make our way to a train station, hop in a cab?’
They were sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite each other, holding hands through the bars.
‘Too much CCTV,’ said Hannah. ‘They’ll track us.’
‘So what, we walk?’
Hannah turned her head toward the French doors. Across the water she could see the Heath’s hills bunched against the purply sky, trees spreading toward the stars. She tilted her gaze slightly, to the palaces of Queen’s Crescent.
‘The broken-down mansion,’ she said excitedly. ‘No one knows about it and they certainly wouldn’t expect us to go there. We can climb the ladder, push through the hole in the fence. You saw the garage – the cars all have their keys right there, underneath the sun visors.’
Jem laughed.
‘You’re suggesting we make our getaway in a stolen Bentley?’
‘Think about it. They have tinted windows, plus the police won’t know to have an alert out for those number plates. They’re perfect.’
Jem considered this for a moment.
‘OK,’ he said, a smile forming. ‘That could work.’
After that, everything fell into place.
They realised the car batteries would be dead, that the Bentleys might be low on petrol or empty of it altogether. Tomorrow Hannah would go and buy a new battery and row it to the mansion. A YouTube tutorial would show her how to switch them over. She would fill a jerrycan with fuel.
‘What will we do for money?’ said Jem, reluctantly. Questions like this punctured the fantasy.
‘The holdall,’ she said, thinking of the bricks of cash inside. ‘That should be more than enough to see us on our way.’
Around 8 p.m. they ordered pizza and moved onto the wider details.
‘So we get to the mansion, we start the car and we drive,’ she said. ‘Then where do we go?’
‘We need to leave the country,’ said Jem. ‘We could head for the Balearics. Hide out till things calm down.’
‘But won’t the police know to look for us there?’
‘Not if we use false passports. Different names. And if we keep moving, stay in each place for no more than a few months. If they don’t know the identity we’re travelling under they can’t track us.’
‘False documents,’ said Hannah. ‘And there lies the rub. It’s not like we can order them online.’
All their previous energy fizzled away. On this final thing, it seemed, they were defeated.
The pizzas still hadn’t arrived.
‘Where are they?’ said Hannah, testing her blood. Her sugars were all out of whack, an increasingly common occurrence thanks to her pregnancy. She was drinking some juice to stabilise when the doorbell went.
‘Finally,’ she said and ran upstairs.
She emerged with the food in hand and passed one of the boxes through to Jem. After testing her blood, she calculated the carbs she was about to consume and gave herself a shot.
They were onto their third slice when Jem spoke.
‘Alina might be able to help with the passports,’ he said. ‘She knows people.’
‘You trust her? We’d have to tell her our plans.’
He pursed his lips.
‘Who else is there?’
The next day Hannah took the Tube to Bank. Inside the Royal Exchange she sat down at a table in the Grand Cafe – the restaurant dominated the shopping centre’s glass-covered courtyard – ordered a mint tea and scanned the surroundings for Alina.
Jem had tried phoning but as soon as she’d heard his voice she’d hung up. All further calls were put through to voicemail. They’d decided they had no choice but for Hannah to come here and ask her for help with the passports in person.
The space was loud and echoey, the chink of cutlery and boorish chatter ricocheting off the stone walls and up to the bulbous glass roof. The shops that lined the outer edge of the courtyard were not your average lunchtime retail fare – Hermès, Boodles and Tiffany & Co. were among some of the boutiques on offer – but still the traders and their EAs paused by windows and weaved in and out of doorways, as if they were doing nothing more than having a quick wander around Marks & Spencer.
She’d been there over an hour when she saw her. Standing next to a group of people peering at the Fortnum & Mason display, Alina was dressed in a grey skirt suit, cream pussy-bow blouse and pearl earrings. An oxblood Mulberry Bayswater hooked over her wrist completed her look. She blended in perfectly. No one would think her any cause for concern.
Jem had told Hannah the cafe would offer the best vantage point from which to observe Alina at work.
He was right.
Her movements were subtle, her hand sliding in and out of bags and pockets with the grace of a mime artist, her trajectory through the crowd punctuated by the odd intentional bump. An embarrassed apology would follow soon after, the distraction buying her a few vital seconds to take what she wanted.
She was circling another potential victim, a pinstriped chunk of a man, when she looked up and caught Hannah’s eye.
She stalled, trying to place her, and then as realisation dawned Hannah waved and beckoned her over.
Heels clicking on the tiled mosaic, she approached, her face arranged into a polite smile.
Hannah gestured to the swarming crowds.
‘Rich pickings?’
Alina tried to maintain her composure but the question had disarmed her and the smile changed to a frown.
‘We need your help.’
‘We?’
‘Sit down.’
Alina didn’t move.
Hannah pushed out the chair opposite with her foot.
‘Please,’ she said, her voice hard, ‘or I’ll call over that nice City of London policeman and tell him to have a look through your bag.’
All pretence gone, Alina huffed and did what she was told.
‘So what, you and Jem are friends now?’
When Hannah didn’t answer Alina blinked.
‘No way, you’re together?’
Hannah nodded. Talking about their relationship felt strange, like being seen without her clothes on.
/> ‘That man,’ said Alina, twisting one of her pearl earrings. ‘It never ceases to amaze me what he can talk his way into or out of.’ She shook her head, suddenly all business. ‘What do you want?’
‘Passports.’
Alina threw back her head and laughed. The harsh sound bounced off the walls.
‘You’re going to escape?’
Hannah nodded and Alina laughed again. This time though it felt forced, like she was using it to hide some other feeling, grudging admiration or perhaps even jealousy, Hannah couldn’t work out which.
‘I already told Jem. I can’t help him anymore, I won’t.’
She got up to leave.
‘I’m pregnant,’ said Hannah.
Alina stopped and, after looking Hannah up and down, retook her seat.
‘We want to be together.’
Alina rolled her eyes but the gesture was too caricatured and once more Hannah felt like the woman was trying to hide some other feeling, a sadness, that she didn’t want her to see.
‘So he’s told you everything?’
‘I know about the stealing. That he pickpocketed John.’ She breathed out. The courtyard was quieter now, the lunchtime rush almost over. ‘Will you help or won’t you?’
‘If I don’t?’
Hannah gestured toward the policeman in the corner.
‘I’ll report you.’
Alina blinked slowly.
‘I’ll need pictures of you both. There’s an app you can use to make sure you get the correct framing.’ Her words were rote, the blank surrender of someone who feels like they have no choice but to comply. ‘Once I have the photos it takes a week, sometimes more.’
‘We need them by Tuesday at the latest.’
‘Four days?’ She shook her head. ‘Not possible.’
‘You’re a resourceful lady,’ said Hannah, nodding at the Mulberry full of stolen goods. She got to her feet. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way.’
All done with Alina, Hannah walked to St Paul’s and set about acquiring the things on the shopping list she and Jem had created. After purchasing two pay-as-you-go mobile phones and a tub of prenatal vitamins, she caught a tube to Halfords in Tottenham, which sold the rest of the stuff they’d need.
The Captive Page 24