Dark Shadows

by Sibel Hodge

  A prickle of unease danced up my spine. It sounded exactly the same as what had been going on with the other students.

  ‘Had Farzad suffered from sleepwalking in the past?’ Walker asked.

  ‘No. I asked him about it, and he…’ Amy shrugged. ‘He thought I was winding him up. He didn’t believe he’d started doing it. He said it had never happened in the past. But that wasn’t the only thing, because sometimes in between class, he’d just disappear when we were supposed to meet up. When I asked him about it, he just pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about. One time… it was at the weekend, and I was in the kitchen making us breakfast, and he was lying in bed. When I took it up to him, he’d disappeared. He’d just left the house without saying anything. I knew he couldn’t have gone far, so I caught up with him as he was walking down the street, and I followed him to see what he was up to.’ She took a deep, shaky breath. ‘He was walking towards town. I thought he might be meeting a dealer, or maybe another girl. Thought I’d catch him at it and confront him.’

  ‘And what happened?’ Walker asked.

  ‘He went into a shop and bought a bottle of Coke, which was weird because he hates the stuff. Then he sat on a bench and drank it. I was watching him from a shop doorway, and it was like he was in this little world of his own, not noticing anything around him. He sat there for about half an hour, then walked off again in the direction of St Peters Street. He walked around town for a bit, up the road and back, and headed home.’

  It wasn’t just unease now. A siren boomed in my head.

  Amy paused and sniffed. ‘When I got back, he was lying on top of the bed with his clothes on. He sat up when I came in and asked where the breakfast was.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I said, “What are you talking about? Where’ve you been?” I didn’t want to let him know I’d followed him. It sounded kind of stalkerish. But I was jealous that maybe he’d gone to meet a girl and she’d stood him up so he came back. Anyway, he said he didn’t remember going into town at all. He acted like he genuinely couldn’t remember where he’d been. But I thought he was lying.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘I checked the flat when he wasn’t there, seeing if he was hiding something from me. And I didn’t find any drugs. He said he wasn’t on anything when I asked him. I also checked his phone and laptop to see if he was chatting with another girl, but I didn’t find anything on them. So, yes, maybe he might’ve been associating with someone else. But I haven’t got a clue who.’

  I glanced at Sutherby, one eyebrow raised. ‘This is exactly like the others.’

  On screen, Bloomfield asked, ‘Are you aware of Farzad having any history of mental illness?’

  ‘Not that I know of, no. He’s just a normal guy.’

  ‘Who was his doctor?’ Walker said.

  ‘He hasn’t seen a GP since coming to uni. I think he’s probably still listed with his old one back in Luton.’

  ‘You say you didn’t see him take any drugs, but was he on any prescribed medication?’ Bloomfield asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he visit the medical centre at the university for any reason? The Watling Centre?’ Walker asked.

  Amy pursed her lips together and shook her head. ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Specifically, did he talk about a Professor Klein? Or volunteering with any of the uni’s medical research programmes that students can get involved in?’

  ‘No.’

  Walker scribbled something down in his notebook. ‘How did you both afford your rental house with the student loans? Or were either of you working anywhere?’

  ‘I’m lucky that my parents have paid for my education. They’re footing the bill for the flat, too. Neither of us had a job.’

  ‘Were you aware that Farzad had any extra cash recently?’

  ‘Uh…’ She looked down at the table. ‘I don’t know. He did buy me some things lately—a watch and a coat. But he didn’t say he had any extra money.’

  ‘Our search team found two and a half thousand pounds at your flat, hidden under some floorboards. Do you know anything about that?’ Walker asked.

  Amy’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘No. Are you saying that it belonged to Farzad?’

  ‘Did it?’ Bloomfield asked.

  She shrugged. ‘It wasn’t mine, so I guess…’ Amy gave another helpless shrug. ‘I don’t know. It must be his, I suppose. I never knew it was there.’

  I glanced at Sutherby. ‘See! It’s just like the others. It’s—’ But before I could say more, Walker started talking again, so we turned back to the screen.

  ‘Okay, let’s move on,’ Walker said. ‘Did Farzad belong to any particular groups or societies at the university?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But if he had periods of time where he went missing, like you mentioned, how would you know?’ Bloomfield asked.

  ‘Maybe I wouldn’t. I don’t seem to know anything anymore.’ Amy looked dazed. ‘I don’t think he belonged to any groups.’

  ‘Okay.’ Walker adjusted the buff-coloured folder in front of him into a neat line. ‘Was Farzad ever approached by anyone who wanted him to join a particular society or group?’

  ‘Not that he told me.’

  ‘Did he have any particular political, social, or religious ideology?’

  Amy blinked. ‘No. He didn’t care about politics, and he wasn’t religious. He was just an artist.’

  ‘Has he ever been threatened or coerced by anyone into doing anything?’ Walker asked.

  A pinched frown furrowed between Amy’s eyebrows as she gasped. ‘What are you saying? Do you think someone made him do this?’

  Walker glanced at Bloomfield for a moment. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Was Farzad acting alone? Or was he recruited for some kind of purpose by any organisation?’ He leaned his elbows on the desk. ‘I don’t know whether you heard about the recent incident in Manchester, where a man was arrested on suspicion of committing a terrorist act after stabbing five people? Or the London Bridge attack a few years ago, where terrorists drove a vehicle into pedestrians before stabbing people?’

  Amy’s mouth fell open. ‘Are you saying Farzad’s a terrorist?’ She stared back, eyes wide and horrified. ‘What? Just because he’s foreign? He was born here. His parents are Christians! It’s not like he’s from a strict Muslim family or anything. He’s as British as you and me. No! He can’t be a terrorist. I mean, like I said, he’s not religious or idealistic or involved in… anything… I don’t know…’ Her hand circled in the air. ‘I mean, he’s not into anything radical. He’s just a normal guy.’

  Walker opened the folder in front of him again and held up a photograph in front of her. It was a still taken from the camera phone that had captured Hoodie Guy in St Peters Street. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  I looked at Sutherby, silently questioning how Walker had got the photo.

  ‘I gave it to DCI Walker,’ he said. ‘Although I didn’t mention the undercover operation. Hoodie Guy is a person of interest.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘But not for terrorism. This isn’t about a terrorist cell. It’s Klein and his cronies. I know—’

  ‘Not now, Becky.’ Sutherby cut me off and turned back to the screen.

  Amy had the photo in her hand, staring at it. She gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. ‘No. I’m sorry. I don’t know who he is. I want to help Farzad, but I don’t know what I can do.’

  ‘You are helping him, Amy.’ Bloomfield gave her an encouraging smile.

  ‘It doesn’t feel like it.’ Amy sniffed again. ‘It feels like I’m betraying him.’

  ‘We have to get to the bottom of this,’ Walker said. ‘So you never saw Farzad with this man? Or saw this man hanging around the university or your flat?’

  ‘No. Never. Why?’

  Walker ignored the question, slid the photo into his folder, then pulled out an A4 piece of paper. ‘I’m going to read out some names, and I want you to tell me whether Farzad knew these peo
ple.’ Walker looked down at a list. ‘Vicky Aylott.’

  Amy paused for a moment, as if thinking. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What about Ajay Banerjee?’

  ‘Um… no. But that name seems familiar for some reason.’ Amy rubbed at her forehead. ‘Sorry, this is… I can’t think straight. It’s such a shock.’

  ‘We understand that,’ Walker said. ‘You’re doing really well. How about Natalie Wheeler? Did Farzad know her?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But there was a Natalie who…’ Amy stared at Walker and Bloomfield, as if suddenly connecting some dots. ‘Are these students who’ve… I just remembered Ajay’s name. He set himself on fire. Vicky killed herself at uni. Natalie ran over a man, didn’t she? Are you… why are you asking about them?’

  ‘Did Farzad know any of them?’

  ‘No. We talked about them briefly, when we heard about what had happened with them, but neither of us knew them.’

  ‘What did Farzad say about them specifically?’

  ‘He just said how terrible it all was. What does this have to do with what Farzad did?’

  ‘Maybe nothing. But we just need to be thorough.’ Walker clasped his hands together. ‘What we’re trying to understand is why Farzad would suddenly do something like this, Amy, when it appears to be completely unprovoked and out of character.’

  ‘So am I! God, so am I. And I’m telling you I can’t think of a single reason.’

  Chapter 33

  Toni

  It was gone 4.00 p.m. when I rang the buzzer outside Watford General Hospital’s Critical Care Unit. I hadn’t been able to get away from work earlier, because several students who were upset about the stabbing had taken up the offer of counselling.

  I waited until a tired-looking female nurse let me in with a smile, and I told her I was there to visit Marcelina.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We only let two visitors in at a time, but her parents have just left to go to the canteen, so you’ve got some time. I’ll show you which room she’s in.’

  ‘Is there any change?’ I said as I walked along the corridor beside her.

  Her smile fell flat then. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket. ‘I was wondering if you could help me.’ I called up the photo of the man who was supposed to be Dr Lahey and showed it to her. ‘Do you recognise him? I think he’s in neurology here.’ I deliberately kept it vague, not mentioning the name in case she became suspicious and clammed up. ‘I think he’s treating Marcelina, so I wanted to find out how experienced he was in injuries like hers.’ I gave her a sheepish look, as if I felt a little guilty for questioning his ability.

  She stopped walking, looked at the screen, and took it from my outstretched hand. Frowning at it, she said, ‘He’s definitely not in neurology. We have a lot of neurology doctors coming in and out of CCU, and I don’t recognise him. Where did you see him?’

  ‘In A&E. When Marcelina was first brought in.’

  ‘He’s most likely an A&E locum.’ She carried on walking and passed the phone back to me.

  ‘Yeah. Maybe I got it wrong,’ I said, falling into step beside her, wondering just who on earth he was.

  ‘Here we are.’ She stopped outside a private side room and pushed open the door.

  I stood in the entrance, watching Marcelina for a moment. Her face and arms were the only things uncovered by the bed sheets, and the bruising to them was even more pronounced now—a kaleidoscope of purple, grey, and black. Her hair was matted to her head around the dressing bandage wound over it. My stomach twisted with guilt and sadness for her.

  ‘I’ll leave you to your visit,’ the nurse said.

  ‘Thanks.’ I stepped inside the room, the door swinging shut behind me. ‘Hi, Marcelina. It’s Toni.’ It was possible she could still hear me beneath the layers of unconsciousness, even if she couldn’t yet answer me. So I carried on talking as I sat in the visitor’s chair beside her and took her hand, stroking it gently. ‘What happened to you? What was going on?’ I paused. ‘I saw Curtis today. I’m going to speak to your other friends, too. But I think someone was doing something to you, weren’t they?’ I swallowed and glanced over my shoulder towards the closed door. Then I placed her hand back on top of the bed and reached into my handbag for Marcelina’s mobile phone.

  I was about to commit another invasion of privacy, but I was convinced something sinister had led her to be so scared she’d run into the road rather than talk about it and had led another student to brutally stab someone in the street.

  I activated the password screen and pressed her right forefinger against it, but nothing happened. I tried with her left one, and the screen unlocked. I went to the security settings and changed them so the phone didn’t need a code or fingerprint to open it again. Then I stared at the screen, wondering what to check first. I clicked on her email app and scrolled down. She only had a few messages in her inbox: one from Janet at Student Counselling with the form email sent to all students earlier; one from Ryanair about cheap flight deals; and one from eBay about a product being relisted. I checked her sent mail and folders, but there was nothing interesting.

  I went through her text messages but didn’t find anything suspicious. They were all benign chats between her family or her friends—Precious, Hazel, and Curtis. The only social media app she had was Facebook, so I clicked on that. The phone was still logged onto her account, so I went through her posts. Mostly, they were photos of mundane, everyday life—posts of food, selfies in her dorm room or in class, photos with Precious and Hazel, and pictures of her dog back home.

  I clicked on her phone’s photo gallery and scrolled through the photos, which mostly showed the same ones she’d uploaded to Facebook, or others in the same vein, but there were also ones of Curtis, taken from a distance, some slightly blurred, as if they’d been shot without him knowing. And the latest thing she’d taken wasn’t a photo at all. It was a video, dated three days before. I pressed Play.

  I couldn’t make out what was happening at first. The image was blurry and moving fast. But then I realised it was of a grey tiled floor, the phone pointing downwards as she walked along, as if she were holding it in her hand and had turned it on by accident.

  Suddenly, the phone swung upwards and pointed through a window to a clothes shop opposite called Hobbs. I recognised the shop as being in Christopher Place, an open-air shopping centre in St Albans. It took a moment for me to realise what was happening as Marcelina said, ‘There he is.’

  She was filming a man who stood with his back to the phone, looking in the window of Hobbs. He was well-built, wearing a baseball cap, jeans, and a lightweight jacket.

  ‘It’s him,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sure he’s the one who’s been following me.’

  Dread thrummed through me as I carried on watching. The man didn’t turn around, but as she zoomed in on him, his face became more visible in the reflection of Hobbs’s window. He wore sunglasses and had a distinctive nose, chin, and cheekbones. It was the bogus doctor.

  ‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ Marcelina whispered.

  And then the video cut off.

  I was just about to watch it again when the door opened, startling me.

  I stuffed Marcelina’s phone in my handbag, swung my head round, and saw a couple in their early fifties. The woman’s eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and she moved as if everything was a great effort. The man’s hands shook as he stood looking at Marcelina in the bed with a haunted expression. I recognised them from the photo I’d found in Marcelina’s purse. Her parents.

  I stood, introduced myself, and told them how sorry I was and that I didn’t want to intrude on their privacy. I stepped out of the room and took one last look through the window in the door, watching them clutching each other tightly, their distress palpable in the air.

  I turned away, blinking back tears, then marched down the corridor, making them a silent promise in my head to find out what had really happened to their daughter and
just how the man in the video was involved.

  Chapter 34

  Detective Becky Harris

  The interview with Amy carried on for another hour, but we didn’t learn anything else useful. After she was led out, Farzad’s friend, Charlie, entered the room, and the same questions were put to him, but that yielded less results. He was hostile, and angry with Farzad. Said he hadn’t seen much of Farzad in the last few months, hadn’t witnessed any strange behaviour, and had no clue why Farzad would stab someone.

  As DCI Walker drew the second interview to a close, Sutherby’s phone rang. He listened to the caller for a few minutes and then hung up and turned to me.

  ‘Farzad Nuri’s phone data and laptop has been analysed, and there are no calls, texts, emails, or social media messages we can find to or from anyone that appear suspicious. Whoever Hoodie Guy is, if he’s communicating with the students, he’s not leaving a trace digitally.’

  I chewed on my lip, processing everything. ‘Hoodie Guy had his phone to his ear in the camera phone footage. If he was on a call in St Peters Street, we could try to trace it.’

  ‘I’ve authorised a request to mobile phone providers to see if we can pinpoint it, but that could take a while to come back.’

  ‘Maybe Hoodie Guy doesn’t need to communicate directly with the students. He could be just a middleman, working for Klein. He might never have met any of them.’

  Sutherby sighed impatiently. ‘A middleman doing what?’