by Chris Simms
Eighteen
‘Is she OK?’ Phillip Braithwaite asked.
‘I think so,’ Alice replied, sitting down with a sigh. ‘She’s asleep now.’
He placed a cup of tea before her and took a seat on the other side of the kitchen table.
‘I can’t believe he’s been out there, spying on us. It’s frightening.’
Braithwaite crossed his legs and contemplated his bony knee for a moment. ‘He went to visit Miranda the other night.’
Alice felt her mouth open. She resisted the urge to ask what he’d been doing talking to his estranged wife. ‘What did he want?’
‘It appears he’s been following me home on occasions after I’ve spent the evening here.’
‘Following you?’ She looked to the doorway, picturing the street outside. ‘Oh, Phillip, I’m truly sorry.’
He lifted his eyes and she felt a slight jolt. His look was so cold. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. But even so – this all needs to go to my solicitor. I mean, why would he visit your . . .’ The word didn’t want to come out.
Braithwaite tilted his head back as he breathed in. She saw black hairs massed inside each nostril. ‘The Saab is still registered in her name, something we need to sort out. A few times after leaving here, I’ve taken a diversion and driven to the city centre.’
Alice frowned. That was the opposite direction to where his home was.
‘A private patient of mine – a young lady – she recently left her family home in a fragile mental state. The father, who’s a very prominent public figure, has received word she’s been working as a street prostitute in the area around Fairfield Street. Near Piccadilly station. She developed a drug habit while away at art college. It’s all very sad. I’ve been hoping to locate her.’
Alice half nodded, unable to picture him showing that kind of concern with any patient in the NHS mental health unit. Chiding herself, she pushed the thought away. ‘You should have mentioned it to me.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I don’t know . . .’ She realised she couldn’t lay claim to his every movement. ‘I’d assumed you were going straight home. That’s where you said you were going.’
‘It was a spur of the moment thing.’
‘Right. I don’t understand the significance of the car.’
‘I think Jon was just using it as an excuse. He claimed the police had received complaints about a car with that registration hanging around in the area. You know, kerb-crawling. I think it was a story he concocted to question my wife about me.’
‘He actually went into her house?’ Braithwaite gave a nod.
Alice stretched a hand across the table, but he picked up his cup of tea. Her fingers slid back. ‘I’m so sorry. Jon gets fixated on things – usually investigations. But this . . .’ She shifted uncomfortably. ‘What does your wife intend to do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is she going to make a complaint?’
‘She’s pretty damned angry.’
‘Of course. But could you talk to her – try and persuade her not to.’
Braithwaite looked taken aback. ‘Why?’
Alice looked down. ‘It’s his life, Phillip. Doing that job is what he lives for.’
‘I know. You said that’s why your marriage went wrong.’
‘It was.’
‘Yet you’re trying to protect him.’
‘I couldn’t stay married to him. That doesn’t mean I want to see him destroyed.’
‘I’m afraid I rang the police already. Just a quiet word, nothing official. I was hoping it would be enough.’
‘You’ve contacted them already?’ Alice heard the dismay in her voice. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘It was a matter concerning Miranda. I didn’t want to involve you. The whole thing is rather awkward, after all.’
‘I wish you’d said something to me first.’
Braithwaite frowned. ‘I didn’t think you’d be so perturbed.’
‘Perturbed? Well – there could have been a better way to handle this.’
‘He used his status as an officer of the law to enter Miranda’s home and question her.’
‘I know. It was stupid.’
‘It was an affront. Can we expect more behaviour like tonight’s episode? It appears a quiet word wasn’t enough.’
‘If he gets something in his head, it’s hard to make him give up on it.’
‘Great. So, he’ll continue harassing us. Has he always been like this?’
Alice took a sip of tea. ‘I don’t know. He’s stubborn by nature. And very determined. Some would say they’re qualities, I suppose. You know, in certain situations.’
His voice was sour. ‘Qualities that attracted you to him in the first place?’
She glanced across at him, trying to read his eyes. Nothing showed on his face. ‘Perhaps. A bit. I mean, it can be flattering if it’s you that’s the focus.’
‘You liked it when you were the focus?’
His comment lay between them and she had the urge to move away from the table. Instead, she ran a hand through her hair. ‘Why are we talking about this? We need to discuss what to do next.’
‘I think it would be instructive to know about your early relationship with him. These are foundations on which the situation we find ourselves in tonight is built.’
He’s analysing me, she thought. Like I’m a psychiatric patient. She didn’t know whether to laugh. ‘Look, Jon isn’t a complicated person. He tends to see things very much in black and white. Maybe it’s all those years in the police. But if he suspected there was something – something about this kerb-crawling business – his hackles would go up. He’ll be . . . you know . . . defensive.’
‘Defensive?’
‘I’m not saying it’s justified. But, you know, he’ll be concerned about Holly and me. Our welfare.’
‘What do you think there might be in your character to stir such behaviour in him?’
‘Me?’ She gulped back a sudden wave of nausea. ‘My character?’
His eyes were now fixed on hers. ‘When you left the house and approached his car, you were seeking a confrontation. You accused him of being a coward. His refusal to answer visibly angered you.’
She laughed incredulously, curious for the first time to know the exact reasons why Phillip’s marriage had broken down. He’d always claimed they’d simply drifted apart. ‘Phillip, I was annoyed. I wanted to know what he was doing, sitting out there. Surely that was reasonable?’
He uncrossed his legs. ‘I think you need to have a good think about the dynamics of your relationship.’
‘What do you mean, the dynamics?’
He stood and removed his car keys from the table. ‘The dynamics. The bearing that one of your actions – whether conscious or unconscious – has on the other.’
‘You’re not going? Phillip, you’ve made me feel . . . dirty. Like I’m at fault. Don’t leave it like this, we need to talk.’
‘No.’ He held up a hand. ‘I think it’s best we spend some time apart. Take some time to consider what I’ve just said.’
The walls behind him seemed to be zooming out of focus. ‘There isn’t anything to consider.’
He looked towards the doorway. ‘We both need some time to assess the situation.’
‘We’re meant to be taking Holly to stay in your holiday house in the Lake District next week. Her birthday treat.’
‘I’m not sure I feel comfortable about that any more.’
She gestured at the ceiling. ‘But Holly. We’ve been building her up to it for weeks.’
‘I’m sorry, Alice. I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘She’s been really looking forward to it.’ Something struck her. She found herself getting to her feet. ‘This isn’t about Nathaniel Musoso?’ There! She saw it – a spark of anger in his pupils. ‘I didn’t mean to question your clinical judgement. Is that what this is all about?’
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br /> ‘Not at all.’ His mouth was tight. ‘This is about your husband acting like a stalker. I need to get going. It’s very late.’ He moved towards the door, avoiding her eyes.
‘Will you call me?’ She stepped closer. ‘This is all . . . I’m confused. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.’
‘I’m not doing anything, Alice – other than pointing out some things you need to reflect upon.’
The pale and delicate curls fell like snow, joining the layer of shavings on the flagstone floor. Oliver Brookes held the sculpture at arm’s length, turning it one way then the other. To capture the hooked lip properly, more needed to come off the underside of the salmon’s mouth. He was about to pare some more wood away, but a low hum caused him to pause.
He inclined his head towards the radio, wondering whether it was interference. The reception was fine, the sound of piano music crystal clear. The noise, he realised, was more distant, but getting louder. He placed the near-complete sculpture to the side, stood and looked out of the half-open front door. A point of light, far brighter than any star in the canopy above it, was bobbing towards the shore. The beam swept off to the side and he glimpsed three silhouettes in the small boat.
Voices, obscured by the noise of the outboard.
He thought about stepping back into the tiny cottage and locking the door, but something told him it would be useless.
The engine cut and the torch was directed down at the water. He could see one of the men tilting the engine forward so its propeller was lifted clear of the water. Their words were now audible.
‘Soon as it touches the sand, you jump out with the rope.’
‘I know! For fuck’s sake.’
A twang to their accent. Bristol, or thereabouts. There was a soft crunch as the prow of the boat bit into the sand.
‘Now – go on!’
‘We’re still in the sea. My trainers will get wet.’
A gentle wave broke against the back of the boat, causing it to rock. ‘Get in the fucking water and pull us in.’
‘Wankers.’
The man hopped into the shallows, the other two laughing as he yanked the vessel forward a couple more feet. His mates jumped straight onto the sand and they all dragged the boat up the beach.
‘He’s there. In the doorway.’
The torch was directed at him for a moment. ‘So he is.’
‘My trainers are bloody soaked.’
More low laughter as the three of them began making their way across the sand.
Brookes walked down to his front gate. ‘Evening.’ It was, he realised, several days since he’d last heard his own voice. The torch was shone into his face and he raised a hand to shield his eyes from its glare.
‘Give us all your fucking ducks.’
‘Pardon?’
A hand connected with his chest, causing him to stagger back. The gate was kicked open. ‘The ducks, you twat.’
‘Which ducks?’
Two of them stepped across to the giant mobile.
‘He’s put holes in them all. For the string.’
The torch shone back in his face. ‘You looked inside them, Grandad?’
‘I took the plugs in the bases out. To thread the string.’
‘What about any notes? Was there paper in any of them?’
‘Paper? No.’
The other two had now uprooted the mobile and dragged it across to the light spilling from his front door. Both men were in their early twenties. The one with a skinhead and leather jacket spoke up. ‘Just shake them. If there’s a note inside you feel it rattle – she folded them really tight.’
Methodically, they ripped each duck from the mobile, shook it then threw it to the side. After a couple of minutes the mobile had been stripped bare.
‘Nothing,’ the skinhead spat.
‘You got more in there?’ the man with the torch demanded, shining it at the stone cottage.
‘No.’ Brookes looked at the leader’s profile. Heavy cheeks and greasy hair flattened against his head. The torch was one of those heavy-duty metal things. More like a policeman’s baton.
The beam swung towards the front door. ‘Have a look, boys.’
The other two men marched inside. Objects started to crash around, the tinkling of piano music abruptly cut. The torch turned back on him. ‘Give us any notes and we’ll stop trashing your pad.’
‘I have no notes!’
One of them appeared in the doorway, holding up a wooden seagull with outstretched wings. ‘Ark! Ark! Ark!’ he shouted, before throwing it into the darkness.
The man with the torch leaned closer. ‘If they find anything, I’m going to smash your teeth down your throat.’
The sound of breaking china. Plates, cups. Clattering saucepans, cackles of laughter. The two men reappeared. ‘Not a thing. He hasn’t even got a telly. Fucking peasant.’
The man with the torch cursed. ‘Nothing?’
‘Apart from this.’ The one in the leather coat held up a bottle.
My Laphroaig, Brookes thought, looking at his precious bottle of single malt.
‘That’ll do. For the boat ride back.’
The torch was shoved under his chin, bright light streaming upwards. He squinted and the roof of his world turned red. The insides of my eyelids, he thought.
‘Any more ducks wash up, you keep them safe for us. We’ll be back, all right?’
Brookes watched in silence as they ambled back down the beach, passing the bottle between them. They shoved the boat back into the water and soon the engine restarted. The vessel glided off across the bay.
He took a deep breath and examined the tips of his fingers. Tiny tremors ran through them with each thump of his heart. He walked back to his cottage and looked inside. The armchair was on its side, the radio lying next to it. Wooden creatures had been swept to the floor, birds ripped from the ceiling. Fragments of broken crockery were visible on the kitchen floor.
He righted his armchair, lowered himself into it and glanced about his property once more. What were they looking for? Pieces of paper, according to the man with the torch. Inside the ducks. Just shake them, the skinhead had said. If there’s a note inside you feel it rattle – she folded them really tight.
A memory surfaced. After the young minke whale had made it back out to sea, he’d picked up a duck washing around his ankles. The very first one he’d seen. Something had rattled inside it. He’d assumed it was a droplet of water or two.
Raising himself back out of the seat, he stepped from the cottage and waited a moment to be sure the boat had gone. Then he made his way to the stone shed at the end of the garden. The spade and bucket were still inside the door. He slid the bucket out, spotting the duck inside, next to the hurricane lamp. He lifted it up and shook it. Something light and insubstantial fluttered against the sides. Hooking a fingernail under the plastic plug, he prised it out then cupped a hand beneath the duck and gently shook it again. A tightly folded piece of paper fell into his palm.
He opened it out. By turning to the side, light fell from his cottage across its surface. Tiny, immaculate handwriting filled the page.
My name is Amira Jasim, age 22, former resident of Baghdad, Iraq. I am writing this letter in English to declare to the world that, on the fourteenth of July, I paid $6,000 to board a ship in the Pakistani port of Karachi. This money was to buy me passage to Great Britain. Last night I, and many others like me, were abandoned. If we are to die here in the sea, the captain of the Lesya Ukrayinka is a murderer for he did not turn back for us.
Brookes squinted in the half-light. There was another paragraph to go and he could barely make the words out. Carefully folding the note in half, he made his way back to the cottage.
Nineteen
‘More letters,’ Rick announced. ‘Have you seen the report?’
Jon paused in the act of taking his jacket off. ‘And good morning to you, too.’
Rick waved a hand, attention still on his newspaper. ‘Sorry. Morning.
They say they’ve got the lot.’
‘Who?’
‘The Express. Every letter, including what they reckon is the final one. The only one still to be found now is the very first. Ten grand, they’re offering for that. They’re printing them all over the next few days.’
‘So which ones are in this morning’s edition?’
‘Numbers six, seven and eight. Oh,’ he glanced across their desks, ‘what was the score with Yashin’s place?’
Jon removed the keys to the flat from his jacket and sat down. ‘Stripped bare. And not because of Murray and Gardiner. They only recovered nine items. I reckon the bloke didn’t spend more than his first night there. He’s good at folding bedding, though.’
Rick looked vaguely confused. ‘Bedding?’
‘His blankets. They were . . . it doesn’t matter. What I want to know is where he’s been staying since. They were screened in Liverpool ten days ago, so he’s been holed up somewhere.’
Rick shrugged. ‘He must either know someone or he’s got hold of some cash, somehow.’
‘Yes,’ Jon replied, an image of Mykosowski in his head. He toyed with the ziplock bag containing the keys. ‘Have you spoken to Alice recently?’
Rick turned back to his paper. ‘No. Why?’
‘She hasn’t called you this morning or anything?’
‘No.’ He looked up, wariness cause him to stretch out the word. ‘What’s happened?’
Jon scratched at an eyebrow. ‘Nothing. We had a bit of a run-in. Late last night.’
‘I thought you were looking over Yashin’s place?’
‘I was. But then I swung past our house afterwards.’
‘That must have been after ten at night.’
‘Around then.’
‘Why?’
Jon looked sullenly at his in-tray. ‘Seen Buchanon yet?’
‘Nope.’
Jon read the uppermost piece of paper. ‘That’s because he’s upstairs already.’ He held the bit of paper up. ‘They’re expecting us.’
‘Who is?’
‘Buchanon and the Chief Super.’
‘Chief Superintendent? What . . .’ He snapped a finger. ‘MI5.’
Jon nodded. ‘I said we’d get dragged in, didn’t I? We’d better head up there.’ He gave a mischievous look at the paper on Rick’s desk. ‘Once you’ve read me the first of the new letters.’