The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows

by Riches, Marnie

  Kenny touched the brim of his cap again, and pocketed the twenty. ‘Mental, isn’t it, my Lord?’ he said, his breath steaming on the air as he blew uselessly into gloved hands. The broad, older man wore a smart coat in thin fabric – far too flimsy for this weather. His wind-burned face and bulky build gave him the appearance of a builder nearing retirement, at odds with the dapper uniform of someone who drove a Rolls Royce for a billionaire.

  Bloom remembered his father’s driver. Jenkins, wasn’t it? He had been cut from similar cloth. Poor old bastard. He made a mental note to furnish Kenny with a better coat. And a gun. Definitely time he had a gun.

  ‘It never snows in central London,’ Bloom said, pulling the fox fur flaps of his Russian hat down over his ears, obscuring his peripheral view of this blinding winter wonderland. The chrome pipes and corkscrews of the Lloyds building towered above him like a bartender’s tool kit, thrown into an ice bucket. ‘People skating on the Thames! How is that even bloody possible?’ The icy air made his filled tooth sensitive. He winced.

  ‘It’s a long way to Southwark Cathedral, sir,’ Kenny said, closing the car door with a thunk. ‘You sure? Police said you shouldn’t go anywhere unescorted.’

  Bloom nodded. Squeezed his eyes shut. Showed he appreciated Kenny’s concern for his employer. But inside his gloves, he balled his fists at the thought that the police should dictate to a man like him what to do and where to go in his city. ‘I need a bit of space. Especially today. You know?’

  Kenny cocked his head to one side. Narrowed his eyes. A gap-toothed half smile whispered uncertainty.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m a big boy.’ He patted the driver’s arm.

  ‘Of course, sir. As you wish.’ His formal, stilted turns of phrase always sounded stiff and superficial, with that horrible east end accent. Bloody performing monkey.

  Sighing deeply, Bloom turned towards Leadenhall Market. Trudging through the snow, he headed through the brief, dry respite that the gaudy red and gold Victorian arcade offered. Glum in the post-Christmas slump, where all the Yuletide tat was now 75% off, hanging unwanted on rack after rack.

  He looked up through the vaulted glass ceiling, blurred around the edges by his halo of grey fur, and saw that the sky was perfectly white. Then, peering through the opening at the far end which led in the direction of Bishopsgate, he could see fat flakes start to come down again. Unrelenting. Forcing the grey-faced denizens of the City of London to hasten home early before public transport ground to a halt. Ice on the roads. Wrong kind of snow on the train lines. Broken-down, blizzard-blinded this and that.

  He would definitely be better off crossing London on foot. Catching sight of himself, reflected in a men’s suiting shop window, he decided that he looked like an Inuit. Unrecognisable with the hat on and the glasses. On the periphery of the reflection, he barely registered a shuffling figure several paces behind him.

  But never mind that. He was thinking about Rufus.

  The memorial service was a nice idea, in light of the fact that the police were still refusing to release the body. Everyone would be there, of course. Rufus’ widow, sobbing, no doubt. He had always wanted to fuck her. Maybe now, he would have his chance. Hadn’t Harpers named him as Europe’s most eligible bachelor? Yes, he would enjoy sliding his hand between her gym-honed thighs. Riding her throughout the night, innocently comforting her throughout the mourning.

  Rufus’ beleaguered children would be there too, wondering what the hell they had done to have their father taken away from them. Squalling, snot-nosed pug-faced little fuckers of ten, six and three. Jesus. The fallout the murder had caused was unimaginable, the most unfathomable injustice being his own loss of a trusted super-lackey and friend of old.

  The press would be gathered outside, no doubt, snapping the staff of Bloom Group plc, as they entered the hallowed cathedral to bid farewell to their Chief Executive, dabbing at their eyes to show their commitment to the company, whether they had ever met Rufus or not. Nobody had liked him, that’s for sure.

  Gordon Bloom allowed himself a wry chuckle as he neared London Bridge. He looked into a café window at all the city office workers, trying to thaw themselves out by wrapping their gloved hands around cups of steaming coffee. He caught sight again of the shuffling figure, some way behind, entering the reflected scene as he exited, huddled up in clothes that seemed too big for him. Perhaps a homeless man, making his way towards a shelter. Nothing to worry about, though Bloom did pick up his pace. Tripped on a kerbstone as he crossed the slush-logged street onto the Bridge itself. He had difficulty with his depth perception these days. The surgeon had said the ocular nerves were too badly damaged. At least the glass eye was the finest money could buy. Couldn’t be helped. If the worst thing that ever befell him was visual impairment, he was doing reasonably well. Better than Rufus, at any rate.

  As he crossed London Bridge with snow whirling around him, settling on his hat, drip-dripping freezing water onto his tingling nose where it melted, he imagined himself trapped inside a snowglobe. No escape from this claustrophobic scene. Just falling snow and the same chain of events replaying in his mind.

  He and Rufus had had lunch. They had parted company. Now, Rufus was dead. Drowning by snow. Holes in his neck like the Devil’s stigmata.

  Who was this Jack Frost that the press referred to? Why had he wanted Rufus Lazami dead? Was he, Gordon Bloom next on the hit list?

  Glancing behind, he was pleased to see the homeless man was no longer on his tail.

  ‘Stop being so easily spooked, you bloody idiot,’ he counselled himself, clutching the handrail as he made his way down the gritted stone stairs to Southwark Cathedral, where he would say goodbye in public.

  Cameras flashing, as anticipated. Paparazzi pests, swarming like unseasonal flies on a frozen carcass.

  ‘Lord Bloom! Aren’t you worried that Jack Frost will come after you?’

  He was careful to maintain an air of sobriety. ‘I am here to bid adieu to a dear friend and longstanding business partner. Thank you. Good day.’

  Their voices rang in his ears, as he stood in the threshold of Southwark Cathedral’s great stone hall.

  ‘Are you taking measures to protect yourself, Lord Bloom?’ they shouted.

  Inside, an organ ground away at a hymn he didn’t recognize. The place was packed with mourners wearing snowboots and colourful ski-jackets that were at odds with the sombre occasion. All eyes were on him. He nodded to the young man with the plucked eyebrows who stood in the aisle, ushering family to the left and business colleagues to the right. Recognised him as one of his rising stars.

  At his back, the journalistic hordes continued to bay for a response.

  ‘Is it true that the killing was ordered by someone in the criminal underworld? Did Rufus Lazami have many enemies?’

  Their questions bounced off him thick and fast; those cadaverous flies throwing themselves against a sealed window. He would not answer. He would not give them the satisfaction. Let the press and Scotland Yard keep digging. They wouldn’t find a fucking thing.

  CHAPTER 14

  London, Westminster, later

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Sophie asked, her Doc Martens scuffing up snow onto the hem of her floor-length batik-print skirt. She grabbed George’s hand, as they walked along Millbank.

  The Thames was on their left, a white ribbon twisting through a cityscape that looked like it had been dipped in liquid nitrogen. On their right, Millbank Tower loomed: a 1960s brutalist monolith with windows. Somewhere, on one of those dizzying levels that stood sentinel over Albert Embankment, the Open Society Foundation was situated.

  George shook Sophie’s hand loose, swiftly switching her rucksack to her right shoulder to prevent her from trying to hold her hand again. She sighed heavily. Wondered whether to say anything about this unlooked-for physical contact. Perhaps some things were better left unsaid. ‘I don’t know. Sally’s on my case. The Home Office is burning my ear about deadlines. If I don’t find tha
t fucking laptop and my USB stick, I might as well apply for a job stacking shelves at Tesco. Maybe my Aunty Shaz can get me back my old cleaning job at the titty bar. It’s at least a years’ worth of work. Gone. Just like that.’

  ‘What did the pigs say?’ Sophie asked. Her earrings, necklaces and the buckles on her flowery satchel jangled as she walked.

  ‘Don’t call them the pigs,’ George said. ‘My partner’s a Chief Inspector in the Dutch police.’

  ‘Your partner? You were slagging him off the other night. Blows hot and cold, you said.’

  ‘That was then. A lot’s happened since.’ George noticed the expectant expression on her newfound friend’s face. She remembered the awkward moment when Sophie had propositioned her in the pub, and regretted even having asked her back for a coffee with no strings. Today, every gesture of camaraderie seemed like a cloying advance. Every knowing glance on the tube had felt overly suggestive. ‘Right now, I wish I had six foot five of policeman to stand guard over my place. It’s freaky having someone go through your stuff. It happened to me when I was living in Amsterdam.’ She shuddered, thankful for the long johns she wore beneath her jeans, though it was the memory of the Firestarter, touching her things in the little bedsit above the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop that caused the hairs on her skin to stand on end.

  The brightness of Sophie’s green eyes seemed suddenly dimmed, or was it just the shadows cast by the covered approach to Millbank Tower’s lobby? George quietly chastised herself for being arrogant.

  ‘You’re welcome to stay on my sofa again tonight, if you want,’ Sophie said, holding the door open for George. ‘I might not be able to offer you pig protection, but at least I’m on your doorstep if you need me.’

  Sophie’s sofa had been less than comfortable. A battered old thing, covered in cigarette burns and cat hair. Next to it, a large coffee table, festooned with carelessly abandoned coffee cups, wine glasses, ashtrays, Rizla packets, a hairbrush, several hefty academic books and the latest by Donna Tartt. But the anticipation that George would join Sophie in bed in the middle of the night had occasioned something far worse than simple discomfort. It had brought on an unwelcome bout of insomnia.

  ‘Darkest hour is just before dawn,’ George muttered beneath her breath, remembering how the night had felt like it would never end.

  ‘What?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Together in the cavernous reception area, they signed in. All brown, white and black marble harked back to a time when London was swinging and fabulous. Now, rendered fashionable again by a passion for all things mid-century, George reflected. If she could only afford her own place, she might go for that retro-look too. In fact, she’d settle for bloody Ikea if it came to it. As long as it was hers.

  High above the city, George and Sophie sat in comfortable armchairs. Biscuits artfully arranged on a plate. Herbal tea in hand-painted mugs. They were facing a dumpy middle-aged project worker called Graham Tokár. He oozed well-meaning and an energy that almost audibly crackled, directed, quite plainly, towards Sophie. Had Sophie at some juncture also offered him a fuck in a pub over a burger, George wondered?

  ‘So, I’ve told George, here, about the charity funding initiatives that lessen the poverty and social exclusion of the Roma,’ Sophie said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Graham said, angling his body towards George but not tearing his gaze from Sophie’s eyes. ‘Musical institutes. Education grants. Lobbying European parliament for change. We work with the poorest people in some of the most financially stagnant and racist environments in Europe.’ He finally looked at George. The spark had vanished. ‘And many of the staff, Europe-wide, are Roma too. Like me. I’ve got a Scottish mother, but a Hungarian Roma dad.’

  George looked down at her notes. She followed the line of her pad to Graham Tokár’s shoes. He had a piece of chewing gum stuck to the heel of his left foot. This much, she could see, as he crossed his legs. In his right ear, he wore a small, silver sleeper. He was clearly an articulate and interesting man, but she hated his earring. His ears were wrong.

  ‘You know you’ve got an infection in your piercing,’ she said, pointing to the inflamed flesh of his earlobe.

  He touched his ear self-consciously. George made a mental note not to shake his hand when they left.

  ‘Have I?’ he asked, face flushing red right up to his hairline where his greying hair had started to thin. ‘Oh, well, did Sophie tell you about—?’

  ‘Look,’ said George, blinking hard. Checking her phone. No messages from the police about her stolen laptop. Shit. ‘I’m a criminologist. I’m doing research into trafficking. Not the Roma. Sophie asked me to come here today, and it’s nice of you.’ She rammed a biscuit hastily into her mouth. ‘And these biscuits are great.’ Speaking with her mouth full. ‘But to be honest, I can’t see the point—’

  George could feel her colleague’s eyes boring into the side of her head. She felt instinctively that both Sophie and this charity project worker thought her an outrageous arsehole. Was she being rude? Probably.

  ‘I spend a lot of time in prison,’ she said by way of an apology. ‘I’m specifically interested in hearing how the Roma are embroiled in human trafficking. As victims. As perpetrators. Anecdotes. Groups you can put me in touch with. Stats. That sort of thing.’

  Graham Tokár was looking at her with his mouth hanging slightly open. He glanced at Sophie, a look loaded with judgemental import.

  ‘What about criminal empires in countries where the Roma live?’ George asked.

  ‘Shqipëtar,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s an Albanian legend.’

  At her side, Sophie started to nod. She closed her eyes, as though Graham was about to give a virtuoso performance. ‘It refers to the Son of the Eagle,’ she said.

  Graham rubbed his earlobe. ‘Albanian legend has it that there was an eagle soaring in the sky with a fat, venomous snake in its mouth, right?’ He sniffed his fingers. ‘Below it, the eagle’s defenceless eaglet lay in the nest, watched by a young man.’

  ‘What young man?’ George asked.

  ‘It’s not important. Just this young man. Anyway, when the eagle dropped the snake, presuming it to be dead, the snake fell into the nest, right? Apparently it was still alive. So, it was about to attack the eaglet, but the youth shot it with an arrow. Then, the youth takes the eaglet but is confronted by its parent …’

  ‘The eagle,’ Sophie said. Grinning.

  ‘Right. The eagle who thought the youth was deliberately kidnapping its offspring. So anyway, the eagle realises the boy had saved the eaglet and …’

  George checked her phone again. ‘I’m listening. Go on.’

  Bunched eyebrows said Graham Tokár was getting annoyed with her. ‘So, the eaglet flies over the boy for the rest of his life, acting as his guardian, and he becomes the best hunter. A real hero. The son of the eagle.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with—?’

  ‘Rumour has it that the big-wig who runs trafficking out of Albania – and lots of Roma kids get sucked into that – goes by the nickname Shqipëtar.’

  ‘I’ve read about him,’ Sophie said. ‘Apparently only people high up in the trafficking network know who he is, but his tentacles stretch into Western Europe.’

  George frowned. She wrote three lines of notes, then ate another biscuit in silence. ‘Eagle,’ she said. It rang a bell, but she wasn’t sure why. She rifled through her memory of all the names on her homespun trafficking database but nothing resonated with her. Thought about the pile of handwritten notes from her women’s prison sessions. They, at least, were still at Aunty Sharon’s. There was something in among those notes. Something that almost clicked but didn’t quite. Eagle. She needed to get out of this air-conditioned box and get her hands on that paperwork while her hunch was still fresh.

  She stood abruptly. Stuck out her hand. ‘Bye, then. Thanks for the biccies.’

  Outside, Sophie ran after her. ‘You are
such a dick!’ she said. ‘I thought you were cool, but you’re really not. You’re a fucking … a fucking …’ Her attractive face screwed up in undisguised irritation.

  ‘Psychopath?’ George offered, walking as briskly as the poorly gritted pavement would allow. She headed towards the Palace of Westminster, the pale stone towers of which seemed to reach up into the white sky; trying to poke a hole in snow-heavy clouds so that they might pull more clement weather forth.

  Sophie grabbed her arm.

  George shook her loose. ‘Please don’t touch me. I don’t like being touched unless I invite it.’

  Halting by Victoria Tower Gardens, which was playing host to a pack of American school kids engaged in a snowball fight, Sophie swung her satchel across her body. ‘I don’t think I want to work with you. Sally seemed to be describing another bloody person. You’re strange!’ Sophie looked her up and down. Those green eyes were now judgemental and hard.

  By the time George had thought of the right thing to say to her, Sophie had crossed the road and was already some two hundred yards away, making for St. James’s Park tube, in all likelihood. ‘Fucking hippies!’ George said, thinking wistfully of her former landlord, Jan. He had been one for grabbing her in suffocating hugs. But he had never condemned her. She was torn. She wanted to like Sophie. Found her charismatic. But … perhaps she was becoming strange.

  Bound for Waterloo Station, she crossed Westminster Bridge, barely glancing up at Big Ben as it chimed 4 p.m.

  Darkness had already fallen. Her breath steamed on the air, catching the light cast from the street lamps. Workers, heading home early in the bitter chill, passed her by. Her heart was heavy. Her feet were leaden. County Hall seemed a long way away, on the other side of the river. The train station, even further.

  ‘Eagle,’ she said, dodging a red Routemaster that spattered grey slush over the pavement. Aunty Sharon said the new buses weren’t a patch on the old. ‘Son of the Eagle.’