by James Oswald
My London geography’s not as good as I thought it was. I know where I’m going, and I know I’m going in the right direction, but it’s a lot further than I thought. I might have flagged down a taxi near the jazz club, but now that I’ve put a few minutes’ walking between it and me, they’re nowhere to be found. Nothing to do but shove my hands in my pockets, keep my head down and walk like someone who’s meant to be here. I just hope that news of my little altercation hasn’t spread too far. The last thing I need is gangs in cars roaming the streets looking for me.
Get a grip, Con. That’s not going to happen. You don’t even know if that bloke back at the jazz club knew who you are or was just a psycho out to cut someone. Maybe if you hadn’t knocked him senseless he’d have been able to tell you.
But he was coming for me, not anyone else. And I can’t help but remember the way the doorman looked at me. I still can’t place him, even though he looked vaguely familiar. The more I think about it, the more I think he recognised me. But that’s nuts. I don’t live or work in this part of town. I’m not some kind of celebrity everyone thinks they own a part of. The only people who knew I was in that area were Roger DeVilliers and his two goons, Adrian and the silent one.
Wee Jock said someone had put out a contract on me. Not enough cash to attract the professionals, but maybe enough for wannabe amateurs. People who might panic and shoot a stray cat that was under my duvet? People who’d get a tip-off from a bouncer friend of theirs and try their luck with a switchblade in the Ladies’ loo? What the actual fuck is going on?
I’m still pumped up on adrenaline and fear, walking too quickly not to attract attention. Forcing myself to slow, I take out my phone and chance the battery for a quick reminder of where I’m going and how long it should take to get there. Just as well, or I’d have missed my turning. I’ve been on a major road most of the way, but now the streets are tree-lined, more shadow than street light. It’s late enough for a lot of the front windows to be dark, adding to the sense of unease. I can’t see well enough to be sure I’ve not been followed, or there’s nobody lurking a few paces ahead, ready to jump out at me as I pass. It’s hardly reassuring that the darkness means nobody can see me either.
The closer I get to Pete’s place, the more I begin to recognise things. I’m still on edge though, almost shaking, and I nearly forget to stop at the end of his street. There’s always a chance that his house is being watched. If it’s someone from my unit, chances are they’ll be asleep by now; the night’s too warm for a stakeout. If it’s someone from the mob who we were trying to shut down, then I’m screwed. I don’t think I’ve the energy left to fight them.
Just paranoia, Con. There’s nobody watching Pete’s house.
I approach it slowly nevertheless, constantly scanning the street for any sign I’ve been spotted. Of course I haven’t, but I can still feel the cross hairs on my back as I fumble with the keys and let myself in. Only once I’ve got the door shut firmly behind me do I finally begin to relax.
It’s dark inside, but I daren’t turn any lights on. Not at first anyway. I go straight to the alarm console, tap in the code to disarm it and only then realise it hadn’t been bleeping, hasn’t been set. Did nobody do that the last time I was here? Seems a bit lax. I double-check, but it’s definitely off.
The house feels empty as I creep around it in the dark, check that no one is lurking in a small cupboard ready to jump out and knife me while my back is turned. It’s not just the emptiness of no one being here, but a kind of deathly hollowness, as if all the life has been sucked out of it. The air outside was warm, my skin is sticky with sweat from my march across town. But in here it’s cold enough to make me shiver. I pull my jacket tight around me, continue through the house until I’m certain there’s nobody here and all the doors and windows are locked.
Only once I’m sure I’m alone do I collapse on the sofa in the front room. There’s enough light from the street lamps outside to see by, now that my eyes have accustomed themselves to the darkness, and I stare up at the shadow patterns on the ceiling, wondering how I’ve got myself into this mess and how I’m going to get out of it. The first rule of any inquiry is to define the parameters; get to the heart of the problem and the solution will often present itself. If there is just one problem to deal with.
‘Well, then. Deal with the most pressing problem first.’
I glance over at the armchair in the corner, fancy I can see a dark figure sitting there. The voice of my conscience come to haunt me again.
‘What would you consider most pressing, then? The price on my head? The fact that I was abducted by one of the country’s richest men and dragged back to London against my will? That there’s clearly something very rotten in our unit and they’re trying to pin it all on me?’
I’m staring at the ceiling again, but even so I imagine the shadowy figure shaking his head.
‘Come on, Con. You’re better than this. I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.’
‘What’s that even supposed to mean, Pete?’ I ask the darkness. It doesn’t answer.
‘OK. I suppose the fact that people are trying to kill me is probably most important right now. I need to put a stop to that, but how? As long as there’s a price on my head there’s going to be some idiot in a ninja suit coming after me wherever I go.’
‘It’s not the idiots you need to worry about. They more or less take care of themselves.’
‘You think there’s someone a bit more professional out there after me?’
‘Someone shot me in the head. Reckon you need to be more worried about them than your bearded friend with the knife.’
I listen to the words in the darkness. Pete always did have a way of seeing through the rubbish to the important things. I guess that’s why he was a detective inspector and I never made it past constable.
‘So what? I should run away?’
‘Well, you’re not planning on walking into Gordon Bailey’s office tomorrow morning, are you?’
Deep down, I know that Pete’s not really there. I’ve never believed in ghosts and I’m not about to start now. I’m exhausted, hungry, under far more stress than any sane person should have to endure. Is it any surprise I’m seeing things, hearing my thoughts as the voices of the departed?
And it’s true, I had no intention of going back to the station, even if my superior officer has ordered me to do so. I might have done, had I not seen Dan Penny in the Green Man.
‘Penny’s a stooge. There’s no way he’s behind all this.’ Pete’s voice might be only in my head, but it’s scathing.
‘I know that. I mean, it doesn’t surprise me that he’s bent as a nine-bob note, but he’s never been a leader. No, my bet’s on someone higher up the food chain. Maybe much higher. Fuck me. What have I got myself into?’
I stare across the darkened room, waiting for Pete to speak. But he’s not there. He never was there. And I’ve no more answers than before.
24
The blaring of a car horn wakes me suddenly, and for a moment I can’t work out where I am. Then it all comes flooding back, along with a deep pain in my wrists from the cable tie, a nasty chemical headache and a horrible stiffness in my neck and shoulders.
Pete’s ghost is nothing but a memory, the armchair clearly empty in the pale morning sunlight that filters in through the trees outside. I struggle to my feet, stretch and shuffle upstairs to the bathroom. The shower is very tempting, but I’ve only dirty clothes to put on afterwards, and I don’t think I feel safe enough to undress even here. Christ, I used to be a grown-up.
There’s a text from Aunt Felicity lighting up the screen of my phone when I get back down to the living room.
Your father came round wanting to speak to you. Told him he can call you himself.
Short and to the point, much like my aunt herself. I text her back.
Heading for the train, can
you pick me up from the station? Couple hours. Will call when on way.
The answer comes back swiftly, a smiley face emoji. Who says the over-sixties don’t get technology?
I reset the alarm code to a new number before I leave, my own little act of rebellion. For a moment I consider posting the keys in through the letterbox. This isn’t my house and I have no right to come here. In the end, I slip them back into my pocket, just in case.
It occurs to me as I walk up the street towards the nearest bus stop that I’ve no idea what will happen to all Pete’s stuff. It’s inconceivable that he didn’t write a will, so I guess it will all be sorted out eventually. I suppose it’ll all go to his parents. Unless he left it to his ex, Veronica. Having met her, I find that the thought doesn’t bother me. I’m sorely tempted to turn to her for help, in fact.
No one pays me any attention on the bus; this is London, after all. I feel happier in a crowd, but still nervous knowing that people are looking for me, people want to kill me. In my line of work that’s always been an occupational hazard. I’ve understood the risks and minimised them as much as possible, but if the job’s not going to protect me, then I’ll just have to do it myself.
Trundling up the Tottenham Court Road, I gaze out at the cheap electronics stores and remember Izzy’s laptop. I want to have a more thorough look at it, but I can’t keep hold of it for ever. I know a way around that, though, and the fat wedge of cash in my pocket, courtesy of last night’s would-be hitman, will make it a lot easier. Jumping out at the next stop, I step into the first computer store I find open, and spend almost all of the stolen money on a new laptop and all the other things I’ll need. It’s frustrating to know that in my flat across town I have most of this kit already. Unless, of course, someone’s been through there and taken it all as evidence.
‘You planning on setting up as a hacker, eh?’ The young lad who watches me counting out ten-pound notes tries to make it sound like a joke, but it’s clear he’s half serious. I give him something that’s part smile, part sneer in response, then notice the line of neat padded rucksacks hanging behind the till.
‘How much?’ I point at the least garish, and he pulls it off the rack.
‘Thirty. But seeing as you’ve bought all this, and it’s cash, you can have it for twenty.’
‘Cheers.’ I peel off another two tens, hand them over. Not much of my ill-gotten gains left. Ah well. Easy come, easy go.
I reach Euston station around the time I’m supposed to be meeting Detective Superintendent Bailey in his office. It won’t have gone unnoticed that I’ve not even checked into the station, so it surprises me that no one bothers trying to call. I spend the half-hour before my train leaves nursing a cup of coffee and going through my emails, all the while expecting some kind of communication from work. And yet it never comes. Not even a text.
The train’s pulling out from Watford Junction when the door at the end of the carriage swishes open and a man walks in. I hardly give him a glance at first, go back to staring out of the window, but then something about him sets off my internal alarms. I only caught a brief glimpse of him before, but I’m almost certain he’s the man who grabbed me in the woods last night. Without thinking, I rub at the sore marks on my wrists left by the cable tie, but before I can do anything else, another man slides into the seat opposite me.
‘You’ve left town I see, Miss Fairchild. Very wise.’
This one I have less trouble remembering. I never had a chance to study his features before, but his short-cropped hair and angular face confirm my suspicions of him being ex-military. It takes me a few moments, but then I remember his name.
‘Have you been following me all this time, Adrian?’
‘Keeping an eye on things is what Mr DeVilliers pays me to do.’
‘Didn’t work out so well in the jazz club across the road though, did it?’
‘I’m not your bodyguard. Just making sure you’re doing what you’re told.’
‘And I suppose dear old Roger had a word with my boss. That’d be why no one from the station’s tried to find out where I am.’
Adrian doesn’t answer that, and it occurs to me that this is simply him trying to frighten me. It’s hard to be scared by someone who’s just following you around when there are people out there who are trying to kill you.
‘You can assure Mr DeVilliers that I’m no longer interested in tracing his daughter,’ I say. ‘I am very interested in why he’s so keen she not be found though, and I can’t promise that it won’t come up in conversations with some of my friends. So many of them are journalists, too.’
Another pause, and he taps a finger lightly on the table. He’s well dressed, but casual, a fleece jacket over jeans and a plain T-shirt rather than a suit and tie. His silent friend is still standing in the aisle, swaying gently with the rhythm of the train.
‘It would be . . . unwise if you were to talk to the press about any of this.’
‘A bit like it was unwise to abduct me and bring me to London against my will?’
‘Would you have come if we’d just asked?’
He has a point, but I’m not about to admit it. ‘Was there any reason for you being here, or were you just showing off your tracking skills?’
‘Just letting you know where we stand, that’s all. And passing on a message from Mr DeVilliers.’
‘I’m sure he’s got nothing to say I want to hear.’
‘Which is precisely why he asked me to be the messenger. That, and you stormed out of his office before he could say it last night.’
I’ve met Adrian’s type before. Full of shit and taking pleasure in exercising what little power they have over you. With his background in the armed forces, I can imagine him fitting right in at the Met, although private security doubtless pays a lot better. I almost get up and walk away, but then he’ll just follow me until he’s carried out his orders. Trained dogs are like that. ‘OK, then. Get it over with. What does the old lech want to tell me?’
‘Mr DeVilliers is used to getting his own way, Miss Fairchild, but he acknowledges that carrot works better than stick sometimes. He understands that there’s been some . . . difficulty at your work recently. A colleague died in awkward circumstances. Awkward for you as much as for him, I should say.’
‘There was nothing “awkward” about Pete Copperthwaite’s murder. He was tortured, then executed, and I will find whoever’s responsible and see they rot in prison for the rest of their lives.’
‘Of course. I’m sure you will.’ Adrian’s words are condescending, but strangely enough his tone is not. ‘But, in the meantime, Mr DeVilliers has asked me to tell you that as long as you stay away from London and don’t try to find his daughter Isobel, then he will use his not inconsiderable influence with the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to make sure that no charges are placed against you in the matter of Detective Inspector Copperthwaite’s death. You leave us alone, and all that nonsense goes away.’
For a while it’s all I can do to stare out of the window at the countryside rushing past. The sheer brass neck of the man leaves me speechless. To his credit, Adrian doesn’t press me for an answer, simply waits patiently while I seethe.
‘You do realise there’s nothing for me to be charged with, don’t you?’ I say eventually. Not that truth or logic seem to count for anything these days.
‘That’s not what Mr DeVilliers has heard. And, let’s face it, they’re looking for a scapegoat and you fit the bill nicely. It’s just fortunate you have influential friends and a wealthy family to fall back on.’
‘Christ. You really mean that, don’t you? You have absolutely no idea—’
‘Just consider it, Miss Fairchild. Leave Isobel alone and this all goes away. Continue to pester the DeVilliers family and, well . . .’ He leaves the sentence unfinished, shrugs his shoulders and then stands up. His silent friend moves aside t
o let him pass, and then the two of them walk away down the aisle.
25
Aunt Felicity meets me at the station and has the good grace not to ask any questions on the half-hour drive back to Folds Cottage. I can see that she wants to, and I’d be happy enough discussing it with her, but first I need to find whatever device Adrian and his friend have planted on me to make me easier to track. I can’t believe for a moment that they’ve been tailing me all the while; I’d have surely noticed that.
‘Have you any idea how long you’ll be staying this time?’ she finally asks as she pulls on the handbrake and kills the engine outside the rickety wooden garage. My Volvo is still parked on the driveway in perhaps the most awkward spot imaginable, the keys in my jacket pocket.
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to be an imposition.’ And I don’t want to be this close to my parents either.
‘You’re never an imposition, Con, dear. I get few enough visitors as it is. The spare room’s yours for as long as you need it.’
Neither of us has undone our seatbelt yet, let alone got out of the car. With the engine off, it’s quiet and secluded. Private, even, although I can’t shake the nagging feeling Adrian and his silent friend have bugged me and are listening in.
‘I’m not going back to London. At least, not for a while. I’m not sure I want to stay here though.’
Aunt Felicity raises an eyebrow at this. ‘Really?’
‘Harston Magna, I mean. Not here here.’ I indicate the cottage with a loose flap of both hands. ‘We’re too close to the hall, for one thing.’
‘What about your job? Will they not complain if you don’t turn up for work?’
‘I rather think Roger DeVilliers has put an end to my career in the Met.’ As I say it, I realise that it’s true. Well, half true. Pete’s death and the clusterfuck of our operation put an end to my career as a detective, and I’d pretty much decided I was going to quit anyway. Blaming Charlotte and Izzy’s dad makes it slightly easier to accept though.