by Jane Goodall
‘I’ve only got one key.’
‘Could you leave it at the station before you go?’
‘Is this really necessary?’
‘Yes. I’ve been talking to Pavan. According to him, the forensics on my flat point to “a series of intrusions”. In other words, it looks as if someone got in a couple of times to do a bit of a recce before the arson attack.’
‘How did they get in, Steve? You told me Macready’s place was burglar-proofed.’
‘I’m afraid to say that the explanation is the bleedin obvious — ’
‘Bathroom window,’ she cut in.
‘The bleedin obvious with a twist, I was about to say. In both cases it’s a fixed window with a small flap above that opens outwards. Supposed to be too small for human access. Six inches by fifteen.’
‘So there’s a kid involved.’
‘No, Briony. Let me get the story out, will you? You might actually learn something. This was a sophisticated operation. Somebody slid through those windows. Socos found traces of Vaseline around the edges. And through the interior — but no fingerprints. Vaseline and rubber gloves. Maybe he’s got a latex suit. Are we dealing with the human condom?’
‘Well, they are into leather and rubberwear down that end of town. Look, Steve, I’ve really got to go. I’ll drop the key off at Chelsea on my way to Victoria Station, and hope that someone will fix my bathroom window before I get back.’
She put the phone down and glanced at her watch. The little shoe repair place on the corner had a key cutting service. If she whipped down there now they might be able to do it straightaway. Then she’d have to do her packing at the double. Allowing for the detour via Chelsea, she should still be on time to meet Gareth. ‘Promise you won’t be late,’ he’d said on the phone — several times. It was a pretty tight margin for their connection to Birmingham, and if they missed that, they’d miss the only connection to Aberystwyth.
Damn. There was an elderly man standing at the counter, having a very involved conversation with the assistant about the cost of repairing a pair of black shoes that looked as if they’d been around for at least a decade. There was no one else to serve her so she had to wait. Two, three, four minutes. She managed to return the old guy’s friendly smile as he finally left.
‘How long does it take you to cut a key?’ she asked. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
‘Well,’ said the portly assistant, smoothing the thin veil of hair over his scalp. ‘In the normal course of things, a couple of minutes. But I can’t guarantee, because I’m on me own this morning, so I’ve got the shop to look after. I’ll do me best.’
He took the key and squinted at it, then began setting up the job in a sequence of slow, heavy movements. Briony willed the shop door to stay shut. Thoughts raced through her head to the noise of the cutting machine. What if someone really had been in her flat — or was planning to get in? Perhaps she’d been tailed as she went between home and work, and the intruder now knew all kinds of things about her. Don’t get paranoid, she instructed herself. It was vital in this business to know how to separate imagined threats from an alertness to real danger, though sometimes that wasn’t easy. She looked at her watch again. And again.
With the two keys clutched in her hand she sprinted back to the flat, making decisions as she went. She’d call the taxi as soon as she got in, then do a quick pack while she was waiting for it. No time to change into her new clothes now. In any case, wearing a short skirt and espadrilles when you were lugging a bulging holdall around was a daffy thing to do. She tried the new key — improbably shiny, and still warm — in the door.
Unaccustomed as she was to taking cabs, she knew that calling one when you needed it really quickly was a situation guaranteed to invoke Murphy’s law. She looked out of the window and checked the traffic down the High Street. It was flowing okay, but there were only two taxis in sight, and both of them were engaged.
‘Ready to go now, love?’ said the operator.
‘Pretty well,’ she replied, with one eye on the mess of clothes littering the bed.
She threw the piles of underwear and the change of jeans into the bottom of the hold-all, placed the espadrilles at the ends with her rolled-up towel and swimsuit between them, and was just folding the skirt and blouse into the remaining space at the top when the doorbell rang. Shit. She zipped up the bag and foraged in the drawer for paper and an envelope. She scribbled a brief note to Chief Inspector Fletcher, folded it round the key, slipped it into the envelope, and then into her handbag. After a quick check for the train tickets, she grabbed the hold-all and left.
‘Off on your holidays?’ asked the cabby brightly.
As she settled herself in the back, a wave of relief swept over her, and she actually began to feel quite excited.
The driver leant his head back in the way they did when they wanted to talk to you. ‘Sunny Spain, is it?’
She laughed. ‘Not quite. Aberystwyth.’
‘Oh yes. Change at Birmingham if I remember rightly. But that’s Euston, isn’t it? You sure it’s Victoria Station you want? I don’t think you can go from Victoria to Birmingham.’
‘I’m meeting someone there. We’re getting the tube to Euston.’
‘A pretty special someone, I suspect.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Getting you racing all across London like this.’
She laughed again, enjoying the banter. ‘Actually it was my idea. He’s coming from Paris. I wanted to be there when he arrived.’
‘Better make sure you aren’t late then, hadn’t we? What time’s his train due in?’
‘Five past ten. But actually I have to drop something off on the way. Can you go via Lucan Place, off the Fulham Road?’
‘I know where Lucan Place is. It’s where they have the cop shop, isn’t it?’
‘I work there.’
‘No kiddin? You don’t look like the Miss Plod type to me. Seems a shame to have to go to work when you’re just off on your holidays.’
‘As I said, I’m just dropping something off. It won’t take me a few seconds.’
She was as good as her word. ‘Mission accomplished!’ she announced, bouncing back into the cab as a second wave of relief and elation took over. At last she was really on her way.
The cabby chatted on as they drove around Sloane Square and pulled up outside Victoria Station at three minutes past ten, handsomely earning the fifty pence tip Briony had ready.
‘I’d say you’ve timed that nicely,’ he said, making a mock salute as he deposited her suitcase on the pavement. ‘Even if you were in a bit of rush. Hope you remembered to pack your toothbrush!’
Briony stood, suitcase in hand, as the blood rushed to her face. Oh, sugarpuss. If only the toothbrush was all she’d forgotten to pack.
21
Riding down the King’s Road on the Vespa with a guitar slung on his back, Aidan passed a police car whose occupants showed no sign of recognising him, though he recognised them easily enough — they were both officers he’d seen around at Lucan Place. So what did that prove? He smiled to himself and raised a hand in greeting to the little group of people hanging around outside SEX. Two hands were raised in return. People knew their own tribe, didn’t they?
He turned into Gunter Grove and scanned the housing on either side. There were a couple of blocks of hideous red brick flats, but beyond those it was mostly terraces, squashed up tight and displaying an assortment of flaking paint colours. The number he was looking for was about halfway up on the left. There was no doorbell so he did a rat-a-tat with his knuckles.
‘Nick. I’m Jimmy.’ Jimmy Chapman held the door wide. ‘Go on up.’
The spongy nylon carpet grabbed at the soles of his shoes as he climbed the stairs. Jimmy followed, talking all the time. ‘Kitchen’s at the top there, straight ahead of you, bathroom on the left. There’s nobody else living here right now — the downstairs has all been ripped out for refurbishment. Your room’s the door on the right.’
The room was
a reasonable size, with a window facing over the street. Aidan propped the guitar against the bed and stood with his thumbs hooked into his pockets, taking it in: wooden chair, wardrobe, and a table under the window with the phone on it. All up, functional and adequate.
‘I doubt I’ll need that,’ he said, pointing to the wardrobe.
‘Oh yes you will. You’ll want somewhere to store all the bits of evidence you collect, won’t you? Here.’ Jimmy held out a bunch of keys, dangling it on the end of a finger. ‘Front door key, key to the door of your room, and the wardrobe key. We’ve had the lock reinforced specially. There’s a duplicate set with the soco team.’
‘Nice to know they’re takin care of my privacy.’
‘Privacy?’ Jimmy laughed. ‘You can forget your privacy. It’s not what undercover work’s about.’
‘So I’m learnin. You done it yourself, then, goin undercover?’
‘Couple of times. They asked me to do more, but I got a growing family, see. They like me to come home for dinner.’
‘And that’s why you left the police?’
‘More or less. ‘
‘You were on the soco team, right? That’s what Doc Latham told me — photographer. So how come you’re getting yourself involved in this situation?’
‘Ah.’ Jimmy perched on the edge of the table. ‘Long story, really. Tell you one day. Suffice to say, I used to do a lot of work with Macready, and he calls me in from time to time, to ask for the odd favour. Now. Open that wardrobe, would you?’
Aidan did so and found a leather jacket hanging inside. ‘One surprise after another.’ He pulled it out. ‘What else has Father Christmas brought me?’
‘Put it on.’
‘It’s heavy.’
‘Put the bugger on, will you? Now, the real Christmas present is what you’ll find in the right inside pocket.’
‘I thought somebody’d left their fags in here,’ said Aidan, extracting a black metal object the size of a cigarette packet. ‘What’s this?’
‘You’ll have to give it back, mind.’
‘I’m asking what it is.’
Jimmy took the thing from him and held it lovingly on the outstretched palm of his hand. ‘Must say, I wouldn’t mind one of these. The Minox EL. What a little beauty.’ He flipped the top open and a metal cone emerged. A camera lens.
Now the two men were standing shoulder to shoulder, peering closely at it. Jimmy went through the functions with a rapid professional spiel: film and battery compartments, focus, flash, winder. ‘You’re being issued with a dozen bulbs to start with,’ he said, ‘so don’t get too flash-happy. You wouldn’t want to know what they cost. And here’s your rolls of film and your replacement batteries. Camera stays in your pocket at all times, with its little drawbridge shut to protect the lens — brilliant that is — and the other tackle you keep here.’ He grasped the hem of the jacket and gave it a downwards tug. ‘Now just let me have a look.’ Jimmy crouched, so Aidan’s groin was at eye level.
‘Hey man. What kind of tackle you talkin about?’
‘There’s an inside zipper. Oh yes, here it is!’ He stood up. ‘All you have to do is push the batteries through, one by one. That’s right. And they just sit in that little tube at the bottom of the lining. Same with the flashbulbs and film. Then when you need them you just squeeze em out.’
Aidan was following the instructions, but he came to a halt. ‘Hang on — there’s already some shit in here.’ He was feeling around the back of the jacket. ‘No wonder it’s heavy. Somebody’s been hidin the kitchen cutlery.’
‘I just put in a few useful bits and pieces. Screwdriver. Penknife. Wire for picking locks and other emergency purposes. Torch —nice little penlight.’
‘So that’s my Christmas stockin, is it?’
‘I drew the line at the tangerine. Sit down a minute, will you? There’s a few more instructions.’
Aidan rolled his eyes. ‘Instructions. Oh, there would be.’
‘The jacket.’ Jimmy perched on the edge of the table again. ‘You’re to wear the jacket at all times. Even when you’re sweating like a pig, which you will be in some of those concert places they go to. Safety reasons. The lining’s reinforced, for extra protection against razor slashes or if anybody happens to get you up against a brick wall and starts trying to punch your liver apart. Or, for that matter, if you come off that shonky little thing you got parked outside. Now. Where was I? Oh yes, photographs. You’ll find the Minox very discreet. I’ve tried it out. Once you get the hang of it you can snap away with the camera in your hand like this.’ Jimmy held his palm at waist height. ‘No one’ll twig that’s what you’re actually doing. Course it’ll be hit-and-miss at first, but after a while you get eyes in your hands. Then you bring the film to me. The shop’s easy to find. Snap Happy, just up round the corner on your left in the Fulham Road. You need to check in with me every few days in case I got messages for you.’
‘I already got to check in with Doc Latham.’
‘Macready’s a belt and braces man. He wants you to check in with me as well. And if things start getting ugly you can come around and take a bit of a breather, even if it’s after hours. We live above the shop so I’m always about. All right then? All set?’
Aidan was sitting with his elbows on the table, rotating one of the studs in his ear. ‘You talkin like it’s a race, man.’
‘Well you’d better be prepared, because it can turn out that way.’
After Jimmy had gone Aidan took another look at the camera and tried a couple of shots, aiming through the window with the thing held against his hip and watching himself in the wardrobe mirror. No, you’d never notice he was taking a photo if he could get the knack of doing it that way. The shutter was quiet, but not silent. He turned and looked at the room. A little dead place. You could go mad on your own in a room like this. He grabbed the keys and left.
*
‘How on earth do you get into them?’ asked Sharon, staring at the rubber trousers.
‘Easy,’ said Zig. ‘You just need some of this.’ She held up a large tin of baby powder, exactly like the one Sharon was used to seeing beside Debbie’s cot. Zig twisted the top and shook a generous amount into each of the rubber cylinders that formed the legs of the trousers. ‘Go on. Try.’
Hesitantly, Sharon put one foot in. It slid right through and came out the other end. ‘Hey!’ she shouted, and followed up with the other foot. ‘They’re all sort of slippery. What’s this on the outside of them?’
‘It’s just Vaseline. Gives them a wet look.’
‘You sure you don’t want them?’
‘I’ve already got some,’ said Zig.
‘They’re expensive though, aren’t they? Doesn’t he want any money for them?’
‘Apparently not. Flak doesn’t care about money. I don’t know why he bought these in the first place. They’re not his sort of thing.’
Sharon smoothed her hands over the shiny contours of her hips. ‘Okay then. Thanks! But I feel a bit funny about it. I mean, I seen the price tags on these up in SEX. Forty quid. You sure he’s not after something?’
‘Flak’s always after something but fortunately it’s not me anymore.’
‘Do you trust him, though?’
Zig snorted loudly. ‘You’re obsessed with trust, Sharon. It’s a stupid middle-class word.’
‘Well that’s a change. Nobody ever told me off for being middle class before. But let’s not change the subject. Flak knows something about Sol, for sure. Can’t you even see that?’
Zig was concentrating hard on lighting a fag, her hands cupped around the match in a way that wasn’t necessary indoors on a warm day. Eventually she surfaced, shaking the match and exhaling with exaggerated force. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s just you’ve got to tread carefully where Flak’s concerned. He’s the type that’s got a finger in every pie. If he’s done something to Sol I’ll find out about it don’t you worry. And I’ll get him for it.’
‘What do yo
u mean done something to him?’
Zig’s face was turned away, towards the window. She dragged on the cigarette again then rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead, sniffing audibly. Sharon knew she was crying and tactfully went out of the room, trying to prevent the trousers from squeaking as she moved. She would have to find a way to help, she really would.
*
It was cooling outside and the light had lost its glare, but there would be another three hours to go till dark, Aidan figured, so he might as well make use of them. Having only just started with BD he didn’t know the area that well, and in any case there were all sorts of things you missed when you were at the wheel of a police car. He was in the mood for a freewheeling cruise.
London had its own way of keeping its worlds apart. The warren of the old World’s End streets ran immediately behind the main road, but wasn’t visible from it. You had to go behind a block of glass-fronted offices before you even got a plain view of the flats that had been built at the eastern end of the estate.
Aidan decided to start at the western end, where he stopped to explore the confused intersection of the creek and the railway line. The Chelsea Creek ran through into the fenced precinct of the power station, where it cut between two massive faceless buildings — one brick, one concrete — joined by an iron bridge. He stopped again to stare at the fifteen-foot-high wire gate, with its jabbering mess of yellow and orange notices: KEEP OUT! RESTRICTED AREA. WARNING! DANGER! HAZARDOUS MATERIALS. BEWARE! As if any one of them wasn’t enough to get the point across.
‘You!’ A rasping voice yelled from behind him. He turned to see two boys — little kids in short pants and ragged plimsolls — sitting on the wall bordering the railway line. ‘You’re a spiker, inchya?’
Aidan folded his arms and stared back. One of the boys, an anaemic-looking character with orange hair and ears stuck out at right angles, jumped down from the wall and stood facing him on the pavement opposite. A car passed on the narrow road between them.
‘You’re a spiker,’ the kid repeated, in a not unfriendly way.
‘What gives you that idea?’ Aidan smiled.