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Broken Windows

Page 10

by Janet Pywell


  * * *

  I’m downstairs and back out on the street when I phone Peter. I need to hear his reassuring voice in this crazy place.

  ‘What did you hope to achieve?’ asks Peter.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I wail with my iPhone against my ear. ‘I guess I wanted him to tell me he knew all about the Asian and where to find him.’

  I’m standing outside the apartment block, and I gaze up at the other blocks; three tall towers – concrete, ugly buildings – filled with apartments and people with their individual human stories; tales of tragedy, heartbreak, poverty, and fear.

  ‘But he couldn’t tell you anything about Ali?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, what now?’ Peter asks.

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  I’m distracted by a grey Audi that cruises through the car park. It’s getting dark, and the headlights sweep the brickwork before stopping at the entrance to Thomas’s, on the far side of the parking.

  I slow my pace as the car screeches to a halt. The passenger and driver’s car doors open simultaneously, and two dark hooded figures emerge quickly. They leave the car engine running and the headlights aimed at the front door.

  I can’t see their faces, but instinctively I duck back into the shadows with my back pressed against the wall.

  ‘Mikky?’ Peter says. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  I pocket my iPhone, pull up the collar of my leather jacket, and plug my hands under my armpits to stay warm and retreat further into the dark shadows. Within seconds, the two figures return; I see them through the glass, moving inside the building, half-pulling, half-dragging a body between them. The person between them seems to have given up struggling but suddenly, outside, the prisoner’s foot catches on the car door in a final attempt to break free, but they’re rewarded with a heavy blow in the middle of their back and their knees buckle. The two hoodies bundle the limp body into the back of the car and slam the door.

  ‘HEY!’ I shout. I begin running, pulling my phone from my pocket.

  The hoodies jump into the front of the car, reverse quickly, and drive off, brakes squealing.

  ‘STOP!’ I shout.

  That’s when I’m taken out from behind. A body comes flying at me, shoving me hard against the wall, leaving me winded and gasping. A hand covers my mouth and my phone flies out of my hand.

  ‘Don’t,’ he hisses. ‘Don’t shout, Mikky!’

  He lets me go, and I rub my throbbing arm, watching in disbelief as the Audi drives off. I turn my attention to my attacker, who is now standing quietly beside me with his hands in his pockets, still watching the tail lights of the car disappear.

  ‘Adam?’ I pick up my phone from the floor.

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Christ! Why did you do that, Adam?’ I complain, rubbing my arm, surprised by his strength and the force that he used to smack me against the wall.

  He turns away, but I grab his hand and pull him back toward me.

  ‘You owe me an explanation,’ I hiss.

  ‘Not here,’ he whispers. He checks to make sure no one is around, then adds, ‘Follow me.’

  * * *

  Adam walks, and I follow, as per his instructions, on the other side of the road and some ten metres behind him. He turns west, walking for fifteen minutes, heading toward Regent’s Canal behind King’s Cross and St Pancras stations.

  Here it’s well-lit. People are heading home after work, or out for a drink or a meal, and I feel my breathing return to normal, and my body calms and the tension begins to leave my shoulders.

  There are bars, restaurants, and commuters. It’s safer here.

  Adam slows his pace, and I catch him up. We walk side by side, occasionally moving out of the path of a jogger or cyclist alongside the canal.

  ‘What happened back then?’ I ask, moving out of the way of a dog walker and a Labrador, but Adam doesn’t reply.

  Like most of the young population, he’s wearing a dark hoodie and trainers, and I remember how capable he is of running and getting away.

  ‘Look, Adam, this would be far more helpful if you were to speak to me. I understand it isn’t easy for you, but I want to help …’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do.’

  ‘Do you want to get a drink or something to eat?’

  He shakes his head, and we pause to lean on railings, where colourful houseboats are moored against the quay.

  ‘Who were those guys?’

  Adam shrugs.

  ‘They took someone against their will. Do you know who?’

  Adam shakes his head.

  ‘We should tell the police,’ I say.

  ‘There’s no point. It’s too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  Adam shrugs and walks on, so I follow him.

  ‘Did they take you, like that?’ I ask.

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Why did you stop me from helping whoever they took?’ I persist. I stop and shout, ‘ADAM!’

  He turns to face me. His pale blue eyes are almost trance-like.

  ‘Talk to me,’ I urge. ‘Who is the Asian? Why have they taken someone? Where are they going?’

  ‘You can’t do anything.’ He turns and walks away.

  ‘So why did you bring me here?!’ I shout at his retreating back.

  ‘To get you off the estate!’ he shouts over his shoulder.

  ‘You’re wrong, Adam! You are so, so, very wrong. I want to know what happened to Ali – and you can’t keep hiding forever.’

  I’m conscious of a couple turning to stare at me, and I realise my behaviour is inappropriate, but I’m frustrated.

  Adam disappears like an elusive shadow into the blackness of the night, leaving me wondering how I can get through to him.

  How can I make Adam understand that it’s not in my character to give up?

  * * *

  I phone Peter and tell him what happened on the estate, and how I was leaving Luke’s, but I witnessed two hoodies entering Thomas’s and leaving a few minutes later dragging someone into the back of a car.

  I give him the registration number I’ve memorised.

  ‘Is there any chance you can track it?’ I ask.

  ‘There might be—’

  ‘Can’t you hack into CCTV cameras?’ I complain.

  ‘It’s not always easy.’

  ‘Did you speak to Joachin?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s away and not back until later tonight.’

  ‘Raymond Harris is the local councillor for Islington. Can you find out where he lives?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to pay him a visit.’

  ‘You can’t just turn up at his home.’

  ‘I’m making a documentary, remember?’

  ‘Mikky, slow down. You’re not thinking! We need a plan.’

  ‘We have a plan,’ I argue. ‘We’ve been doing our plan for a week, and I’ve been going to Dixon House, and nothing is happening, apart from more bad things. We have to stop it!’

  ‘Listen, Mikky, that isn’t what we said we’d do. We agreed that you’d hang out at Dixon House for a few days until Joachin is back. You are there to watch and observe – and see what you can find out. That’s all.’

  ‘I am watching, and I don’t like what I’m seeing.’

  ‘Europol have no jurisdiction over here – not since Brexit,’ Peter argues.

  ‘Look, Peter! Adam knows more than he’s letting on, but he won’t speak to me. He’s frightened. I want to speak to the other Parks, the ones who came to Morocco, but they haven’t even come into Dixon House since we came back. I have to speak to Monika.’

  ‘Mikky, be careful. Adam must have been following you, so anyone could be watching what you’re doing. Besides, I’ve been looking at a few things …’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Ali was in the cult.’

  I stop suddenly, c
onscious I’m standing outside King’s Cross. ‘He was? How do you know?’

  ‘I read the coroner’s report.’

  ‘What? Oh my God, did you hack—’

  ‘I wish you’d stop using that word – I read it.’

  ‘On the coroner’s computer?’

  ‘Well … yes.’

  ‘And Ali had the same tattoo?’

  ‘Yes, and like Monika, it was under his left breast, near his heart.’

  ‘What else did the report say?’

  ‘The result of death is inconclusive. Ali drowned. But there was a blow to the left side of his skull, in keeping with being hit with a heavy object. He also had bruised knuckles and a blow to his right cheek.’

  ‘As if he’d been in a fight?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Or he escaped – and he was running away?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  I check my watch. ‘How long will it take you to get me an address for Raymond Harris?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve been invited to a special event – drinks tonight. It’s a fundraiser for our esteemed councillor.’

  ‘Raymond Harris?’

  ‘The very one.’

  Chapter 7

  “Crime takes the pulse of a culture. It tells us the truth about us as a species.”

  Andrew Vachss

  A few hours later, Peter and I are dressed in our most elegant clothes. He’s wearing a black dinner jacket and bow tie, and I’m wearing a black cocktail dress borrowed from Josephine’s wardrobe.

  ‘How did we get invited to this?’ I ask, as we make our way through the crowd of strangers hovering in the foyer holding glasses of wine. Some groups are laughing loudly, others are standing nervously, but we make our way up the formal sweeping staircase of the prestigious hotel opposite London’s Hyde Park.

  ‘Matt said that two of the guests had to cancel, their flight is delayed, and it was an opportunity I didn’t want to turn down.’

  ‘Good idea, Batman.’ I grin and take a glass of red wine from the passing waiter. ‘Cheers! I need this after today.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Peter smiles and raises his glass, and we scan the room companionably, realising that many couples are doing the same thing. ‘It’s full of bigwigs.’

  ‘It is? How do you know?’

  ‘Because I read the papers.’ Peter then proceeds to nod and point out different people to me across the room. TV celebrities, politicians, a few actors, and a couple of musicians. I scan the room, allowing my brain to capture the images of the people in their conversations and laughter while they think they’re unobserved.

  ‘That,’ says Peter nodding, ‘is Raymond Harris.’

  My gaze rests on a man in his late fifties with hazel brown eyes, short hair, and a winning smile. On his arm is a much younger woman, in her late thirties, with enhanced lips, long glossy wavy hair, and perfectly pert breasts.

  ‘His second wife, I assume?’ I say.

  ‘Definitely. His first wife lives in Devon. Their three children are all grown up.’

  ‘Hello, you two.’ Matt suddenly appears beside us and grins. ‘You made it, then?’

  Like Peter, he’s dressed in a tuxedo and he looks remarkably handsome. With him is Keith, and Sandra Worthington and her husband Julian. After we all greet each other, Matt takes us to one side of the room, where we have a greater vantage point of the small stage. I’m conscious that people recognise Sandra and she greets those she knows, rather like Josephine, with this star quality that is both naturally charming and agreeable.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you,’ I say to her a little later. We are standing slightly away from the men.

  ‘I’m supporting the cause,’ she says with a giggle. ‘We’ve got the permission through to film, and I owe it to Raymond to support him in this campaign.’

  ‘Ah, be nice to the men in high places.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Did you meet him?’ I ask.

  ‘Only once briefly, but I’ve spoken to his wife a few times. Fortunately, she likes my films.’

  ‘Who doesn’t, Sandra? She’d be nuts not to.’

  Sandra rewards me with a deep throaty giggle as I watch Raymond Harris walk across the thick dark carpet, toward the podium, under the magnificent crystal chandelier. The crowd hushes as he begins to speak.

  Firstly, he thanks us all for attending, then he pledges to support the Borough of Islington. He swears to change the government and to introduce fairer schemes for Universal Credit and vows to eradicate poverty and the homeless people sleeping rough on the streets. He is rewarded with enthusiastic applause. He stresses that change is coming to our country. The election is built on the will and the trust of the people, and men like him will get the job done. He pauses before explaining there’ll be a charity auction, then, quite openly, asks for donations by cash or cheque, before concluding with an uplifting plea that we all enjoy ourselves this evening.

  Before resounding applause, he tells us to enjoy the canapés and wine, thanks us for our support, and steps away to a full kiss on the lips from his dutiful and adoring young wife.

  ‘You’re smiling, Mikky.’ Sandra nudges my elbow, teasing me. ‘You’re enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Just the originality of it all. I find it very moving.’ I can’t hide my sarcasm, so I drain my wine glass and look around for another.

  ‘Will he appear in your documentary?’ she asks.

  ‘Raymond? Perhaps, do you think he will talk to me?’

  ‘Maybe. You should ask him.’

  ‘I’d be lucky to get within two metres of him, judging by all those people flocking around him, hanging onto his every word.’

  Sandra chuckles. ‘Maybe I could speak to Arlene for you.’

  ‘Arlene?’

  ‘His wife.’

  ‘That would be lovely of you.’

  ‘It might be a foot in the door – before everything kicks off in the next weeks.’

  ‘You’re right!’ I add sarcastically. ‘I guess Raymond might be busy with the election in a couple of weeks.’

  A waiter pauses beside Sandra. She takes two glasses and hands one to me with familiarity. ‘Cheers! I hope you’re coming on set this week, Mikky?’

  ‘I’d like to. And I’d like to see the Parks again – I haven’t seen them since Ali died. They must be so shaken.’

  ‘That was a shock.’ Sandra stares at me. ‘I couldn’t believe it when Keith told me.’

  ‘Keith?’

  ‘Matt phoned Keith that evening. He was devastated when it happened.’

  ‘Do you think the other Parks will be okay filming?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, Matt seems to think the Parks need to have a point of focus and it might do them good, but to be honest, the building we’re using is very high and open, so we’re mostly using a stunt team.’

  ‘Really?’ I tremble at the thought of going on the film set.

  Sandra continues, ‘It’s very dangerous but exciting – I hope you both come and see it.’

  ‘I’d like to, but I get vertigo.’

  ‘Oh? So, you hate heights?’

  I grin. ‘Yes, probably as much as I dislike political fundraisers.’

  * * *

  ‘I’ve seen your films. I’m a fan! I’m delighted to meet you finally.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sandra replies. ‘And may I introduce my friend Mikky dos Santos – she’s a journalist, and she’s making a documentary.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Jeffrey Bonnington replies. His rakish thick white hair sits on the collar of his white dinner jacket, his goatee is neatly clipped, and he regards me carefully through round black glasses, then turns his attention back to Sandra.

  Keith pulls me aside and whispers, ‘You’d never believe he’s seventy years old and he’s a billionaire,’ he explains. ‘He’s probably funding this evening.’

  ‘He looks good for his age. Maybe he’ll bankroll one of Sandra’s films
?’ I whisper back.

  ‘It looks like he’d like to.’

  ‘Do excuse us. I’m going to borrow your friend for a few minutes.’ Jeffrey Bonnington places his arm possessively around Sandra’s back and guides her away to a group of people on the far side of the room.

  Keith grins, and we turn to speak to Peter and Matt, but that’s when a tall man with a thin face takes his turn at the podium to announce the start of the charity auction.

  ‘That’s Raymond’s assistant,’ Keith whispers, his breath sweet from the wine.

  I watch for the next forty minutes as the crowd bid excitedly for the various donated prizes; a spa weekend in the country, dinner in the Shard, afternoon tea in Harrods, and a helicopter ride across the city of London.

  ‘That’s my friend,’ Peter whispers to me, and when I look at him quizzically, he adds, ‘He’s donated a sightseeing helicopter tour of London. We were in Afghanistan together.’

  ‘Are you still in touch?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Sandra Worthington wins the bid for dinner in the Shard, and I notice that Arlene Harris graciously misses out on the bid for the spa weekend and that, like me, Jeffrey Bonnington doesn’t bid for a thing.

  I suppress a yawn and Matt catches me and grins.

  ‘I’d love to see Monika again,’ I say to him, once the bidding is over.

  ‘I’ll tell her when I see her. You do understand, Mikky, that I can’t give out her number?’

  ‘Can you give her my number and tell her I’d like to chat.’

  But Matt doesn’t hear me; he’s distracted and ushered away by the tall thin man who did the charity auction, toward a group that includes Raymond Harris, Jeffrey Bonnington, and Sandra Worthington.

  I lean against Peter’s arm. ‘I can’t stand any more, can we go home?’

  ‘You tired?’

  ‘I meant I can’t stand it any more. No one will notice if we slip out of here. Unless you want to stay?’

  Peter replies, ‘I was rather hoping we might meet Raymond.’

  ‘No chance,’ I say. ‘Although if you donate a large sum of money to his political party, then he might give you some of his precious time.’

  A tall lady with a pinched face standing in a group nearby turns to look disdainfully at me.

 

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