by Janet Pywell
‘Oh yes.’ She smiles and crosses her legs, clearly pleased. ‘That was fun, wasn’t it? We raised over £200,000 that evening. I paid for afternoon tea at the Ritz but then I donated it back again – we can eat there any time.’ Her ringed fingers catch the light, and I spot a genuine and large diamond, as she waves her glass before sipping its contents.
I get straight to the point. ‘I’m particularly interested in what drives Raymond – why is he so prolific – he’s certainly trying to stand up against the criminals on the street. He’s got cojones.’
‘He believes in social justice – as I do.’
‘He’s got the support of the home secretary,’ I say, winging it, after reading an article in the Evening Standard and other online sources. ‘And, if you don’t mind me saying so, he’s very popular in the area – especially with all the work he’s done with the young kids at Dixon House.’
She sighs. ‘Raymond works hard. He’s often late home for dinner. He works all hours. He’s passionate about providing a safe place for the children. They’re all victims, you know.’
‘The Dixon Trust is amazing. I’ve been speaking to Matt and Claudia, and they sing his praises and say how remarkable he is. None of it would be possible without him.’
‘Ah yes. They’re also amazing. He couldn’t have done it without Matt. They’ve drummed up lots of support within the local community and are achieving great results. I raise money for them, too, you know, finding sponsors when I run the marathon, and things like that.’ She pauses, then asks, ‘So, Mikky, what is it that you want to speak to Raymond about?’
‘I’m making a documentary on some of the Parks. In particular, the ones I met in Morocco that were filming over there. Do you know the Parks?’
‘Ah yes.’
‘Do you know them personally?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘They’re incredible, such talent.’
‘I’m familiar with some of their skills.’
‘It was such a shame about Ali,’ I say. ‘I can’t believe it.’
She blinks hard, but her face remains pleasant.
‘Did you know him?’ I ask.
‘I met him. I volunteer down there sometimes. I know some of them at Dixon House – Ali used to come by quite often.’ She toys with the stem of her empty wine glass. ‘It’s hit everyone very hard.’
‘It must make Raymond more resolute to take a stance against poverty and the drugs gangs.’
‘It does.’ She takes a sharp intake of breath and stands up to fetch the wine bottle. She offers to refill mine, but my glass is still full. She shrugs, but fills hers and leaves the bottle on the floor by her feet.
‘You’re right. It was a shock. Ali was a lovely boy.’
‘Do you think he committed suicide?’
She looks surprised. ‘Of course – that’s what the police said. Why?’
‘He had so much to live for – he had plans. He told me in Morocco that he wanted to be a policeman.’
She smiles fondly. ‘Ali was always a planner. He always had some new idea, and he was so full of enthusiasm. It was contagious. He was always upbeat and positive.’
‘Do you think someone might have killed him?’
She appears to consider my question carefully before answering. ‘He’d been mixed up with the drug runners, a few years ago, but we’d got him away from all of that. Matt has been brilliant with him, he’d done a fantastic job, but I don’t know …’
‘Do you know who these bad guys are?’
She shakes her head. ‘They work in small gangs, and you never know who is in the other ones. They’re like small pockets that work independently.’ She moves the wine glass in circles, rotating it in the air. ‘They’re very clever. Street smart.’
‘But there must be someone in charge,’ I insist. ‘There must be someone who controls them all. Someone who masterminds it all, and decides on where and who they’ll target with drugs.’
She nods in agreement, but her face remains unmoved with the same surprised, polite smile.
‘I suppose so. The police are active – and the prime minister is eager to show results, especially before the election. The new home secretary is deploying even more officers to break up the drugs gangs. They used over 120 police officers last year – and twelve people were arrested in the north of England and went to prison.’
‘They were shutting down the county lines,’ I say, as if I know what I’m talking about. ‘Apparently, they recruit young children and use them as drug mules to traffic drugs to addicts in other counties, so it makes them harder to catch. It often means that the different local police forces have to work together to catch them. But this gang in London – Islington – is controlled by the Asian.’
‘The Asian.’ Arlene mulls the name over, as if it’s a disgusting and despicable flavour affecting the taste of her wine.
‘Have you heard of him?’
‘I’ve heard his name, yes, but I know nothing about him.’
‘They think he’s Chinese.’
‘Really?’ She gazes at me, and I imagine her in a few hours with a few more glasses of Chablis inside her and wonder if Raymond comes home to a drunk wife every night.
‘Do you know anything about a cult?’ I ask.
She shakes her head and pours the remaining Chablis into her glass.
‘Nothing.’
‘Have you heard about a tattoo some of the kids have?’
She shakes her head.
‘Ali had one.’
‘Did he?’
‘Presumably,’ I reply.
‘I’ve never seen it.’ She appears lost in thought, then she asks, ‘How would I have?’
‘Have you ever seen them doing parkour or freerunning?’
She looks up and appears surprised I’m still in her house. She’s in a trance-like state, and I imagine her in the gym or on her exercise bicycle, in the early morning, without her make-up on and with her hair tied up.
‘Do you go to the gym, Arlene?’
‘Yes. Every morning.’ Her lips appear slightly lopsided in a smile. ‘Why?’
‘I can see you really look after yourself.’
She squares her shoulders and almost slips off the sofa, completely unaware of the irony in my voice, and that’s when I decide it’s time for me to leave.
* * *
My phone rings and I reach into my bag to retrieve my iPhone.
‘Where are you now?’ Peter asks.
‘I’m in a taxi heading to Bond Street.’
‘What for?’
‘There’s a weapons specialist who knows a lot about swords and daggers and things. But guess what? I just went to visit Arlene Harris.’
‘How did you manage that?’
‘Matt arranged it for me. I went to their house.’
‘Sandra was going to do that—’
‘I know, but she’s too busy.’
‘So, how was Arlene?’
‘Drunk.’
‘Really?’
‘I think she’s bored. Raymond is out all the time, and she’s paraded out when he needs arm candy.’
‘Okay, I’ve got to go. Let me know how you get on.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m with Sandra and Keith still on location – at the site. They’re setting up the stunt landing mats. It’s the minutiae of the details. We’ve got to make sure the Parks are protected, or they might hurt themselves – and we can’t let that happen.’
‘Peter?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure how else we can drive all this forward. There’s no news on the person who was bundled into the Audi last week. No one is reported missing, and short of hanging around on street corners or becoming a drug addict again, I don’t know how we can get through to the cult.’
‘Stop worrying, Mikky. Everything will work out. It always does. You have to let things take their course. By the way, Aniela and Zofia are coming over next weekend, but we’re g
oing to have to cancel our visit to Blessinghurst Manor.’
‘Why?’ I reply.
‘My uncle has been driving her mad with so much work since the baby was born. She needs a break and we have to visit my aunt in Scotland.’
‘Scotland?’
‘I’m picking them up at Edinburgh Airport.’
‘Oh.’ I’d been looking forward to seeing Aniela again and meeting Peter’s baby daughter.
‘Sorry! I can hear you’re disappointed.’
‘These things happen, I guess.’
‘I’ll see you later?’
‘Yes. Perhaps you could speak to Adam? Try and get him away from the others – I think he knows something, Peter.’
Peter breathes heavily down the phone.
‘Look, Mikky, if he won’t speak to you, then he certainly won’t speak to me. At least you’ve had a conversation with him, and you sketched him. Hang out at Dixon House, let them get used to your face, and they will trust you eventually. It’s a waiting game.’
‘Do you think?’
‘With your gorgeous face, of course they will. It’s just a matter of time.’
* * *
The taxi drops me outside an expensive shop in Bond Street. The Christmas lights have been switched on, and they are ribboned across the road, shining brightly. Instead of feeling Christmas cheer, I’m disappointed. Stella and her family not coming over from India, and now I won’t get to see Peter’s wife and new baby.
Inside, the shop is unusual. It has a mixture of expensive antiques, furniture, paintings, and book collections. Apart from a miniature Christmas tree in one corner, there’s no evidence of the winter holiday looming on the horizon.
‘Good afternoon. I’m Martin. How can I be of assistance?’
Martin is suave and dapper, dressed in a three-piece grey suit, with neatly gelled spiked hair.
I pull out the sketch of the images I made from Ali and Monika’s tattoo.
‘I want to purchase a dagger, like this. It’s for my husband’s birthday,’ I lie.
I spend ten minutes talking to him about the original one made by Shah Jahan, the Mughal emperor who built the Taj Mahal for his wife.
‘I believe the original dagger was sold by Bonhams in 2018, for $3.3 million.’
‘This is very specific,’ the expert Martin replies, studying my drawing. The Rolex on his wrist glistens under the bright lights. ‘I’m not sure we can find anything similar—’
‘I can go up to a million dollars, if necessary.’
He stares at me, and I wonder if he can smell alcohol on my breath.
‘Well, I could check.’
‘I’d appreciate that.’
‘I’d need a deposit.’
‘No problem.’ I pull out my credit card.
He straightens his shoulders and smiles. ‘Well, I can try and source something similar. May I take a copy of the drawing? A photograph?’
He places the sketch on the counter, lining it up in the light to study it more carefully, before taking a picture. He seems to take forever, and I fear my journey across the city has been wasted.
‘I’m not sure of the price,’ he says, handing me back the sketch.
‘As I said, it’s for my husband. If you could find something similar? Have you sold anything like this before?’
He flicks his head in denial.
‘Never?’ I persist.
‘No.’
He’s lying.
‘But you might be able to source something similar for me?’ I ask.
‘This seems quite specific. And if it’s something like this ceremonial dagger that you want, then you could get one made.’
Now he has my attention. ‘Do you know someone who makes replicas?’
‘Of course, there are specialists who could make something like this to order …’
‘Have you done that before?’
‘I believe we might have done.’
‘Very long ago?’
‘I wouldn’t know the date.’
‘For a fraction of the price?’
‘Yes, well,’ he says with a cough, ‘it depends.’
‘My husband doesn’t need to know.’ I smile back at Martin.
‘Perhaps not. Replicas can, I believe, be quite … authentic.’
‘Where can you—?’
‘I’d have to investigate the matter.’
‘Of course,’ I reply, wondering what percentage he’d make on the transaction.
‘Leave it with me. Let me have your number, Ms dos Santos. I’ll give you a ring in a few days.’
* * *
I take the tube, and when I come out at the Angel Station, I’m surprised that it’s already dark. The nights are drawing in, eleven days until the election on the 10th December, and only four weeks until Christmas.
It’s a fifteen-minute walk from the station to Dixon House, but it clears my head. A replica dagger … and then I’m wondering what I will buy Marco for Christmas; something special, something momentous and deliciously exciting.
I turn a corner and Adam jumps out from a dark alleyway.
My heart races.
He whispers, ‘Follow me.’
I duck into single file behind him, back down the alleyway, conscious of the high wall and barbed wire around us, as he leads me away from the estates and Dixon House. We pass houses, apartments, and business offices via a route of narrow alleyways, until finally we reach Regent’s Canal and I’m reminded of the last time he brought me here.
Reassured by the quiet calm oasis of the canals amidst the busy noise of London traffic and cars, I call out, ‘How far are we walking?’
‘The canals are over eight miles long,’ he replies over his shoulder, his hands dug deep into his pockets, but he slows his pace, so I catch him up.
‘I love these painted houseboats.’ He doesn’t reply, so I ask, ‘Do you still paint?’
‘Paint?’
‘Sketch, paint, draw? You have serious talent, Adam. This would be an ideal place to sit.’
He ignores me and pulls his hoodie further forward to cover his head. I glance around, noting the CCTVs, and pull off my hat, just in case Peter has to look for me.
‘How did the filming go today?’
‘Fine.’
‘You finished early?’
‘It was dark.’
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘Just keep walking.’
‘No.’ I stop and he turns around to face me. ‘I’m not going any further until you tell me what’s going on.’
‘You want information, Mikky. I’m giving it to you.’
‘What information?’
‘I’m going to let you meet someone.’
‘Who?’
‘Badger.’
‘Who is Badger?’ I’m conscious of dog walkers, cyclists, and joggers dodging around us, and I stare up at the CCTV on the lamppost, as if I’m looking at Peter himself.
‘Come on, Mikky. He’s in the group.’
‘In the cult?’
‘Yes. He’ll tell you what you want to know.’
* * *
Adam leads me away from the lights again, through more alleyways and backstreets, and I have no option but to follow him until I’m quite lost. We arrive in a quiet street, filled with garages and lock-ups. He pulls back a corrugated steel door and we step inside.
He fishes out his iPhone and switches on the torch.
‘Mind where you step,’ he says.
In the darkness, I can make out vague shapes. It’s the inside of a garage. It smells of grease and oil, and there are various cars in different states of repair. I squint in the light, but there are no Audis.
Adam moves forward, and so I follow him cautiously, occasionally tripping over a stray hand tool discarded by one of the mechanics.
‘Sit here,’ Adam orders.
The iron seat, like one from an old school, is rickety and cold. I shiver. Suddenly, a light shines in my face, and I blink and turn away,
shielding my eyes with my arm as they begin to water.
‘What do you want to know?’ a voice says out of the darkness.
‘Um, can you please not shine the light in my face.’ I mumble into my sleeve. ‘This isn’t an interrogation. I’m making a documentary – a film …’
The light is switched off, and it takes me a few minutes to adjust once more to the small light that Adam holds on his iPhone. He’s shining it at the floor between the stranger and me.
There’s a vague outline of a figure that appears to be leaning/sitting on the bonnet of a car, and the room smells of weed. He’s smoking a joint. When he takes a drag, I see the embers of the joint flame brightly, and he exhales slowly.
‘Well?’ he asks.
‘Who are you?’
‘Call me Badger.’
‘Are you in the cult?’
‘It’s not a cult. We swear allegiance, and we look after each other.’
‘Allegiance to who?’
‘To ourselves. We’re all brothers.’
‘And sisters?’
‘Of course.’
I strain my eyes to stare at him, but he’s pulled a black stocking over his face to hide his features and to distort his voice. There’s only a small hole for his mouth, where he inserts the joint and inhales.
‘Does it have a name – this group?’
‘It doesn’t need one.’
‘How many are in this group?’
He laughs as he exhales and spits on the floor. ‘Loads.’
‘How many?’ I challenge him.
‘Thousands.’
‘All with a dagger tattoo.’
He laughs. ‘Some.’
‘What’s the aim of your … cu— brothers?’
‘We’re a pharmacy. The biggest pharmacy …’ He pulls out a knife over thirty centimetres long, and the steel blade shines under Adam’s light, and Badger lays it beside him on the bonnet of the car, where it glistens menacingly.
‘It’s simple. It’s business. It’s supply and demand. They demand – and we supply.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Weed, coke, crack, heroin – you name it, we have it.’
‘You sell to other addicts?’
His laughter is raw, and it slices across the darkness. ‘Don’t be stupid. Where have you been living? We sell it in clubs, bars, and restaurants. Everyone buys it.’
‘Everyone?’