by Gina Blaxill
And all this meant that Dani wasn’t mentally ill or deeply unhappy – just involved with some seriously bad people.
‘It’s sketchy,’ I muttered to myself. ‘But it makes sense.’
But even if I was right about everything, there was still a big problem – proving it.
The next morning I was in a dilemma. I really wanted to make up with Reece and tell him what I’d worked out, but I swiftly realized that it would just make him even more hurt and angry. He’d been pretty clear that he thought pursuing this investigation was putting his family in danger. It was funny, considering how much I thought about the meaning of family, that I hadn’t realized how protective Reece was of his.
No, I’d have to give Reece time to cool off before calling him. I was so sure I was right about Dani, but there was no way of proving it. Cherie hadn’t left any evidence, and I couldn’t even prove that she had been in Bournemouth that weekend. Unless . . .
Seven the next evening found me lurking in Vaughan-Bayard’s underground car park. I’d managed to slip under the barrier when a car had driven out. Each time someone came down in the lift I ducked behind the rubbish bins. I wasn’t sure if anyone would confront me, but I didn’t want to run the risk.
It was eerie waiting down there; it could have been any time, night or day, and I wouldn’t know. There had to be about sixty parking spaces; most had been vacated. There had been a steady flow of employees leaving since I’d arrived at five thirty, but none of them had been the person I was waiting for.
Though I was uncomfortable and afraid and rapidly losing my nerve, since Bournemouth I somehow felt I was seeing the world with clarity, as though I’d put on a new pair of glasses. In the pocket of my hoody I was hiding a Dictaphone, finger poised to hit the record button. The Dictaphone belonged to Julie – I knew she had it, because I’d used it for a school project about transcribing conversations.
This is a classic scenario for a good reason, I thought. I’d seen it on television over and over again – amateur sleuths confronting criminals who slipped up and got caught on tape. There was absolutely no reason it shouldn’t work, providing I was bold enough.
And then the lift doors pinged and Cherie stepped out.
For a moment I was paralysed by a mixture of fear and violent dislike. But then I came to life, jumping out from behind the bins.
‘Cherie!’
She turned around. She looked impeccable, even after what must have been a long day. Perhaps she’d popped out at lunch – she was holding a couple of Monsoon carrier bags. Yet again she was wearing shoes the same red as her hair; she looked slightly unreal, like a Cluedo character or something. For a second I hesitated, my finger fluttering over the Dictaphone. Seeing her here, so cool and composed, made me doubt. Could she really have pushed my cousin off that balcony? Surely even she couldn’t be so ruthless . . . And then I found I didn’t care, because this was my moment, and I might not get the chance again. I pressed downwards and felt the tape whirr.
Cherie was just looking at me. The last thing I wanted was to get near to her, but I knew I had to if I wanted a decent recording.
‘I want the truth about my cousin,’ I said shakily. ‘I know you were there the weekend she died.’
She raised an eyebrow, an unimpressed expression on her face; I wondered if she had looked at Dani that way too. ‘How long have you been hanging around here?’
‘I know you were there.’
‘Go home, Sophie.’ And Cherie started walking towards a black Polo parked a few metres away. I started after her.
‘I need to talk! I know you killed her!’
Shit, this wasn’t going right. Somehow she’d got me flustered, and I had no idea how to save the situation. Cherie ignored me. She pointed her keys at the car and the doors unlocked with a click, backlights flashing in welcome. Cherie opened the boot and began lifting the carrier bags in – and then things unfolded very quickly.
A car shot out of a parking space at the other end of the car park. Its wheels screeched as it zoomed towards us. Cherie glanced up. The car swerved towards Cherie. She started to move, and then there was a scream and a sickening thud and a flutter of red. I flung up my arms to shield myself, unsure what was happening for a few seconds, until I realized that the car was speeding towards the exit and there was a crumpled body lying on the ground.
I stared, transfixed. Cherie was lying on her front and she wasn’t moving. I could see what looked like a pool of blood. Her legs were twisted at an unnatural angle; they had to be broken. And as for the rest of her . . .
There was a bleep behind me. A second later someone said, ‘Oh my God!’ A man and a woman ran out of the lift and knelt by Cherie, both crying out in horror.
‘Phone an ambulance!’ the man shouted. The woman dug into her bag and suddenly I found I was moving, running towards the exit, desperate to get away. This wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. One moment she’d been giving me the brush-off – the next, tumbling over the bonnet . . .
And underneath all the horror, I had the cold, terrible realization that I might have just witnessed a murder.
REECE
I was sprawled on the sofa with Mum, watching The King’s Speech, when the doorbell shrilled. Mum pressed pause on the DVD, looking annoyed.
‘Were you expecting anyone?’
I wasn’t. I’d planned an early night. My cricket team had a match tomorrow, down in south London, so I’d need to be up early to get the minibus at 7 a.m. Afraid something was up, I shushed her. We waited. A couple of seconds later the bell rang again, accompanied by banging. I pushed the cushion on my lap aside.
‘I’ll get it. Stay here till I know who it is.’
‘Reece, you’re being very mysterious,’ Mum said. ‘It’s probably just one of the neighbours . . .’
I wasn’t so sure. I edged out into the hallway. Through the glass in the front door I could see the outline of a person. This is just me being jumpy, I thought. After all, if it is Aiden or Cherie come to do something terrible, would they really ring the doorbell?
I opened the door.
‘Sophie?’ I just about had time to register it was her before she flung herself at me and started to cry on my shoulder. Perplexed and not quite sure how to react, I patted her on the back. I could feel her whole body shaking. Knowing what Mum would say if she saw us, I pushed Sophie back out on to the doorstep. This was no mean feat. She was hugging me really tightly, as though afraid to let go. Despite the circumstances, I felt a little thrill. Sophie never usually got this close to me.
‘Back soon!’ I called, shutting the door. I’d be in for an earful later, but I didn’t see what choice I had, since Mum had banned Sophie from the house. There was a little green patch further down the road, with a postbox and a bench. I guided Sophie along and we sat down.
Sophie wiped her eyes with the end of her sleeve. She looked half dead. Forgetting how upset I was with her, I put my arm around her.
‘What happened?’
After a few moments she croaked, ‘A car just mowed Cherie down. I saw everything.’
My jaw dropped. I felt like something heavy had slammed into me. ‘Is she dead?’
‘Don’t know, I didn’t go near . . .’ She looked at me, and I saw helplessness and horror in her eyes. ‘It was so sudden. I just . . . froze. And then I ran. I couldn’t bear to look at her . . . Reece, it was awful.’
Somehow I didn’t think I was going to be watching the end of The King’s Speech tonight. Sophie told me the whole story, including everything she’d worked out on her trip to Bournemouth. I listened with a sense of foreboding.
‘Christ,’ I said when she was done. ‘We really are in too deep.’
‘It wasn’t an accident,’ Sophie said in a wobbly voice. ‘Someone did that deliberately.’
Cherie . . . may be dead. I couldn’t believe it. She had such an indestructible air about her.
Then something more immediate came to me. ‘Did they see you?’
‘You’re in the shit if they did! Listen –’ I squeezed her hand. ‘We’ve got to go to the police, Soph. You’re a witness to a possible murder now! You need protection!’
I could sense her reluctance even before I finished the sentence. Infuriated, I said, ‘This isn’t a game! And it’s not just about Danielle now!’
Sophie covered her face with her hands. Deciding to give her a minute, I took my phone out of my pocket. I went online and eventually managed to get to the local paper’s newsfeed. I wasn’t really expecting there to be anything so soon, but I was in for a surprise.
‘Sophie! Listen!’ I said. ‘She’s not dead.’
Sophie stared at me. ‘What?’
‘She’s in intensive care – no other details.’ I showed her my phone, not sure why I felt quite so relieved. ‘You still have to go to the police though. You have to tell them what you saw.’
‘Aiden,’ Sophie said suddenly.
‘What about him?’
‘They might be after him too. They might be after everyone who’s in on this!’
‘We’ve no way of knowing – we don’t even know who the people in the car were. Heck, for all we know it might have been Aiden. Perhaps Cherie isn’t his accomplice after all. Perhaps she just found out more than was good for her. Perhaps Aiden never even wanted her involved and she nosed her way in.’
Sophie stared at me. ‘Didn’t think of that. I was assuming the people in the car were the guys Aiden’s been working with – but there’s no evidence of that, is there? They could even be on our side, Reece – trying to stop what’s going on! We don’t know anything.’
She was right. As for Aiden, he was a mystery. And then I remembered – in Aiden’s organizer it said he was taking leave tomorrow. He had a meeting with HJP. I wished I knew who HJP was.
But then who said HJP was a person?
‘We’ve been stupid,’ I said abruptly. ‘HJP’s a company, Sophie! Or at least a group of people. They must be the guys Aiden’s selling the formula to.’ I tapped the initials into Google. None of the results were what I was looking for. But that wasn’t a surprise. If these people were going to manufacture someone else’s drug illegally, they were hardly going to have a website.
It made total sense now. It was so blatant I was almost impressed. I’d done my research on weight-loss drugs. Though there were things on the market, none really worked. Something that did would make millions. It wouldn’t just be bought by people looking to lose a few pounds. There would be big medical implications too. I realized how many diseases were linked to obesity – diabetes, heart disease, even some cancers.
Feeling I’d been quite clever, I explained this to Sophie.
She nodded. ‘They must be planning to sell it despite the side effects,’ she said. ‘How greedy is that? It could do more harm than good. I bet that’s why Dani got out! Maybe she even tried to let Patrick know – he could be from HJP. Then the deal would have been blown – hey!’ She stopped. ‘Did you just say Aiden has a meeting tomorrow?’
‘Yup – 7.45 a.m., airport, T3.’
‘Someone must be arriving in or leaving London then.’
We stared at each other. I was sure Sophie must be able to hear my brain ticking.
‘Aiden must be handing the formula over and getting the money,’ I said. It felt totally eerie to be having this conversation out here under the street lights, but also exciting. ‘Danielle must have accessed the formula data before she jumped ship. Maybe whoever’s picking it up is going straight out to Brazil once the deal’s done. Holy smoke, this is it!’
Sophie was shaking her head. ‘But this doesn’t help at all. We don’t know which airport.’
‘If we’re talking Brazil, I’m fairly certain it’s Heathrow – my Aunt Meg went to Rio a few years ago, remember? Mum drove her to the airport. Let’s check.’ I tapped in Heathrow’s web address on my phone. As we were waiting for it to load, I said, ‘The big question is, which terminal? Heathrow’s got five.’
‘You said Aiden’s diary said “airport, T3”. That could mean Terminal 3.’
‘Of course!’ But when we got the page up my excitement faded. There were a couple of flights a day to Brazil from Heathrow, but also some from Gatwick. Worse, the Rio and São Paulo flights left from Terminals 1 and 5.
‘We don’t know for sure that they’re going to Brazil,’ Sophie said. ‘Aiden mentioned Patrick knew people there, but that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘T3’s gotta be Terminal 3’. This part had convinced me. ‘Maybe whoever Aiden’s meeting is flying somewhere else before going to Brazil? Now what, Soph? This is as near to proof as we’ll get. D’you want me to come with you to the police now?
Sophie shrugged.
Instantly I snapped, ‘What’s it going to take to stop you being so stupid? Someone trying to bump you off too? You have the Dictaphone recording, right? They’ll listen!’
‘I’m not going through that again!’ Sophie shouted. ‘The recording doesn’t prove anything. Anyway, the police don’t care about people like me!
There were so many arguments I could have come back with, but I’d had enough of Sophie’s stubbornness. Just how angry I was with her flooded back. She was the most infuriating person I’d ever met. I opened my mouth to tell her so – and then she said in a small voice, ‘I’m sorry about last time.’
I wasn’t in the mood to forgive her. Too little, too late. Sorry didn’t cut it as far as erasing the hurt and anger I was feeling went. ‘Whatever,’ I said, getting up. ‘I’m over it. Forget I ever said anything. It’s not like I meant it.’
Sophie flinched. Then she got up and walked away.
Regretting being quite so harsh, I called, ‘Please go to the police!’
She didn’t reply.
When I got home, I realized I’d gone out without my keys. Mum came to the door with a dark look on her face.
‘That was Sophie, I suppose.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said bitterly. ‘I’m through with her.
That night I drifted in and out of sleep. Sophie, Danielle, Vaughan-Bayard, the police, everything – it went around and around in my head until I finally decided I might as well get up.
The neon display on my bedside clock showed 5.20 a.m. Aiden would be having that meeting in just over two hours, by which time I’d be on the minibus. By the time I’d showered and put on my cricket whites it was quarter to six. Too restless to kill any more time at home, I decided to grab something to eat and amble schoolwards. After scribbling a note to Mum, I headed out.
The roads were virtually deserted. I tried to focus on the match ahead, but my mind kept slipping back to Sophie. I wondered if she had gone to the police. I knew I should have gone with her.
I was almost at Berkeley when my conscience got the better of me. I took out my phone and dialled her number.
Sophie picked up on the second ring. Alarm bells went off in my head. There was no way in hell she would normally be up this early.
‘Reece?’ There was a steady chugging in the background. It was hard to make her out. ‘I’m about to—’
‘This train is for Kennington via Charing Cross,’ said an announcement in the background. Suddenly knowing what all this meant, I yelled, ‘Sophie, you—’
And then the call cut out.
SOPHIE
It was 7.25 when the tube pulled in at the station for Heathrow Terminals 1, 2 and 3, all the way out in southwest London. It was busier than I’d expected, but then there were lots of early flights. As I followed people with suitcases up the escalators I heard an announcement saying that the Piccadilly line was experiencing ‘severe delays’. I hurried along the travelators to the terminal, coming out into a large modern area with benches, a departure board and lots of people milling around. In front of us was Terminal 3 itself – a long glass-fronted
building, yellow signs everywhere.
I had no idea what my plan was. I’d never been less prepared for anything in my life. And I had to admit I was afraid. It felt like I didn’t know what I was doing any more. Maybe Reece was right and I was obsessed. When I’d left him last night I really had intended to go to the police. But what could I tell them? If I gave a witness account of what I’d seen in the car park, I would have to explain why I’d been there in the first place, and I didn’t care what Reece said – they’d think I was crazy and obsessed, and then Julie would get dragged in, probably my social worker too . . .
But Reece! There’d been so much I’d wanted – planned – to say to him yesterday, but it hadn’t worked out.
Stop it, I told myself. I was on my own now and I’d just have to deal with it. Maybe it was easier that way. I took the escalator to the second floor – the downstairs was just the check-in foyer, which presumably Aiden would have no need to use. I realized quickly that the place was nowhere near as big as I’d imagined. The map of Terminal 3 showed that there was only a Costa, a Pret a Manger and one restaurant, and no lounges. Hope surged through me. Aiden couldn’t be too hard to hunt down – if he was here . . .
The building was L-shaped. I headed along the wing where Costa was, but it was only small and a glance told me he wasn’t there. Beginning to feel anxious, I hurried to Pret. What if I was wrong? He might be at another terminal, or even another airport, or, worse, this might be nothing to do with the formula.
Pret was busy. Families, a big group that looked like a hen party – but there was also a man wearing a mac sitting by himself, a big umbrella propped against the table. He looked a little edgy – and like he was waiting for something. Maybe Aiden was late or had got cold feet . . .
And then I saw Aiden – sitting at a table at the back, a coffee cup and a laptop in front of him. He looked an absolute wreck – unshaven, with dark circles below his eyes. I could tell from his body language that he was tense. Was that because he’d run Cherie down and she’d survived? Or because he was afraid someone would do the same to him?