by Tony Salter
‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘I’m pretty sure he was here. Sally served him. Let me get her for you.’ She beckoned to a slim attractive girl who was clearing tables. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, as the girl put down her tray and walked over.
‘Hello Sally,’ said Nadia. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I understand you served this man earlier today?’
The girl looked at the image on Nadia’s phone. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He left ten minutes or so ago. Is he in trouble?’
‘No. No,’ said Nadia. ‘We just want to find him. Did he say where he was going?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the girl. She looked down at the floor. ‘I actually agreed to meet him here after work. We’re both from Bradford, see.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell your boss,’ said Nadia, laughing. ‘What time are you meeting?’
‘Three o’clock. When I get off my shift.’
‘Right. Well, thanks very much for your help. I’ll let you get back,’ said Nadia. She handed the girl a business card. ‘If you remember anything else, please call this number.’
She was turning to leave when she felt a tap on her shoulder. ‘He forgot his bag,’ said the girl.
‘Do you still have it?’ said Nadia.
‘Sorry,’ said the girl. ‘I chased after him and gave it back.’
Nadia felt the moment’s rush of excitement and hope evaporate. That would have been too lucky.
‘Which way was he going?’ she asked.
‘Up towards the park,’ said the girl. ‘The bag was bloody heavy, though. He said it was full of presents for his nephews.’
Nadia smiled. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much,’ she said before grabbing Ed by the arm and steering him out of the door.
‘Police?’ said Ed, as soon as they were outside. ‘What’s that all about?’
‘I’m not going to say I’m a bloody spy, am I?’ said Nadia. ‘Get with the programme. I’m not happy about that heavy bag, though. It’s not looking good. I need to post an update.’
Nadia and Ed stood on the busy street outside Muriel’s and she felt a moment of panic. Something was definitely happening – there were face matches and reports coming in from all directions, many of them clearly false alarms, but enough of a concentration to be sure he was in the region and on the move. They were also getting reports of increased chatter on ISIS-related websites which couldn’t be ignored.
They needed to do something, but she didn’t have enough information to act on and she couldn’t see a pattern from the reports.
Nadia looked at Ed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘The girl said he was going towards the park, but I don’t know how much that means,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
‘We’re close,’ he said. ‘Assuming Snowflake stays on foot, we might as well do the same. Go up towards the park and wait for more intel?’
‘Agree,’ she said. ‘We’ll leave the car here in case we need it later.’ She signalled to the driver to wait, and they started to walk up Exhibition Road.
Ed pointed at the scrappy courtyard in front of the Natural History Museum. ‘They do skating there in the winter, don’t they?’
‘Yup,’ said Nadia. ‘Been doing it for a few years now.’
‘Ever been?’
‘Just the once,’ she said. ‘I went last year.’ An evening Nadia would never forget. The images flooded her mind in an unstoppable wave; once-treasured memories now pressing themselves upon her like strangers at a funeral. The night had been perfect in every way – renting the badly fitting, smelly skates; James falling over within ten seconds; James sitting on the ice, giggling like a schoolgirl; overpriced drinks at the cocktail bar on top of Harvey Nick’s; a dinner they couldn’t afford in a place they’d never remember; and all the while they’d both known how the evening was going to end up.
Nadia was certain it had been equally special for both of them, and the relationship had stayed great for the months which followed. She was too scientifically minded to believe in the idea of there only being one perfect match for everyone, but was also old enough to understand that there weren’t so many either – and they weren’t easy to find. With James, she’d made up her mind that he was the one and had already asked David to authorise her having “the conversation” about her job as soon as she was finished with Birmingham.
She would have explained … and he would have understood. If only the soft impatient idiot hadn’t decided to make the great romantic gesture and screw it all up. Maybe she should get the authorisation anyway and see if she could change James’s mind? When she had a chance to think properly, she’d consider it, but she was sure it would be too little, too late.
‘Tell me more about Unicorn,’ she said to Ed, striding forward towards the park.
‘I can tell you what I know,’ he said, ‘but the man’s surrounded by so much mystique it’s difficult to separate the hype from reality.’
Nadia nodded, happy to be putting distance between her and her memories.
‘He joined the Afghan Mujahideen in 1983 when he couldn’t have been much older than sixteen or seventeen. We suspect his family were all killed during the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982, although what happened in Sidon was fairly messy and records are poor.’
‘That would explain a few things,’ said Nadia.
‘Yup,’ said Ed. ‘His brand of fanatical drive has to come from somewhere.’ He stopped while Nadia checked her phone. ‘Anyway, his name has been popping up again and again over the years. Always in the background, never quite visible, but associated with some of the most successful terrorist operations of the past twenty-five years.’
‘Well. Let’s see if we can end his lucky streak,’ said Nadia. ‘Snowflake has just been picked up on CCTV going into the park. Alexandra Gate. It’s right up here. We must be close.’
11:36
Jim
It couldn’t have been her. Jim shook his head from side to side as he picked up the silver-grey thermos and settled back into his chair. He watched the tea swirl into the cup and took a big slurp. It was turning out to be a weird day. There was something in the air.
He managed to bring his distracted thoughts back to the image of the parakeet. He would normally pass the time until lunch mulling over the image he’d been studying and wasn’t going to let that bloody woman take that small pleasure away from him.
There was nothing particularly technical in the shot; it was good because the animal actors were performing perfectly for the camera, right at that moment. Did that make it a matter of luck – leaving aside the fact that the guy had spent two days halfway up a tree – just waiting for the right moment? This was an ongoing debate among wildlife photographers – should you take shot after shot and hope for one to come good or should you wait, finger poised over shutter, until the perfect moment and risk being just a little too slow, a microsecond too late.
He and Alastair had argued about that a lot in Belize. Alastair had been firmly in the second camp. Apart from anything else, in the days before digital SLRs, you had to consider the cost of film, the limited shots in a roll, and the time and expense involved in developing. All of these factors argued against trigger-happy shutter fingers.
They were young men, and it was no great surprise that the arguments had turned competitive. The two of them had been out in a canoe early one morning a couple of months after Jim had begun to take photography seriously. A three-toed sloth was hanging on a branch by the river, her newborn baby draped over her shoulder. Once they were as close as they dared go, they waited, cameras at the ready, for her to move around and face them.
‘One shot,’ said Alastair. ‘You take the whole film and I’ll just take one.’
‘Well, it’s not as though the subject’s moving too quickly, is it?’ said Jim, laughing quietly.
‘Still,’ said Alastair. ‘Thirty-six against one. The best shot wins. A tenner?’
‘You’re on,’ said Jim, never one to turn down a flutter.
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br /> They’d left after an hour – it was important to at least try to give the impression of doing some work to justify their existence. Jim had finished his film and was confident he had some great shots.
Despite that, he’d felt a sense of inevitability when Alastair had brought out the developed prints a couple of days later. Jim did have some great shots, but then Alastair turned over his own photo.
‘See!’ Alastair said, a huge grin spreading slowly across his face.
Jim remembered smiling himself and reaching for his wallet.
As he drained the last few drops of tea from his cup, Jim tried to remember when he’d last picked up a camera. It was probably over a year but, since he’d started at the museum, it was always too late by the time he got home and he couldn’t find the energy to get up for the dawn.
Once the Belize dream was over, he hadn’t thought he’d ever take another picture. Photography was hardly an option back in regular squaddie life and he filed it away in the mental “not to be” folder. He didn’t believe in regrets. He made his own decisions, and he understood that photography would cost him more in grief and humiliation than it was worth.
It was over twenty years before things changed. He’d been driving the cab for a few years by then and had got into the routine of spending his mornings cruising around Holborn. Depending on the weather, he might drive up and down Old Holborn ten or twenty times before he picked up a fare. There was a big Jessop’s camera shop about halfway along on the north side and he found himself checking it out each time he passed, sometimes from the cab but, more often than not, he’d pull over, get out and have a proper look.
The first decent digital SLRs were just on the market and there was always something on offer, but the reasons why it wasn’t worth doing were still the same. As soon as anyone found out about Jim’s hobby, he’d have to deal with a continuous stream of piss-taking which would never stop. He couldn’t face that.
Being a cabbie was different from being in the Army. It was a one-of-a-kind job and there were blokes with all sorts of strange hobbies, but it still wasn’t exactly a world where you would strike up a conversation about beauty and colour over a bacon sarnie. In any case, his old friends and his wife hadn’t changed at all.
One particular day, he was looking through the window at a particularly interesting package offer. The wheels had just fallen off the dotcom juggernaut and London was full of dazed investors and bankers who hadn’t got their money out in time. There were deals and offers in every shop and this was a 50% discount on a package of body and lenses which had been state-of-the-art only months earlier.
As Jim went through the arguments in his head for the hundredth time, he suddenly woke up. Why did anyone need to know? He didn’t need a darkroom with digital. There was no need for boxes of prints, he could keep the equipment in the cab and, if he started a bit earlier in the mornings, he could sneak off for a few hours when business was quiet.
The plan had worked perfectly until that bloody South African bitch had come into his life.
After the incident at the airport, Jim had struggled to get her out of his mind. It wasn’t as though a bit of a shouting match worried him. He’d always been up for a barney; it got the juices flowing. No – there was something about that bloody woman which had got under his skin and he couldn’t figure it out.
Her complaint hadn’t been necessary and the whole episode was blown out of all proportion. Everyone tried to avoid the airport hotel rides if they could. It was a wasted hour for a ten quid fare and, if you got stuck in traffic and didn’t make it back in time …
That night he was at the end of a long shift, he was tired and all he wanted was an American businessman in a suit. Full fare into central London and a ten quid tip. On a rainy Tuesday evening at Heathrow, that wasn’t too much to ask for.
Instead he’d been lumbered with a tired, grouchy family with huge suitcases only going as far as an airport hotel. Who wouldn’t have tried to wriggle out of that one?
He was angry with her – his fists clenched reflexively every time he thought about it – but there was more. Layered on top of the anger were other feelings and emotions which had no place being there. There was something about her that wouldn’t leave him alone.
Shuna. Shuna was her name, as he’d found out later. With her silky South African accent and long blonde hair, she was a lioness protecting her family. Much as he hated her, he couldn’t help remembering how magnificent she’d looked.
When he first heard that she’d reported him and that there would be a hearing, his outrage had been mixed with a sense of inevitability. They were always going to meet again. He didn’t know how he could know that, but the certainty had burned inside him with a white hot flame. Their story wasn’t over.
By the time of the tribunal – almost six months later – Jim’s life had slipped back into its normal routine. Long shifts, family time, Friday nights with the lads and, whenever he could, hours spent out on the Rainham Marshes, alone with his camera. He still thought about Shuna from time to time, but couldn’t remember how she’d got herself stuck so persistently in his mind.
She shouldn’t have reported him, but it wasn’t as though anything was going to come of it; the worst outcome was that he’d get a proper rap on the knuckles and maybe a hundred quid fine. And, as the money would go to the kiddie’s charity anyway, it wasn’t much of a threat.
The hearing had been in a small basement office off Fenchurch Street, seven of them crammed into a space not much bigger than Jim’s kitchen. The rancid smell of damp paint filled the room, but it was bearable. Even if they’d managed to unjam the dirty sash windows, it wouldn’t have been long before the diesel fumes rolling down off the street would have made things much worse. Still, looking on the bright side, back in the day, at least four or five of them would have been chain smoking, stubbing butt after butt into stale, overflowing ashtrays.
The tribunal was nothing more than three retired cabbies sitting behind a brown, formica desk and trying to look serious. The Met always passed on this sort of complaint; no actual laws had been broken, and they had better things to do with their time.
He knew two of the men well enough; they were decent guys, but they would have to go through the motions. The one in the middle was the chairman, and he looked like he must have been from Uncle Don’s generation although, in amongst all the wrinkles, his eyes looked sharp enough.
Jim hadn’t denied the facts – in any case, they’d probably spoken to some of the other guys who’d been there on the night – but the facts weren’t that important. He’d refused the fare, that was the truth. Was he justified in refusing it? That wasn’t so clear.
In any case, it wasn’t as though they were in a court room with lawyers and wigs. Each of them had given short written statements about that night which the panel read through, occasionally muttering to each other and nodding.
‘Do any of you have anything to add to your statements?’ said the chairman.
Jim shook his head, hands clasped loosely on his lap. ‘Nothing from me,’ he said, looking across the room to where Shuna and her husband were sitting.
‘I’d like to say something if I may,’ said Shuna.
‘Of course,’ said the chairman. ‘Go ahead.’
‘I don’t want to change anything in the statement,’ she said. ‘That’s what happened.’ She looked down at her knees for a few seconds before lifting her head and staring at Jim. ‘When I made the complaint, I was very angry. I was tired and jet-lagged and maybe turned the incident into something bigger than it actually was. I wouldn’t want this man’s career to come to any harm as a result.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said the chairman, not looking impressed. ‘But maybe you should have thought of that before bringing the complaint in the first place.’
Shuna didn’t reply, but dipped her head again, golden hair veiling her face like a sunlit waterfall. She was stunning and Jim understood how she’d burrowed her way
into his thoughts. First the proud, defensive lioness and now this. He’d never come across a woman like her.
The chairman looked around the room. ‘Anything else?’ he said, shuffling the papers in front of him into a neat pile. The three of them leant in close together and mumbled as they confirmed their agreement with more nodding of heads. The chairman cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think anyone disagrees that Mr Pritchard refused the fare, and I can’t see any convincing evidence that there was reasonable justification for his actions. As London taxi drivers, we take on a set of obligations and we are proud of the fact that we’re the best in the world at what we do. The refusal of valid fares goes against that.’
He looked at Jim with hard eyes and lips pressed tightly together. For the first time, Jim worried that things might turn out worse than he’d expected.
The chairman continued. ‘As a general rule, we accept that these things can happen and that an apology and a small donation to charity is a satisfactory resolution, but …’ – Why did there need to be a ‘but’? – ‘… In this case, we have learned from a number of other drivers that this isn’t the first time this has happened. There appears to be quite a pattern.’
Jim hadn’t expected that and didn’t know how to respond. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out. Other drivers! The sneaky, cowardly bastards, all anonymous of course. What happened to solidarity? To having a code? It could never have happened in the Army and, in his foolish naivety, he’d assumed that the same values applied to being a cabbie. Shuna and her husband were leaning forward and whispering, his expression dark and angry, hers confused.
‘In light of that,’ the chairman continued, ‘we’ve decided that you will be placed on a 12-month probation. Any further complaints or issues within that period will almost certainly cost you your license, Mr Pritchard.’
The next ten minutes had been a blur. He hadn’t lost his license, but a probation was like being put in the stocks in the Dark Ages; as much as anything else it was punishment by public humiliation. Everyone would know, and whenever he went for a tea or a bacon bap, there would be whispers and sniggers. They were no better than him, but they’d make out they were. Maybe the sour taste would go away eventually, but it would take a long time.