Wicked Leaks

by Matt Bendoris

April had arrived half an hour earlier than usual at the Peccadillo Café. She had slept well, she always did. Connor had once said he envied her, as the merest creak around his flat would wake him up. He would then lie for hours unable to drift off back to sleep. April felt sorry for people who couldn’t get a good night’s sleep, or a ‘dead slumber’ as husband number two had described it, shortly before she ordered him to leave the marital home.

  But this morning she was hungry, even more so than usual, for some reason. Martel had only needed to ask, ‘The usual?’ for April to nod enthusiastically, even before she was sitting down at her familiar table, with the Daily Chronicle spread out in front of her. At one point the Chronicle had been a broadsheet paper, which April felt was always cumbersome, before moving to a more convenient tabloid format. It was marketed as making the paper easier to read, but of course it was really all about reducing print costs as circulation continued to fall.

  The front page had the dubious strapline, World Exclusive, which April always felt was overdoing it. Was this poor doctor’s death really news in New York? She doubted it. While the main headline read: Bomb Terror Doctor’s Widow Speaks Out.

  This left April feeling uncomfortable. Yes, the man’s widow had spoken only to April, but ‘bomb terror’ gave the story a terrorism edge, which so far the police had failed to establish. His widow had also been at pains to point out her husband had never had any interest in radicalised groups of terrorists, which April’s editor had demanded she ask about. Someone, most probably the editor himself, had inserted into the third paragraph on page one that the police had not ruled out a terrorism connection – without pointing out that they had also not ruled in one either.

  The colour drained from April’s face. She was desperate to keep Mrs Shabazi happy. She had read out her interview over the phone to the widow, a practice frowned upon by editors, and now all her good work was undone by a clumsy paragraph she never wrote.

  Right at that moment, April received a text message from Mrs Shabazi: I hate the sensationalism of the front page, but your tribute to my husband inside is beautiful. Thank you, April.

  April hadn’t even got that far yet. She flicked the paper open to pages four and five, to be greeted with a sanguine-looking image of Mrs Shabazi, clutching her wedding photo. April’s interview had been left virtually untouched, charting the life of the boy from Iran who left his troubled country to start a better life and who had only ever wanted to care for people. She was so glad it had hit the mark with his family.

  ‘It’s always the bloody headlines that get you into trouble,’ April said as Martel served her fry-up.

  ‘Is that right?’ the waitress had replied, not having the faintest idea what her eccentric customer was talking about, as usual.

  ‘But as long as they’re alright with the words, then I’m happy,’ April said with a flash of her gold tooth.

  ‘Well, then I’m glad you’re happy,’ Martel replied, leaving April to feast, which was always when the journalist was truly at her happiest.

  31: Luncheon

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’ Beth asked her nana.

  ‘She must be caught up in traffic, or with a patient. She’ll be home soon,’ Kelly’s mum, Caroline, said, glancing at her watch.

  It wasn’t unknown for Kelly to be late, but she always called from the car to say she was on her way. Caroline wanted to get away sharp this morning as she was meeting one of her friends in town for lunch and needed time to get herself ready. Now she would be in a rush as she had to get the kids off to school.

  ‘Not even the courtesy of a phone call and then she moans at me for not taking them at the weekend too,’ Caroline muttered to herself as she got their packed lunches together. She saw the kids out the door, with brother and sister walking together to school.

  ‘Don’t dilly dally now.’

  ‘Yes, Nana,’ the kids said in unison, well used to hearing the same instruction every morning.

  Kelly pulled into the street, giving a toot of the horn to the kids and a frantic wave. She stopped the car and hugged them both through the window. ‘Sorry I was late this morning. I ran into traffic.’

  ‘Just the usual then, Mum?’ William said.

  ‘Just the usual, son,’ she said, ruffling his hair.

  ‘Don’t, Mum, you’ll crack my gel,’ he protested.

  ‘Well, maybe that’ll make you crack a smile now and then. Right, off you go. I’m away to my bed.’

  Kelly’s mum already had her coat on and was standing at the door by the time she pulled into the drive. ‘Of all the mornings to be late, Kelly dear.’

  ‘Pleased to see you too, Mother,’ she said as they exchanged glancing kisses to each cheek.

  ‘You know I’m meeting Jackie for lunch. And I would like to look immaculate. She always does,’ Caroline continued to moan.

  ‘I know, Mum. Say hello to the immaculate Jackie for me,’ she said as she closed the front door behind her, too tired to argue.

  The grandmother with the perpetually busy social life got into her car and turned the key in the ignition. The force of the blast blew Kelly’s front door off its hinges and knocked William and Beth off their feet, a full fifty yards away.

  32: Personal record

  ‘There’s been another fucking one.’

  ‘Another fucking what, Bing?’ Connor asked while midway through his daily five-mile morning run.

  ‘A big bastarding bomb,’ Detective Crosbie replied.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Cunting Kilsyth. Looks like one fatality in a car. Windows and doors blown away in all the whoring houses. Somewhere off Arden Grove. Just follow the fucking smoke.’

  ‘How do you know it’s a bomb?’ Connor asked, still trying to catch his breath from his morning exertions and hear Crosbie over his running app, which was impatiently telling him his pace had dropped.

  ‘A cunting car explodes, knocking out the whoring windows in the whole shitty street, and you ask if it’s a bastarding bomb? Does it sound in any way fucking familiar?’

  ‘All too familiar,’ Connor replied while picking up the pace, retracing his steps back to his flat. ‘I better get going, Bing. I need to call the office.’

  ‘Wait a minute, you impatient prick. It was a woman who rang it in. She said she was the daughter of the victim. Gave her name as Kelly Carter. Now does that sound fucking familiar too, arsehole?’

  ‘Yes, it does, Bing,’ Connor replied, having discovered the name of the nurse who had been on duty with the deceased Doctor Shabazi the day before. ‘Thanks. And well done on breaking your own personal record.’

  ‘What are you cocking on about?’

  ‘For using the most profanities in the shortest time possible.’

  ‘Happy to oblige, Elvis. Happy to fucking oblige.’

  • • •

  Crosbie had been correct, all Connor had needed to do was follow the smoke. He could see it from a couple of miles away when he drove down the Airdrie Road into Kilsyth, passing Auchinstarry marina with its rows of canal boats in their berths, before looping round the disused quarry that had been turned into a pretty recreational park.

  The town in the Kelvin valley was only fifteen miles from Glasgow, but far enough to be classed as semi-rural. Its backdrop was a ridge over a 1,000ft high, that went from being called the Campsies at the Glasgow end to the Kilsyth hills as they eventually petered out towards Stirling. Connor had briefly dated a girl from the town. He remembered how she had told him it had once been part of Scotland’s Bible Belt. At one point the town fathers had even imposed prohibition, forcing the inhabitants to walk to the neighbouring settlements of Queenzieburn or Banton for their booze. When prohibition inevitably collapsed, Kilsyth ended up with more pubs than churches.

  Connor raced by a wrought iron ‘Welcome to Kilsyth’ sign. Sure enough he could make out a bible on the town’s emble
m. He wondered if they should update it to also include a pint of beer. A short distance on he took an impossibly steep hill up Kingsway, guessing correctly that this would be a treacherous route in the heavy snows of winter. He turned onto Arden Grove, where he could see a police cordon. He parked up in a side street then sauntered across to the police line. The photographer, Jack Barr, was already there.

  ‘Get much?’ Connor asked.

  ‘Not bad,’ Jack said, showing Connor the frames on the screen on the back of his camera of yet another raging car fire and the scenes of devastation in the street.

  ‘Two bombs in a week. I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Connor said.

  ‘Me neither,’ Jack agreed, ‘and I thought I’d seen everything.’

  Connor knew Jack wasn’t boasting. He had been working in papers so long he really had witnessed it all, including the Lockerbie disaster.

  ‘Do you know who it was this time?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Kind of. It’s the mother of the nurse who was on duty when the doctor lost his head.’

  ‘Woah. What the hell is going on?’ the snapper asked.

  ‘I have no idea, but she’s clearly caught up in some bad shit.’

  ‘Miss me, boys?’ It was the sultry tones of Amy Jones approaching from behind, causing Connor to immediately clam up.

  ‘I usually hear you coming in your heels,’ Connor replied as way of a greeting.

  ‘Oh, you’ll know when you hear me coming, Elvis,’ Amy said in her best sex chatline voice, causing Jack to smile. Connor could forgive the photographer as he mostly spent several hours alone on stake-outs. Reporters as flirtatious as Amy always raised the spirits.

  Connor wasn’t so easily swayed, though. ‘How’d you get here so fast? This incident isn’t even out on the radio yet.’

  ‘You got here first. Typical man, you always arrive before the lady,’ she replied.

  Connor had to admire Amy’s diversion technique of avoiding his question with a compliment then some innuendo. But why had she not wanted to boast about being tipped off by some ace contact? That was usually her style. It was only then that the penny dropped. Amy had expertly changed the subject as she had been told to not mention who her contact was at any cost. That’s because they were obviously sharing the same source: DCI Bing Crosbie.

  Connor left the scene of the blast behind as he went to chap doors in the neighbouring street. It would be an easy task finding people to speak with as everyone was keen for any new information. On the way he took a grab from his iPhone of Kelly Carter’s Facebook profile picture, which conveniently not only contained a picture of her in a nurse’s uniform, but also had her children and an older lady, which Connor reckoned must be the recently deceased. This was why Connor would never upload any private information about himself – all his own social media accounts were used for purely professional purposes and for tracing people like Kelly Carter for stories.

  He wondered when people would ever learn.

  33: Disappeared

  Kelly clutched her mug of tea as she stared absently into the middle distance. Her kids were asleep, which was more than she had been able to do over the last forty-eight hours. Her bloodshot eyes felt sore and heavy, but every time she closed them she saw the explosion and her mum burning to death in the car. It was an image forever scorched into her memory.

  The surroundings were unfamiliar. Kelly and her family had been taken to a safe house somewhere near Stirling. She could see the castle from the lounge window and wondered why they had renovated the ancient landmark using blonde sandstone, which stuck out on the old grey ramparts like a tacky double-glazed conservatory. One of her protection officers had explained that they had used the same stone so that over time it would darken to match the rest of the castle. But right now it looked silly to Kelly. At least the mundane conversation had kept her mind off more important matters and the one question that went unanswered: who was trying to kill her?

  Kelly felt like she had been quizzed a hundred times by now. She had told them everything this time, from Monahan’s cryptic note to the Fiat Uno and her suspicions that the people in the flat opposite her mysterious patient were spying on them. She knew it sounded crazy and like the rantings of a delusional fantasist, but she was too tired to try to leave anything out, figuring it would be a lot easier on her shattered mind just to say what she knew.

  A succession of various men had arrived. Some in plain suits. Others in uniforms. She couldn’t remember any of their names. But every time she asked them who was after her, they would share awkward sideways glances, then flannel her with some non-committal answer. Finally she had snapped with some senior officer bedecked in brass.

  ‘Ask Monahan what’s happening. He’ll know. He knows everything. The bastard just isn’t letting on. And try breaking down the door of his neighbour’s flat, see what they have to say for themselves.’

  The officer had left a long pause, and Kelly couldn’t decide whether it was to let her calm down or if he was considering what he could tell her. ‘First of all, we did force entry into the flat opposite Mr Monahan’s. It looks like it’s been empty for a long time. But the flat below confirmed that they too had heard movement and voices, so your suspicions were probably correct. We have a forensic team investigating right now.’

  The officer had taken his time again before continuing, his voice softer and lower than before. ‘And we have tried questioning your patient, Mr Monahan,’ he added, shifting uneasily. ‘But it seems he has disappeared.’

  ‘Wait a minute. You’ve lost a bedridden terminal patient?’ Kelly said in disbelief.

  ‘There’s been no sign of him since… since the… He’s vanished.’

  Now, Kelly sat alone again, staring at the rain running down the windowpanes. She thought back to how her life had been destroyed in such a short period of time. She wanted to cry and cry and never stop as she thought about her poor mum. Caroline Carter had been someone who put her family first, before herself. But Kelly had been robbed of her mother and her children had lost their loving nana. And not to illness, but in the most violent, horrible, cowardly way imaginable: murdered in her own car. Blown up by a bomb that had clearly been used to warn off Kelly. As if she needed warning after seeing what had happened to Doctor Shabazi. Now, amongst everything else, she also had survivors’ guilt. Her mum had been dragged into a lethal scenario through no fault of her own.

  Then again, the same could be said about Kelly. But she knew she could have stopped it. She should have refused to sit for Monahan. She should have never gone to that lock-up. She should have taken Doctor Shabazi’s advice. But curiosity had got the better of her and she hated herself for it.

  It might not have been the appropriate time for it, but Kelly’s practical side had plenty of questions too. That was her job gone, for starters. How could she return to work after all that’d happened? And what about the kids’ schooling? She needed to inform the head teacher of the family crisis, but then again how much could she say?

  Kelly looked at the clock on the wall. It had just gone 8am and she realised she had been sitting in the same spot for hours after yet another night of no sleep. She knew she wouldn’t be able to continue like this for much longer, but her brain just wouldn’t shut down.

  She prised herself out of the armchair, stiff from being immobile for so long, then headed to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She might even try something light to eat too. She gave a cursory nod to the armed policeman in the hallway, who had his Glock machine gun slung over his shoulder, one hand grasping the handle, the other placed on the barrel ready for action, despite the early hour. It was a stark reminder of just how serious her situation was.

  Kelly put on the kettle then opened the door of the fully stocked fridge. She wondered how many other people needing protection had stood on the same spot as she was now, with an armed policeman by the door while contemplating what t
o have for breakfast. She closed the fridge, not ready to eat quite yet, and sat down by the breakfast bar with a mug of black tea. She didn’t let the bag stew too long, then took it out of the mug and popped it in the swingbin. It landed on top of a newspaper, which had probably been discarded by one of the duty cops. Kelly retrieved the paper, removed her teabag, which had left an ugly brown stain, and spread it out in front of her.

  The entire front page was taken up by a photo of her mum’s burning car and firefighters battling the blaze. Kelly pushed her mug to the side and threw the lid off the bin, as she vomited. Only bile came up from her empty stomach, which stung at her throat. When the retching finally stopped she looked back at the newspaper and read the article:

  A car bomb blew up a grandmother yesterday in a terrifying attack on a Scots street.

  Caroline Carter was killed instantly in the blast, which rocked a quiet residential area of Kilsyth near Glasgow.

  The 65-year-old was believed to have been leaving her daughter’s house when the device went off.

  Last night a Police Scotland spokesperson said: “We are treating this as a major incident.”

  The rest of the report was continued inside, but Kelly’s eye returned to the top of the article, to the name Connor Presley, the by-line of the journalist who wrote it. Kelly thought she recognised the name, not from newspaper reports, but from a colleague who had once dated Connor for nearly a year. She recalled his nickname had been Elvis and he was the flash type, whisking her workmate off on exotic holidays before he’d disappear for weeks on end. It was a casual relationship that had suited them both.

  Kelly took note of Connor’s email address printed under his by-line, which had become standard in the digital age. She doubted what she was about to do was the right course of action, but she felt she had no choice. The men with machine guns couldn’t protect her and the kids forever. She had to think of her own family’s safety and security, and the only way to do that was to let whoever was after her know that she was just an innocent bystander in all of this, that she didn’t really know anything. Kelly had been warned not to communicate with the outside world. One of the security team had even wanted to remove her smartphone, but she had argued successfully that she required it in case of emergency: if the safe house was attacked, she’d at least be able to call for help. The security team had eventually relented. It meant Elvis was about to receive a message like no other: