Wicked Leaks

by Matt Bendoris

  One of the police officers asked for a second time if there was anything else she had talked to the doctor about. It was almost as if they knew there was more.

  ‘No, I’ve told you all I can remember,’ she insisted. Kelly felt exhausted and brought the interview to an end: ‘If there’s nothing else, officers, I’d like to go to sleep, thanks.’

  They both glanced at each other, then snapped their notepads shut almost simultaneously.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Carter.’

  ‘It’s Miss Carter, and you’re welcome.’

  Kelly showed the officers the door. After they’d gone, she looked at herself in the hall mirror and stared hard at the woman standing there.

  ‘I guess it’s just you and me, babe. Sure as hell no one else is going to believe us.’

  26: A healthy breakfast

  April ate a double-helping of Crunchy Nut Flakes, chopping up two bananas to plop into the sugary milk. She had also toasted two slices of Mother’s Pride white bread and smeared them with full-fat butter and golden syrup. After adding three sugars to her mug of steaming coffee she settled down to gorge. But not before she congratulated herself on being able to forego a full fry-up at Peccadillos. ‘Oh what a healthy girl I am this morning,’ she said with absolutely no hint of irony.

  It had just gone half seven in the morning and April was already showered and dressed, ready to hit the door of Dr Shabazi’s house. But she point-blank refused to go anywhere on an empty stomach. As she once said to Connor, ‘A hungry April is no good to man nor beast,’ before her colleague had berated her for speaking about herself in third person, like a ‘tacky footballer’.

  She read Connor’s report on the Daily Chronicle’s subscription website on her iPad, which for some reason never retained her username and password. She usually needed two goes at her log-in as it was either her email or just ‘alavender’. But the password was relentlessly unchanged: ‘Cheeka’ would do her no matter how many websites informed her that the code was ‘weak’.

  April was genuinely shocked as it dawned on her that a bomb had gone off only a few miles from where she lived. She then looked at the picture of the doctor, who was ageing gracefully but, April imagined, had been a real looker in his day. She thought of him leaving Iran to build a new life in Scotland only for it to end in the most horrific manner.

  April finished her toast, wiping the crumbs from her chin and putting the dishes in the sink for later. She gave the cat a pet goodbye, slung on her fur jacket, then applied a liberal coating of bright pink, glossy lipstick before stepping out of the door, finally ready to tackle the world. The newsdesk had given her the doctor’s address, taken from the electoral register, which any person or company can buy. There is a surprising amount of information contained on the register, far more than in the old days, when you just got an address and how long the person had lived there, but little else. Now there were often telephone numbers, email addresses and credit ratings. The Daily Chronicle’s newsdesk had passed on the Shabazi’s home telephone number too, but April believed there was nothing more effective than presenting yourself in person.

  Her old car may have looked out of place in the Shabazi’s street, but April definitely wasn’t, as their house was only marginally bigger than hers. Four cars were crammed into the driveway, two of which were very sporty-looking. April rightly guessed they belonged to the doctor’s two grown-up sons. The photographer, Jack Barr, flashed his headlamps from across the street to let her know he was in position and ready with his long lens, with a clear view of the Shabazi’s front door to ‘snatch’ a picture of the widow, if required.

  Now it was April’s time to shine. She walked up the gravel driveway, precariously in her high heels, stepping onto the white, non-slip tiles at their front door. Before she even had time to ring the brass doorbell a young man threw the door open.

  ‘What do you want?’

  April could see both grief and anger in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry for intruding. I’m a reporter from the Daily Chronicle. Will you speak to me about your dad?’

  ‘No, I will not. Go away. Leave us alone.’

  ‘I understand. I shan’t bother you and your family again. I just wanted to give you the opportunity to tell me about him. I understand some people don’t want to talk, but others seem to welcome the chance to speak about what type of person their loved one was. Once again, I’m sorry to intrude at this awful, awful time.’

  April turned to go when she heard a voice from deep within the home. ‘Let her in, Hussain.’

  ‘Mother, she’s a reporter...’ her son protested.

  ‘Let me speak to her,’ the voice said, echoing along the hall.

  ‘You better come in,’ he sighed, as he stepped aside for April.

  27: The thin blue line

  Monahan’s street was still cordoned off by police tape, with just one bored-looking constable on duty. He didn’t even check Kelly’s ID, taking her blue nurse’s uniform and bag as proof enough. He held the police tape up for Kelly to crouch under and offered some comradeship: ‘You in for a long night?’

  ‘Right through to 7am. You?’ Kelly asked in reply.

  ‘Change shift at midnight. Been here since four o’clock. No toilet breaks or nothing. It’s pathetic. Forensics finished up yesterday so I’ve no idea why we’ve still got to be here.’

  The policeman must have been almost half Kelly’s age. She thought how quickly disaffected the youth of today seemed to become. It was as if they all wanted to start at the top, and didn’t think they needed to work their way up from the bottom. Kelly thought back to her nurse training in the mid-Nineties, when she was treated like slave labour. She went on to gain her nursing degree, but today’s newly qualified nurses now arrive with all the letters after their name, thinking they know it all. But how can you learn to be a hands-on, autonomous medical practitioner without getting your hands dirty in the real world? And she did mean dirty, with everything a human body had to offer.

  At least the exchange had been a welcome distraction until she finally set eyes on the street once more, with its grim memories. The controlled entry to Monahan’s building was a right state, with the main door completely blown off its hinges, while all the windows on the ground and first floors of the street were boarded up. She hadn’t known whether she’d have it in her to even get this far, but she wanted to return to the scene, to see where the poor doctor had died and to confront Monahan.

  As she trudged up the stairs to his top-floor flat, she could hear faint voices from above. She was on the landing below Monahan’s door when she stopped in her tracks to listen to a heated conversation. It was coming from the flat directly opposite Monahan’s. The one that looked like student accommodation, with the multiple faded names on Post-its stuck to the door. She had never seen anyone come or go from the flat, nor heard any sounds from within, during all her time night-sitting for Monahan. But now she could definitely hear two people. One was an older-sounding man, not the type of voice she expected to come from that sort of flat, and the other was a woman’s voice. They were both muffled, and try as she may, Kelly could not make out any individual words. But there was something familiar about the man’s tone. It was in its delivery. She knew that voice, but just couldn’t figure out where from.

  Kelly walked to the top of the stairs and pressed the button on Monahan’s expensive security system. The voices opposite immediately stopped talking.

  Once inside, Kelly asked Monahan, ‘Have you ever met your neighbours?’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Directly opposite.’

  ‘Nope, why?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s just that I’ve never heard a peep from that flat. Not even the front door opening or closing during all my time here. Then, tonight, I hear voices. Sort of arguing. I think I know the man’s voice. Can’t be sure. But I’m sure I’ve heard him before.’

 
‘Has the door downstairs been replaced?’

  ‘The entry door? No, it’s still hanging off its hinges.’

  ‘There was no need for you to buzz the intercom outside – you just walked straight in?’

  Kelly nodded in agreement.

  ‘So perhaps they were talking because they hadn’t heard you come in.’ As ever, Monahan smiled a sly little smile as he dropped his latest bombshell.

  ‘You’re saying they’re listening out for me?’

  ‘Not just for you. For anyone visiting me, I guess.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not? Maybe they want to be sure of something. Maybe they want to know something.’

  ‘Diana?’

  Monahan’s smile was replaced by a laugh that juddered his whole body, before he forced himself to stop, from the pain. ‘There’s far more important things in life than the death of one woman.’

  ‘But people should know. You should tell them.’

  ‘Tell them what? That the missing Fiat Uno was in my garage? But, oh no, wait a minute, my garage has been destroyed, hasn’t it? Along with the evidence. And I have bone cancer that’s apparently spread to my brain, so I’m talking crazy at the best of times. And even if I didn’t have cancer and the car was still there, what would it prove anyway? I’d be instantly discredited.’

  ‘So why tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I saw you reading the newspaper about Diana and couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t buy it. Your whole life is about control. Everything you do is planned and thought through. You’ve said so yourself. Then suddenly you just blurt something out. Pull the other one.’

  Monahan sat in silence, his face almost completely expressionless. It was at least a minute before he spoke again.

  ‘Okay, the truth is, I need something done for me as obviously I’m not quite as able-bodied as I used to be,’ he said, sweeping a hand over the bed. ‘But I didn’t know I was still being watched until my garage was burnt down. That was unexpected.’

  ‘So you used me to test the water? To see if you were being watched?’

  ‘Not deliberately, no. Although, as with anything in life, it’s all about percentages. I knew there was a small chance I was being watched.’

  ‘Listen, you fucker. I’m a divorced mother of two children. And you’re risking MY life. I don’t want your shit. Understand?’

  Kelly shocked herself with the ferocity of her outburst. She had never spoken to anyone like this, never mind a patient. Then again, she’d never had a patient like Monahan.

  His eyes were fixed as he stared unblinking at a random spot on the floor.

  ‘Why? Why did you get me involved?’ Kelly asked, demanding answers.

  ‘Because lives could depend on it.’

  ‘Whose lives?’ Kelly raged.

  ‘Many, many lives. To tell you more would be to endanger you more.’

  ‘Listen. Since I started sitting for you, I’ve become a suspect in an arson attack, been dragged into an international conspiracy, witnessed a car bomb, watched my friend and colleague’s head bounce down a street and been interviewed twice by the police. And now you’re worried about endangering me more? It would seem a little late for that.’

  Monahan reached over for his notepad and pen and began to write with an unsteady hand. It read:

  I am being bugged. All my emails and texts are compromised. You must consider that yours are too. Use a public pay box far from here and call the number below. Repeat the following message twice then hang up.

  ‘Triple M. Code Brown. Comms down. Request assistance.’

  Set fire to the note immediately after.

  Kelly read the instructions before staring in total disbelief at Monahan. He then handed her a heavy, hardback book, with a handwritten Post-it on the cover, which read, This is a present for you – keep it with you at all times. Kelly took off the Post-it to read the book’s title: Lady Diana’s Last Days.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  28: Providing a service

  April instantly hit it off with Mrs Shabazi. She may have been still grieving and in shock from the horrible death of her husband, but she wanted as many people as possible to know what a good father, husband and doctor he had been. The journalist spent over two hours at home with Mrs Shabazi, who even posed for pictures for Jack Barr and provided family photos of happier times. Afterwards April called her from the office to read the article she had written about her husband before it was published. When she finished, Mrs Shabazi had thanked her for the ‘beautiful words’ before breaking down. She told April that speaking about her husband had been a great help.

  It’s those moments that April felt journalists never got the credit for. They’re always portrayed as lowlife, gutter crawlers that would do anything to get a story. Not as writers who provided a service, for that’s exactly how April viewed what she did for families of the bereaved. She was as much of a service as the police officer or the undertaker. And she would never harass anyone for a story they did not want to tell. It wasn’t in her nature, even though in the old days she had been told to pile on the pressure by various news editors who didn’t have to look into the whites of victims’ eyes.

  Working together, Connor and April had covered Doctor Shabazi’s death in exemplary fashion. Connor had used a contact to find out about the incident and get the victim’s name, without corrupting any public official by paying them along the way, even though DCI Crosbie probably broke half a dozen rules police rules by providing the information in the first place. April had followed it up by adding the voice of a real person to the horrific events. It was simple, old-fashioned journalism at its best.

  As far as April was concerned, good words and pictures would always win over the multi-media mumbo jumbo they kept trying to teach her.

  29: The phone box

  Kelly slipped out of Monahan’s flat as quietly as she could, dead on 7am. She glanced nervously at the door opposite, with the definite feeling she was being watched. Maybe she was being paranoid. Monahan had a way of bringing out the worst in her. She walked down the first flight of steps then stopped and placed her nursing bag gently on the floor, before removing her black trainers. In just her socks she crept stealthily back up the stairs towards the ‘student’ door, keeping low down, out of sight of the peephole. Where there had been silence there were now voices, a man and a woman again, talking in an unfriendly tone, not quite an argument, but definitely not the sort of conversation most people have at 7am. She also recognised the voices now. It was unmistakably Doctor Davies and Nurse Veronica. If, indeed, they were even medical professionals.

  It all seemed to confirm both her and Monahan’s suspicions. His flat was being watched. That’s when it dawned on Kelly why Davies had had trouble saying Doctor Shabazi’s name: he had only heard it through their listening devices.

  Kelly walked back down the stairs, retrieving her shoes and bag. She stayed in her socks until near the bottom of the stairwell, before slipping her trainers back on. The voices coming from the flat had convinced her of one thing: she would make that cryptic call as Monahan had instructed.

  • • •

  Kelly was always dead-beat after finishing her shift, but this morning she felt she was on red alert. A man in a suit she’d never seen before got into a light blue saloon at the same time as Kelly got into her car. She couldn’t be certain, but she believed he’d come from the block of flats directly opposite Monahan’s. Maybe he was being watched from all angles?

  Kelly pretended to flick through the pages of her diary as she waited for the blue car to pull out and drive off. She hesitated before turning the key in the ignition, wondering if this would be her last time. Maybe it would be her head bouncing down the road like a fireball. She gave a sigh of relief as the car sprung into life then decided she would deviate from her
normal route home and start looking for a phone box when she was a good distance from Monahan’s flat.

  She hadn’t been in a phone box for years and wondered who, in this smartphone era, still used them. Kelly often did as a teenager in order to call her pals – as she was banned from using the house phone by her mum except in emergencies – and she recalled them always smelling of pee after drinkers, leaving the pubs, used them as urinals.

  Kelly parked her car on the double yellow lines directly outside one phone box. She quickly checked that no one was in the vicinity then stepped inside. The familiar sting of urine hit her in the face. Funny how she found the smell so repugnant in her youth and now clearing up pee and faeces was just part of her everyday life. Kelly inserted a pound coin, which was the only change she had, then dialled the number Monahan had given her. It rang for a brief moment before going to voicemail. Kelly felt like a fool as she read out the words on the sheet of paper, like a bad actress in an amateur production.

  ‘Triple M. Code Brown. Comms down. Request assistance.’

  As instructed, she read it twice: ‘Triple M. Code Brown. Comms down. Req...’

  Someone suddenly picked up the phone, abruptly ending the voicemail recording. ‘Who is this?’ a gruff Scots voice demanded.

  ‘I am just passing on a message.’

  ‘Okay, you can pass one back. Tell that daft cunt I’m locked, cocked and ready to rock.’ He hung up.

  Kelly looked at the hand receiver momentarily before replacing it. She shook her head. ‘I am stuck in a bloody John Le Carré novel.’ She sniffed the air inside the telephone box once more. ‘But with the smell of pee.’

  30: Headlines get you hung