Twenty Twelve

by Helen Black

  The trial is next week and that’s the only thing that keeps me hoping. I have to trust that the jury will understand that I only shot that policeman because he shot Mama first. I never meant nothing like that to happen.

  Bert says the main problem is the stack of guns we had in the farmhouse. He says the prosecution are convinced there was a plan to take up arms, that we intended to kill any police that came onto our land. I explained to Bert that we was frightened of the Devil, that we thought we were the righteous soldiers of Christ. He calls this ‘brainwashing’ and says he’ll tell the jury that I wasn’t in my right mind. To be honest, I’m real scared about standing up in the courthouse and talking about it all. Bert says I just have to tell the truth.

  I’m going to say bye for now and beg you to write back. Even if it was just a postcard with one line on it, I’d be grateful.

  Your brother,

  Isaac

  Chapter Seventeen

  There was a cocktail party in full swing at Number Ten. The sound of a harpist playing in the corner mingled with the tinkle of laughter and crystal. A waitress passed through the guests with a silver tray of canapés, each spiked with a miniature Olympic flag.

  When the PM caught sight of Clem, he broke off from his conversation with the American ambassador and made his way over, glass in one hand, a nibble in the other.

  ‘You have no idea how tough this is, Clem,’ he said. ‘Everyone is freaking out about the shooting. If they ever found out . . .’ He looked at his bite-sized chunk of mozzarella, tastefully speared to a cherry tomato, and sighed. ‘Drink?’ he asked.

  ‘No thank you, Prime Minister,’ said Clem.

  ‘Do we need some privacy?’

  Clem eyed the guests. The great and the good from all around the world. Each celebrating the first day of events at the Olympics, being manipulated by the Downing Street team into talking about something, anything, other than Thomas Frasier. None of them must ever find out what had been in that rucksack, of that Clem was certain. ‘I think that would be best,’ he said.

  The PM signalled to Benning and the three of them made their way to the PM’s study and closed the door.

  ‘Any news on Connolly?’ asked Benning.

  Clem shook his head.

  ‘I suppose no news is good news,’ said the PM weakly.

  Clem could have pointed out that the first twenty-four hours in any kidnap case were crucial. That the chances of finding a victim alive after that point became ever smaller. But what would be the point?

  ‘So why are you here?’ asked the PM, glancing at the door and the noises coming from the reception beyond. His unflappable manner was needed in the other room.

  ‘I thought you’d want to know that we discovered the man who groomed Thomas Frasier and handed him the bomb. He was using the alias of a dead man from Glasgow.’

  Clem paused before presenting the crucial piece of information. ‘Thomas didn’t know what was in the bag.’

  He waited for the PM’s reaction to the news that an innocent civilian had been killed, but the PM said nothing.

  ‘Is he in custody?’ asked Benning.

  ‘Dead,’ said Clem. ‘He took his own life rather than be arrested.’

  The PM and Benning exchanged a look. No words were spoken, but Clem could hear the message loud and clear.

  ‘Is that everything?’ asked the PM.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The PM nodded and crossed the room. With his hand on the door handle he turned back to Clem. ‘Did you manage to catch any of the events today?’

  Clem blinked. ‘Sir?’

  ‘The heats of the diving were particularly impressive.’ The PM made a downward motion with his hand. ‘I should think we’ll take a place on the podium.’

  Clem watched, astonished, as the PM went back to the party, Benning scuttling after him, leaving Clem to stare at the open door.

  It was after ten when Clem let himself back into HQ. The place was quiet. He should probably go home and get some rest but he didn’t think sleep would come. The nagging suspicion that he had misread things jabbed him gently yet insistently in the back.

  He had taken Benning for the villain of the piece. A fixer. A manipulator. Someone who got a kick from hanging on to the shirttails of power and would do anything to keep his grip. The PM had seemed tired and frustrated, but essentially decent. Sure, he wanted the Games to go well, and was willing to take some risks, but there was a line.

  Now Clem wondered if he hadn’t just seen what he wanted to see. His dislike of Benning and his ilk had coloured his judgement, clouding the truth. The PM didn’t want the games to go well. He needed them to. Someone like Benning would survive another day, fix things for someone else when the smoke cleared, but not the PM. His career would not outlive an Olympic debacle. He allowed Benning to play the bruiser, to think the unthinkable, to say the unpalatable, while all the while smiling and smoothing the kinks. Did he really give a shit about Tommy Frasier or Jo Connolly?

  ‘Clem?’

  He looked up and found Carole-Ann standing at his shoulder.

  ‘We have to find Ronnie X,’ he said.

  Carole-Ann held up her hands. Each of her nails was painted with a tiny Union Jack. ‘Give us a break, Clem; we’re trying. Border patrols, Interpol, you name it. But she’s clever. Very clever.’

  ‘People don’t just disappear without a trace,’ said Clem. ‘There’s always a trail.’

  She sat on the edge of his desk, her bulk making it creak. ‘Ronnie’s just too good to leave one.’

  Clem fired up his PC. ‘Ronnie might be, but there’s always a loose link.’

  He clicked on the CCTV footage outside Stratford underground station. The grainy image of Tommy taking the rucksack once again punched him in the guts.

  ‘This guy.’ Clem tapped a pen against the face of the man calling himself Paul Ronald. ‘He’s our link.’

  ‘We can’t be one hundred per cent sure that the attempt to blow up the Opening Ceremony is even connected to Shining Light and the first attack,’ said Carole-Ann.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Clem replied. ‘But we can be sure there’s a connection to Ronnie.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The name he was using belonged to a dead man from Glasgow,’ said Clem. ‘A man who spent time in the same children’s home as Miggs and Ronnie. Don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence?’

  Carole-Ann shifted her weight and the desk juddered. ‘Do you think Ronnie gave the fake ID to our man?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And you think he would have known where she might be?’

  Clem nodded.

  ‘There’s only one problem with that theory – he’s not exactly able to tell us,’ she said.

  ‘She would never have told him anyway. Probably hasn’t told anyone,’ Clem answered.

  ‘So how the hell do you intend to find her?’

  ‘By following each link in the chain until I reach the end.’ He tapped the screen again. ‘This man had some form of contact with her, however indirectly. We need to know who else he was in touch with.’

  ‘There was Frasier, for a start,’ said Carole-Ann. ‘If we’re assuming our dead guy was Petal.’

  ‘Do we have a computer?’

  She shook her head.

  Clem groaned. ‘Another bloody internet café?’

  ‘Seems likely,’ she said. ‘And there are eight in the vicinity of the flat where you found him.’

  ‘Eight?’

  Carole-Ann chuckled. ‘It’s a busy neck of the woods.’

  I lie on my bunk, wrapping the sleeping bag tightly around me. My wet clothes are cold and uncomfortable against my skin. I shiver.

  Beyond the bedroom door, the Serbs laugh and shout. Every so often, one of them slams his hand onto the table and the others cry out. The smell of pungent cigarettes sneaks under the door and I imagine a rowdy game of cards is in full swing.

  ‘What sort of place is this?’ I ask Ronnie
.

  She bends over the side of the top bunk. ‘Wake up and smell the coffee.’

  ‘But what are those guys doing here?’

  Ronnie’s mattress creaks as she turns over. ‘Work it out for yourself, Jo.’

  I try to work it out, but cold fudges my brain. Whatever’s going on here is definitely illegal. Trafficking, perhaps? Are the guys outside being held here until they make the next leg of their journey into the UK in the back of a container lorry? The old me wouldn’t have wanted to know and would have concentrated on the fact that I’ll soon be out of here and on my way home. But I’m not the old me, am I?

  I’m wondering who Hawk is and what his connection is to Ronnie, when there’s a knock at the door. Ronnie sits bolt upright and I do the same, banging my head on the underside of her bed.

  ‘Yeah,’ she calls out.

  The door opens and the English-speaking Serb takes a step inside. ‘We eat now, if you are hungry.’

  Ronnie swings her legs over the side and nods at me to leave the room. The table next door is indeed scattered with playing cards and coins, but there is no food.

  ‘We go to the cottages,’ says the Serb.

  It’s dark outside now and they each take a torch. I follow the beam of one, crashing into the water butt as we pass through the blackness. Suddenly the sky opens up as we scale the hill and a million stars twinkle at me. Without any light pollution, they dazzle into infinity.

  The smell of wood smoke fills the air and I can make out the glow of a small bonfire in the valley below. As we near, I see Tiny stirring an iron cooking pot, suspended over the flames, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a beer in his hand.

  The Serbs greet him and Tiny nods at them. ‘Evening, lads.’

  There are several plastic buckets on the ground filled with drinks. ‘Beer?’ the Serb asks me.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He tosses a bottle to me and hands one to each of his friends. They remove the tops with a twist of their teeth and spit them into the fire. I think of the thousands I’ve spent at the orthodontist.

  ‘Here.’ Ronnie takes my bottle and opens it with a Swiss army knife.

  Soon others appear from the cottages like wraiths, their outlines blurred until the firelight solidifies them. They take their places in front of the fire, chatting in low voices and drinking.

  A man with a goatee and black bomber jacket displaying a skull and crossbones intersected with a lightning bolt reaches into the fire to light his cigarette. ‘You just get here?’ he asks me.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You?’

  He shakes his head and takes a long drag. ‘Been here over a month. Good place.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Fucking A.’ He waves his cigarette at me, the end burning red. ‘I’ve been around, you know what I’m saying, and this is the real deal.’

  A hush falls over the group as the door to the furthest cottage opens and Hawk steps out, Hero at his heel. A chemical smell escapes and I rub my nose.

  One of the Serbs calls out to him, beer held high. Hawk nods, locks the door behind him and makes his way over. Still wearing his sunglasses, he stops to chat with some men at the far side.

  Beside me, I feel Ronnie’s muscles tighten. It’s the same reaction she had in the back of the pickup truck. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was nervous.

  He makes his way to us and stands in front of Ronnie. ‘You got everything you need?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Then he turns to me. ‘You?’

  I’m distracted by the eerie reflection of my face in his glasses and don’t answer immediately.

  ‘You deaf?’ he asks.

  ‘No, no. Everything’s just fine,’ I say.

  He stares at me, which is bloody disconcerting given I can’t see his eyes, until I look away and he moves on.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ronnie whispers. ‘He won’t hurt you.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ I ask. ‘Ah yes, I remember now – he “owes you”.’

  Somehow this isn’t much of a comfort. I’ve seen Ronnie’s own body language change when Hawk is around.

  ‘Grub’s up,’ Tiny calls to a murmur of appreciation.

  Plates are handed around full of a rich brown stew and hunks of what looks like potato, the edges blackened by the fire. I take a mouthful of dark, smoky meat and swallow it down.

  ‘What is this?’ I ask.

  Ronnie points her spoon to the step of the nearest cottage where the hare’s skin has been discarded.

  My stomach flips but I’m too hungry and the food is too good to worry.

  After supper, we each take another beer and someone begins playing the harmonica. Tiny is now cross-legged on the wet grass, his cheeks sucking in and out as he plays an old Woody Guthrie tune.

  Hawk looks straight across the fire at Ronnie and nods. The tension between them is electric and lasts until the man with the goatee begins to sing along. He has a throaty baritone that suits the song.

  ‘Time to go,’ says Ronnie and drains her beer.

  I do the same and we head back to the cabin, stumbling up the hillside without a torch.

  She lights a candle and brings it into our room.

  A thousand questions race around my head, but once on my bunk, my eyelids droop with food and beer and exhaustion.

  ‘Just tell me one thing . . .’ My words slur into one another.

  ‘Go to sleep, Jo,’ she says, and blows out the candle.

  Clem was waiting outside Oliver’s Sandwich Bar and Internet Café when the streetlights went out. Dawn scorched red across the London skyline. It was going to be a nice day.

  At last a man in his late forties arrived, reaching for a key on a chain attached to a belt loop.

  ‘Are you the owner?’ Clem asked.

  ‘Manager,’ the man replied.

  Clem flashed his badge. ‘Can we go inside?’

  ‘What’s this all about?’ asked the man as Clem guided him through the door with a firm hand in the small of his back.

  Clem glanced at the row of computers. ‘I’m afraid I have to take those.’

  ‘They’re completely legit. I have all the paperwork to prove it.’ The man set off to the counter. ‘I’ll get it for you now.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with where you bought them, sir. They’re part of an ongoing enquiry, or at least the information contained in them might be.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ The man’s face crumpled. ‘This is what brings in half of my business. Foreign students, emailing home over a cheese toastie.’

  Clem was already signalling a team to collect the PCs. ‘With any luck we’ll have them back to you by the end of play today,’ he said.

  Back at HQ, forty-three computers were lined up on the floor. Krish and four look-a-likes stood around listlessly.

  Clem could smell the stale beer from the doorway. ‘You lot must have had a skinful last night.’

  Krish looked up sheepishly. ‘We went out for my birthday, ended up in some club.’

  ‘How old were you?’ asked Clem.

  Krish opened his mouth to answer but the words became tangled in a mournful burp.

  Clem held up his hand. ‘Actually, I don’t want to know because – frankly – I don’t care.’

  A lad in a pink polo shirt, collar up, let himself flop into a seat with a groan.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Clem muttered and snatched up his mobile. ‘Carole-Ann, could you do me a favour and bring in tea, coffee, toast, doughnuts and whatever else it takes to bring this sorry shower back into the land of the living.’

  Moments later, Carole-Ann returned, pushing a trolley laden with drinks and food. Krish and his friends fell upon it like gannets. Only collar-boy skulked around the edges.

  ‘Coffee or Coke?’ she asked him.

  ‘I try to avoid caffeine,’ he said.

  ‘Hear this, babe – you’re this far from an official warning.’ She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
‘Now get something down you and don’t vex me.’

  He grabbed a can and two croissants and went back to his seat.

  As they all chewed and slurped, Clem approached the smart board. ‘Listen up, everyone.’ He pressed a key and Tommy’s face appeared on the screen. ‘This is Thomas Frasier, a young man with learning difficulties.’ He pressed another key and the man calling himself Paul Ronald appeared alongside. ‘And this is the evil bastard that convinced Thomas to carry a bomb into the Opening Ceremony, getting him killed into the bargain.’ He played the CCTV clip outside Stratford station.

  ‘I thought there was no bomb,’ said collar-boy.

  ‘That’s the official line for the punters,’ said Clem. ‘And I don’t have to remind anyone here that we are all subject to the Official Secrets Act, do I?’

  Silence greeted Clem. Good enough.

  At last collar-boy put up his hand. ‘Can I ask a question, sir?’

  Carole-Ann tried to stifle a laugh. These kids were brilliant at what they did, but Christ on a bike, this was MI5, not sixth form.

  ‘By all means,’ said Clem.

  Collar-boy wiped croissant crumbs from his skinny jeans. ‘I was just wondering how that guy did it?’ He coughed back his embarrassment. ‘I mean, how do you convince someone to carry a bomb for you, even if they do have learning difficulties?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Clem. ‘Fortunately, the last time your man Krish worked for me he wasn’t this hungover.’ The group laughed politely. ‘He discovered that Tommy joined a website called LookingforLadies.com. For all intents and purposes it’s an internet knocking shop, but our Tommy didn’t know that. He thought it was a place to find a girlfriend.’

  Clem strayed from the board to the trolley and found the plates empty. He helped himself to a polystyrene cup of black coffee. ‘And that’s where he met Petal.’ Clem clicked to the avatar used on the website. ‘Petal convinced Tommy she was in love with him and they arranged to meet up. Only when Tommy got there, Petal couldn’t make it and this man arrived with a rucksack.’ The clip played again.