Broken Windows

by Janet Pywell

  ‘But there’s also no evidence that the Asian or anyone else killed him.’ I open the door and climb out.

  Peter locks the van and links his arm through mine as we walk, and I’m conscious of his loping gait and false foot. It’s a heavy price he paid to serve his country in Afghanistan, but heavier still is his PTSD. I’d found him, broken and hiding from the world, in an apartment in Wrocław, but now he’s a happily married man with a beautiful baby daughter, and my heart eases a little at the enrichment we have brought to each other’s lives with our close friendship.

  In the restaurant, we ask for a table by the window, and I gaze out at Tower Bridge illuminated against the night sky while we wait for our gin and tonics to arrive.

  ‘Peter. Why this bridge?’

  ‘Nothing makes sense,’ he agrees. ‘There must be CCTV cameras everywhere.’

  ‘If the Asian did kill him, then why would he take that risk, coming here? Surely he’d have known there are cameras on the bridge?’

  Peter shrugs. ‘If it weren’t for a witness seeing Ali jump, I wouldn’t believe it.’

  The waiter suddenly appears at our side. We order fish, and I wait until we are alone until I say, ‘Who was the witness?’

  ‘A tourist, from Portugal. That’s what the police report says.’

  ‘The police report? How do you know?’

  ‘I had a quick look.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They write everything up on the computer.’

  ‘You hacked into the police system?’ I whisper, leaning forward in my chair.

  ‘No, I just had a little wander through their system.’

  I stare at Peter, thinking about the implications of his actions.

  ‘What would Joachin say?’

  Peter grins. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

  ‘But we can’t get involved in this—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ali’s death … it’s not what we do.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘We trace valuables – things of cultural and historical significance; books, documents, paintings, statues, that sort of thing …’ I spend the next ten minutes telling him unnecessarily what we do, how we have recovered stolen property and returned it to its rightful owners, and how we protect items of cultural value.

  ‘We work for Europol,’ I end with finality. ‘We return valuable items to the rightful owners.’

  ‘There’s nothing more valuable than life – especially a child’s life.’ He holds my gaze, and I’m still staring at him when the waiter places our plates of fresh fish on the table between us.

  ‘Are you telling me that you want to get involved in this?’

  ‘It’s not that I want to, Mikky, but nothing seems to be happening, and if you don’t act quickly, as you well know, the trail goes cold.’

  ‘What trail?’

  ‘The Asian,’ he replies. ‘Could he be Japanese, Chinese, Thai?’

  I eat slowly, thinking, and then I say, ‘You have to tell Joachin you looked at the police report.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s illegal.’

  ‘Since when did that bother you, Mikky?’

  I shake my head and look out of the window, gazing at Tower Bridge, my appetite faltering. I put my knife and fork together, thinking about Ali and what he must have gone through in those final hours.

  ‘Do you think he suffered?’ I ask.

  ‘I hope not, but the thing is …’ Peter eats sparingly and, like me, doesn’t finish his meal. ‘It’s only since our little one, Zofia, was born that this type of thing has started affecting me. I never thought being a father would change me, but it has, Mikky. Seeing Zofia’s vulnerability scares me sometimes. I want to look after her. I never want her to be sad or upset, or hurt, but I know that I’m being unrealistic. It frightens me. I can’t look after her the way I would like to – like making sure her friends are kind, or that her first boyfriend is gentle, or that her heart is never broken.’ He leans forward earnestly. ‘In Morocco, I felt very protective of those kids. I tried to imagine what sort of life they’d had. My experience with this injury is awful.’ He nods down at his prosthetic foot. ‘But I chose to be in the army and to go into the SAS. I wanted to be a part of something good and true. I had a purpose, and I saw that in their eyes that night when we spoke to them, Mikky. I saw them as a group, a team helping each other – and, like Ali said, it was as if they were in the army … and I can’t imagine what he must have gone through with a mother who’s a crack addict and a stepfather who beat him. Let alone what Monika and Joe and Lisa – and that quiet lad Adam, who is too scared to speak – have been through. That boy Adam – he didn’t even speak. He couldn’t say a word, whether through fear or insecurity, or the fact that he’s been so hurt. These kids are seriously damaged, Mikky. They need help.’

  ‘Matt is very good for them. He’s devoted to them.’

  ‘I’ve looked at Matt’s record.’

  ‘You have?’

  Peter nods. ‘He was a runner for different gangs from the age of twelve. He went to prison on his eighteenth birthday – for possessing drugs and GBH – for eight years, but he got out after four. After he came out of prison, he turned his life around. He’s been clean for over six years.’

  ‘He’s only twenty-eight? I thought he was older.’

  ‘He looks almost forty,’ agrees Peter. ‘It’s frightening what that life does to you.’

  I place my head in my hands, and when I close my eyes, I see Ali’s face beaming with excitement and pride.

  ‘I can still hear him saying he wants to be a policeman.’ I remove my hands from my face and stare at Peter.

  ‘We have a responsibility.’ He stares at me.

  ‘What will we tell Joachin?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, we could tell him the truth. We’ll say that it does appear the Asian has started a cult of some sort, and they swear allegiance to a dagger.’

  ‘You’re joking? Tell him the truth?’

  ‘Maybe all the members have a small tattoo under their left breast – like Monika.’

  ‘How would we find out?’ I ask. ‘Do you think I should ask her?’

  ‘But why that dagger, Mikky?’ Peter asks. ‘There was a rationale in Mulhoon’s thinking when he set you that task to find the original dagger – and I think he’s right.’

  ‘You think that finding the dagger will lead to the Asian?’

  ‘Perhaps. The Asian might be the tip of the iceberg.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I think he might not be the main person.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In my experience, the top person is normally well removed from the grubby action.’

  ‘Like a field marshal and a soldier?’

  ‘More like the president and a soldier.’ He grins.

  I sit back and think about the impact of his thoughts.

  ‘You could be right,’ I say. ‘I think we should tell Joachin that we’re going ahead with finding the dagger as agreed, and that the documentary is a cover.’

  Peter signals to the waiter for our bill.

  I gaze through the window at Tower Bridge. ‘We will find the Asian. I promise you.’

  * * *

  As we leave the restaurant, the November wind is chilly across the Thames. Peter and I lean on the river wall, watching the headlights of the cars crossing the famous suspension bridge, and I tuck my scarf inside my parka.

  ‘I’ll let you speak to Joachin,’ I say.

  Peter nods, and we walk in silence toward Josephine’s loft apartment, until I ask, ‘What else can you hack into?’

  ‘It’s not about hacking, Mikky. The only way we will stand a chance of getting close to the Asian is to be one of them. It’s about integrating ourselves.’

  ‘You’d stand out, you’re too old,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ he replies quietly.

  ‘You mean me?’

  ‘You’re fit, Mikky. You kit
esurf, you run, you’re as fit as they are.’

  ‘Oh my God, you want me to learn parkour? Are you nuts?’

  He grins. ‘No, but you can take an interest in it – for the film.’

  ‘I think we need to talk to Monika, Joe, or Lisa—’

  ‘I agree, but we can’t be seen to be talking to them. We might put them in danger.’

  ‘How can we communicate with them, then?’

  ‘Through the charity – Dixon Trust?’ he suggests. ‘We’ll tell Matt that you want to spend time at Dixon House – filming, asking questions, that sort of thing, just like any other regular investigative journalist. Claudia and Matt will understand, so that it won’t be dangerous. You’ll be safe there, and you’ll have the opportunity to speak to the Parks. They trust you, Mikky. They loved your tattoos, and you had their respect. That’s why Monika came to your bedroom that night in Morocco. She trusted you.’

  I sigh. ‘You think that’s the best way forward?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I feel as though I’m betraying them, using them to get information about the Asian.’

  ‘Well we are – but if you tell yourself something good will come of it, then you’ll feel better.’

  ‘Something good?’

  ‘We’ll find the Asian.’ Peter squeezes my arm. ‘You can chat to anyone, Mikky. They believe that you’re a freelance journalist making a documentary, and after that, you can do what you like with it; show it to the police, make it public, nothing – whatever you like. You’ll be in a position to ask if any of them have a tattoo and if they’re in the cult or sect or whatever it is – and if they are, then they will lead us to the cult leader.’

  ‘The Asian?’ I say, mulling over the imaginary face of this monster in my mind, while I gaze at the blackness of the Thames. ‘The Asian …’

  But Peter’s voice is quiet beside me. ‘Not just the Asian, Mikky. My money is on someone else, someone at the top, but we have to find the Asian first.’

  * * *

  That night, after speaking to Marco on the phone, I’m lying on my bed thinking. Marco had been full of sympathy and love. He’d understood when I’d told him about the Parks, and he’d also agreed that we should make the documentary.

  ‘Promise me, you’ll be careful?’ he whispers.

  ‘I promise. I’ll be at Dixon House most of the time, with Claudia and Matt.’

  ‘Okay, my darling.’

  We say goodnight and agree to speak tomorrow.

  I’m restless. I can’t stop thinking about Ali, and now I reach for my camera and play back the video. Ali is sitting at the table on the hotel terrace in Morocco on the last night, wearing his flying jacket.

  ‘My foster family didn’t want me to leave,’ Ali says. ‘I was safe with them.’

  ‘Did you have to leave them?’ Peter asks.

  I video Ali’s face, keeping a still hand.

  ‘My mum wants me back home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’ Peter asks.

  ‘Brentwood.’

  ‘But your mum’s an addict,’ Monika says.

  Ali frowns. ‘It’s not her fault.’

  I rewind that scene to capture the hurt in Ali’s eyes.

  ‘But she’s gotta get clean,’ says Joe. ‘You won’t be able to do nothing until she wants to help herself.’

  ‘I thought you were going to live with your dad,’ says Monika.

  ‘I stay with him sometimes, but he works nights – on the trains.’

  ‘Does he make you feel safe?’ I ask.

  Ali grins at the camera, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  I freeze the screen and lay the camera on the bed beside me, then I gaze up at the ceiling thinking of Ali.

  I will find out what happened.

  Although all the evidence points to it and there was a witness, Ali couldn’t have killed himself.

  Chapter 6

  “Violence is a crime against humanity, for it destroys the very fabric of society.”

  Pope John Paul II

  I’m at Dixon House for most of the week, hanging around, asking questions. I take innocuous photographs with the consent of the people there; homeless, dropouts, addicts, volunteers, and visitors, in the hope that someone will reveal something. Anything that will become useful and lead us forward in our investigation.

  I also check the image of Monika’s tattoo, but against her ebony skin it isn’t clear, and when I check it against the dagger made in Morocco, it’s a poor imitation of a knife. I can’t match it with any certainty against any well-known or famous weapon, but that isn’t to say that the cult didn’t have one made especially for initiating these young kids.

  It’s frustrating, and my mood darkens as the week progresses. I haven’t seen any of the Parks – none of them have come near Dixon House, and I haven’t spoken to anyone who knows or admits to knowing the Asian.

  I’ve been discreet, bringing it up and hinting at a cult-like environment on the streets. I’ve tried to talk about the drugs gangs and county lines, and I’ve helped the volunteers to prepare fresh produce donated by local shops for the food bank for some local residents, in the hope they will confide in me.

  This morning, I’ve even helped prepare coffee for Elevenses – a social club that attracts the older population. I’ve filmed some of the martial arts programmes, which consist of eight young kids who live in the high-rise blocks nearby, between the ages of eight and twelve, who giggle and play fight, while being shown basic self-defence moves. They pose for us and it’s funny when they pull faces and push each other. I find their humour and good nature reassuring and wholesome.

  Today, Claudia is standing beside me, shouting encouragement, clapping and cheering them when they get their moves right, and I’m caught up with her enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s just one of the activities that we provide,’ she explains. ‘There’s also an open mic night next week, a book club, and art classes. There’s an art class starting now, in fact.’

  I follow her to a smaller room, where the walls are bright blue and orange. It’s an activities room, where tables have been pushed together in the centre, reminding me of a school classroom. Occupying the chairs are a few teenagers and a couple of adults, hunched over sketch pads, drawing still lifes of a tall green fern next to a white coffee mug displaying an elegant light-blue lily. A young man who appears to be teaching sits quietly sketching and occasionally offering advice.

  I pause at the edge of the room, recognising Adam – he was in Morocco with us, but he hadn’t spoken much. I remember how his haunted eyes had absorbed every detail. When I’d watched the parkour scene on playback with Sandra, I’d been surprised that he’d been the most elegant and natural of them all.

  Adam doesn’t seem to notice me. He doesn’t look up, so it gives me the chance to study his features in more detail: thin face, blue eyes, pale skin, short, hay-coloured hair. He hasn’t begun to shave yet. Adam, I remember, is sixteen and from Serbia.

  ‘Mikky is an artist,’ Claudia explains. ‘This is Ben – the teacher.’

  ‘Hello, Ben.’ I smile.

  He grins at me. ‘Hi, Mikky. Great! We need all the help we can get. I’m not really a teacher. I’m in my second year studying fashion. Grab a piece of paper and give us all some advice.’

  Claudia leaves, saying she needs to make some phone calls, so I wander around the room, taking an interest in the drawings, spending time engaged in random conversations. I explain that I’m an artist, but I won’t elaborate that my talent lies in painting forgeries of old masters. I spend a few minutes pointing out areas in their sketches that could be improved, either through shadow and shade or the angle. They’re simple tricks but effective.

  When the person in the chair beside Adam leaves, I sit beside him, but he doesn’t look up or acknowledge me, and to my surprise, his drawing is exceptional. The detail is incredible, and when I tell him, he acts as if he hasn’t heard me.

  ‘That’s amazing. You’ve done well
to capture the angle of the fern’s leaf, at the edge here, and that’s excellent shadowing on the mug.’

  Undeterred, I reach for an empty sketch pad on the table and pick up a pencil. I draw quickly from memory. I sketch Adam running, jumping, somersaulting, and using the railings and the steps in the Kasbah to gain elevation. I fill in the background, the backdrop of Kasbah in Ouarzazate, but in the foreground, I focus again on his body; his arched back, thin arms, and the balance of his feet. I create several mini-sketches, and I’m so totally absorbed in my art that when I feel his breath touching my cheek, it’s like a sweet breeze. I look at him, and our eyes lock. His pale blue eyes now show a glimmer of interest, or is it curiosity?

  I turn the drawings for him to see, and he takes the sketch pad from my hand to study it closer. He remains speechless, as if the pictures are precious works of art.

  ‘Do you recognise yourself?’ I whisper.

  He’s slow to respond, but eventually, there’s a slight nod of his head. He continues to stare at the sketches.

  ‘Good!’ I laugh. ‘I thought you were going to say they were crap!’

  He shakes his head. His nails are chewed, and the skin around his fingers is red and raw. He has teenage spots across his forehead and neck, and his hair is thin and straight.

  ‘Did you like Morocco?’ I ask, conscious that the other people in the room are beginning to pack up and leave, but I’m in no hurry, so I smile and say, ‘I loved Morocco. My favourite part was when you all came running at me in the Kasbah. I was terrified.’

  He flicks a glance at me, and he frowns. His eyes are puzzled and unsure.

  ‘Not terrified frighteningly …’ I add quickly. ‘More of in an exciting way. It was wicked. You were so quick, and the way you scaled the wall … that was amazing.’

  His head barely moves in a nod, and I remember Matt saying how some of the kids can barely speak. They withdraw into themselves. But now, I’m at a loss. I have an urge to pull this boy into my arms and reassure him that everything will be alright, but I can’t. I know for sure that he’d push me away.