Denial (Sam Keddie Thriller Book 2)

by Paddy Magrane

  The line went dead.

  It was late afternoon, dark outside. Sam stood to draw the curtains. Perhaps Zahra wasn’t who she appeared to be. Perhaps her mental health was more fragile than he realised. Perhaps she had got violent.

  Whatever the truth of the matter, he knew one thing. Eleanor was expected back at any minute, and he’d promised to cook.

  Outside, Sam pulled his collar up and yanked down his beanie so that as little of his face as possible was exposed to the biting wind that whipped down his street.

  How would Zahra fare now she was out? In all likelihood, she’d head to London. Pinched by a deeper, colder winter than anyone could remember, the city felt far from welcoming. A couple of weeks ago a riot had erupted outside a mosque just down the road in Clapton, supposedly a newly gentrified area. Cars had been set on fire, shops looted. It was not an isolated incident. Aggression aimed at immigrants rarely seemed out of the news.

  Emerging on the high street, Sam headed to a Turkish Cypriot supermarket. He was looking forward to seeing Eleanor and was determined not to let his musings ruin the evening. He smiled at the prospect of greeting her as she came through the door. He imagined her shedding her thick coat and them kissing, a whiff of her citrus-based scent and the heat of her body filling his nostrils.

  Over the last year or so, he’d often wondered whether their relationship would survive, forged, as it had been, in such adrenaline-fuelled circumstances. And would the secret he knew about Eleanor’s family worm its way to the surface, its poison corrupting their love? So far, his concerns had proved unfounded. But he had the strong sense that his knowledge was not buried forever.

  He bought vegetables and herbs and cut down a small alleyway to his street. The wind was now behind him, clawing at his coat’s thick material.

  In the distance, he saw a figure emerge from a house near his, a broad barrel of a man, a dark silhouette in what looked like a hoodie. But as Sam got closer, he realised it had been his house. With a lurch in his stomach, he saw that his front door was wide open, the light from the hallway illuminating the path. Sam picked up his pace. Had that been a burglar, seeing Sam nip out and chancing his luck?

  The last few steps were taken at a jog before he turned into his path and up to the front door. It was there that Sam froze, his world turned upside down by the sight that greeted him.

  Eleanor was slumped on the floor, her back resting against the radiator, eyelids closed. Her head had flopped forward. The bike she’d been riding lay discarded like an unwanted toy against the base of the stairs.

  Something snapped in Sam and the bag of groceries dropped from his hand. He ran to Eleanor, collapsing to his knees by her twisted body. He was about to pull her torso away from the radiator but stopped, some trace of first aid knowledge sounding a warning. If her neck was in any way damaged, then he didn’t dare move it. He fumbled in his pocket for his phone and, with a shaking finger, dialled 999.

  ‘Emergency services – how may I direct your call?’ asked a calm male voice.

  ‘Ambulance.’

  ‘One moment, sir.’

  The call was transferred. A female voice this time. Sam was asked for his location and mobile number.

  ‘Can you explain what’s happened, sir?’

  ‘My girlfriend has been attacked.’ Sam realised he should also have asked for the police, told them about the man he’d seen. ‘I need the police too.’

  ‘We will contact them, sir. Now, can you describe what you can see?’

  As Sam began to paint the scene before him, he felt the emotion rise up from his stomach like an unstoppable wave, one that threatened to drown him. His breathing started to race, his speech stumbling with every word.

  ‘An ambulance is on its way, sir,’ reassured the woman. ‘Is your girlfriend conscious?’

  Sam looked at Eleanor. Were it not for the awkward angle of her head, she might have been sleeping. Her eyes were closed and there wasn’t a trace of fear or trauma on her face.

  ‘No.’

  He touched her face gently, whispered her name.

  ‘Please hurry,’ he said, his eyes flooding with tears, the emotion finding an outlet even as everything else seemed to shut down. ‘Please hurry.’

  Chapter 11

  Stoke Newington Police Station, London

  The interview room was cold, its walls a dull green. The man opposite Sam, who’d introduced himself as DI Carl Emery, rubbed his stubble and sighed. His bloodshot eyes were ringed with grey.

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with Eleanor Scott? Any recent disagreements or arguments?’

  Sam shot Emery a withering look. He’d been in the room for over an hour and had told his story at least five times. It was clear the DI was working on the assumption that Sam was the most obvious suspect.

  ‘It’s just fine, thanks. I’ve told you. I was shopping –’

  ‘And you came back to see a large mystery man in a hoodie vacating your home.’

  ‘There’s a bag of shopping in the bloody hallway.’

  ‘Which proves nothing. You could have come back and then assaulted your girlfriend.’

  ‘I’m no expert on these matters, but doesn’t violence occur in the heat of an argument, perhaps after a drink? Not when two people have just walked in the front door from the cold?’

  ‘You’re right, you’re not the expert. I am. So let me tell you what I know. In situations like these, it’s almost always a male partner or ex-partner who’s committed the crime. So until I have evidence that suggests otherwise, it’s you I want to speak to.’

  There was a knock on the door and a younger man with short, balding hair poked his head into the room.

  ‘Can I have a word, sir?’

  ‘DC Phil Corr has entered the room,’ said Emery. He stood and went to the door. There was a hushed conversation, a piece of paper passed from the younger policeman to Emery. The DI looked at Sam with an expression he could not read. Then the other policeman nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. Emery sat.

  ‘Right, Mr Keddie.’ The DI’s tone had changed. It was less combative, more appeasing. ‘We’ve made some progress. We now know you were on the high street at the time of the attack. We have a statement from the shopkeeper you mentioned,’ he paused to look at the piece of paper, ‘Mr Chalayan, as well as CCTV footage of you in the store between 6.12pm and 6.26pm. We also spoke to a neighbour who saw your girlfriend return at around 6.15pm and then, moments later, a man in a hoodie leave.’

  ‘So he was in the house when she arrived?’ Sam hadn’t thought about how the attack might have happened. He felt a swell of nausea as he pictured Eleanor literally walking into it.

  ‘It would seem that way. We can only assume he was a burglar, who saw you leave and took his chances. But if these timings are right, he was disturbed before he had the opportunity to turn your house over.’

  ‘Nothing was damaged or missing,’ Sam said, remembering the dazed inspection of the house he’d been asked to make.

  ‘I’m guessing you hadn’t double-locked the front door. So much easier for a skilful burglar to pick.’

  Sam buried his head in his hands.

  ‘Mr Keddie,’ said Emery. ‘At the end of the day, this is about the actions of a violent man, not a slip-up you might have made with your household security.’

  Sam emerged from his hands. ‘Can I go?’

  ‘You were free to go at any time.’

  Sam looked wearily at Emery. ‘But it wouldn’t have looked good if I had left, would it?’

  Emery shook his head. ‘Not great.’ He paused, attempted a conciliatory smile. ‘You understand we have to devote resources to interviewing the most obvious suspect. Which, in this case, was you.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Sam flatly. ‘But you’ll start looking for the man now?’

  ‘We will.’ Emery’s face softened. ‘As soon as your girlfriend regains consciousness, we’ll talk to her. And hopefully whatever we find at t
he house will help. By the way, the crime scene officers will be there overnight, so if you can keep out till the morning.’

  Emery stood, his chair scraping the floor. He fished in his pocket, pulled out a card and handed it to Sam. ‘Anything you remember, or think is significant, give me a ring.’

  Sam took the card.

  Emery pursed his lips in a tight smile. ‘I wish your girlfriend a speedy recovery, Mr Keddie.’

  *

  Eleanor lay motionless on her back, a coiling blue tube running into her mouth and industrial levels of wiring and machinery around her bed. Her face looked peaceful yet everything else suggested life clinging on by its fingernails. Sam held her limp hand in his, rubbing his thumb across her smooth skin. Her scent had disappeared, swamped by a hospital whiff of disinfectant.

  There was a movement behind him. Sam turned to see a tall Asian man in a white coat.

  ‘Are you Mr Keddie?’

  Sam nodded. The Asian man proffered his hand.

  ‘I’m Mr Khan.’

  They shook. Khan’s handshake was strong and reassuring.

  ‘For obvious reasons,’ said Khan, ‘Miss Scott has not named her next of kin. But we have discussed the matter with her aunt, who was here earlier, and we would like to keep the two of you informed of Eleanor’s condition. How does that sound?’

  Sam thought of the fragile remains of Eleanor’s family. Eleanor an only child, her mother in the final days of Motor Neurone Disease, her father dead.

  ‘That sounds fine. Thank you.’

  Khan led Sam into a seating area opposite Eleanor’s room. A few dog-eared magazines lay strewn across a low lying table. To their side was a vending machine packed with chocolate bars and cans of drinks. In another corner was a television, the sound muted. A rolling news programme was on, the screen showing a man in a suit delivering a press conference, the occasional flash of photography illuminating his features. Underneath the image Sam caught the words ‘Tapper CEO promises full investigation of Creech Hill riot’.

  They sat. It was just after 11pm, the lights dimmed in the corridor beyond.

  ‘Do you know anything about the Glasgow Coma Scale, Mr Keddie?’

  Sam shook his head.

  ‘It’s a neurological scale. It tests certain responses, helping us record the conscious state of a patient.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Eleanor is a three.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sam. ‘But is that good or bad?’

  Khan smiled gently.

  ‘It’s not good. But we need to do further tests to assess the true extent of her injuries. For now, all we have is her CT scan, which came back clear.’

  ‘Surely that’s good news.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Khan. ‘We’ll need to do a little more investigation – an MRI in Eleanor’s case – to be really sure of what’s going on.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sam, numbly.

  ‘Once we have a clearer picture of the nature of her injury, we can talk about treatment.’

  ‘But she’ll wake up, right?’

  ‘Let’s wait for the results of the MRI,’ said Khan.

  Sam thought he saw the tiniest flicker in Khan’s gaze, as if the consultant couldn’t quite maintain eye contact.

  ‘In the meantime, why don’t you go home and get some rest?’

  ‘Home’s off limits right now. The police are all over it.’

  Khan smiled sympathetically. ‘Of course.’ He looked around the seating area. ‘Given the circumstances, why don’t you curl up here? I’ll let the nurses know.’

  Sam opted instead for the chair in Eleanor’s room. His body felt leaden, ready to drop, but his mind was wide awake.

  A little later a nurse passed the room and looked in. He disappeared for a second then returned with a pillow and blanket which he handed, silently, to Sam. As he exited the room, the nurse left a faint trace of body odour, some suggestion of a long, arduous shift.

  In that instant Sam was reminded of the ghostly trace of a presence he’d smelt at the house when he’d arrived to find Eleanor on the floor. It was one that he’d completely failed to tell the police about because of the flood of emotion that had subsequently overwhelmed him. And of course because, with the door wide open and the cold air sucking the heat out of the house, the smell had rapidly evaporated. He tried to recall its constituent parts – it was unpleasant, of that he was certain – but as he struggled to bring it back to life, he could feel it quickly retreating.

  It was immaterial in the end. A smell wouldn’t identify Eleanor’s attacker. Only Eleanor could do that.

  And only if she woke.

  Chapter 12

  Islington, London

  Zahra stood in a ragged overcoat she’d found in a shed in countryside near Creech Hill. The material was thin, scant insulation against a wind that seemed to have penetrated her bones. She’d never known cold like this.

  In front of her was the canal, the water sluggish and black. Behind was a high wall, beyond a terrace of tall houses, lights on in windows. She’d seen a couple arguing, the man jabbing his finger at the woman. In another, an elderly man shuffled between rooms, his back bent. What she would have given to sit, or better still lie down, in one of those warm homes.

  She had made it clear to Fitzgerald that she would not meet anywhere public. So he suggested the Regent’s Canal, at the point where St Peter’s Street crossed the water to Wharf Road. It had not been easy to find.

  She’d tried Sam Keddie three times, but he never answered his phone. He must have heard about the riot. So where was he?

  There was a click of heel against stone and she jumped. Turning in the noise’s direction, she saw a figure in the distance. She relaxed a fraction. The person coming towards her, difficult to make out at this distance, was certainly not the big man from Creech Hill. He was leaner, taller. Could he be Fitzgerald?

  He raised a hand, as if to say hello. Zahra tentatively returned the gesture.

  As he got closer, she could see it was Fitzgerald. He smiled, and she felt herself relax further. At last, an ally. Someone who would help her.

  The solicitor stopped before her. ‘Zahra,’ he said, placing a hand gently on her arm. ‘Thank goodness you’re safe.’

  Zahra noticed that his nose and cheeks were a bluish colour.

  ‘What happened today?’

  But just as she was about to speak, she caught a glimpse of another figure some distance behind Fitzgerald. The tension that had momentarily dissipated came back like a huge electric shock. He was tall, built like a wall, wearing a hoodie, and jogging in their direction. Was it the man from Creech Hill? She couldn’t be sure, but she wasn’t hanging around to find out.

  Zahra turned and began to run.

  ‘What’s going on, Zahra?’ shouted Fitzgerald in her wake. ‘Come on, we need to talk. I can’t help you if you don’t speak to me.’

  Zahra had reached some steps and briefly turned to look back. Fitzgerald had heard the sound of the approaching figure and was now looking in his direction. The man reached him, moving at a pace.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ called out Fitzgerald.

  The man’s response was brutal, machine-like. He lashed out with his right hand, the palm outstretched, slamming into Fitzgerald’s chest. The solicitor lost his footing, his arms grabbing at air as he tipped backwards. And then there was a splash, as he fell into the water of the canal.

  Zahra gasped, as if the breath had been sucked from her lungs. She saw the large man briefly peer over the edge of the towpath at Fitzgerald. Then he looked up at her, a shadowy face under the lip of his hood, and began running again.

  Zahra mounted the steps, three at a time, then turned right, sprinting across the bridge. As she ran, she caught the briefest glimpse of Fitzgerald. His mouth was open in a silent cry and he was flailing, as if in slow motion, in the water. She knew what those sluggish limbs showed, that the icy chill of the canal was draining the strength from his body. That soon he’d s
lip beneath the surface.

  She could not stop, could not help him, could not even cry for him. She was being hunted like an animal and the only way to survive was to keep moving.

  On the other side of the bridge, she dared to look behind. The man had reached the top of the stairs and was turning on to the bridge when he slipped, his great bulk tumbling to the pavement.

  ‘Fuck!’ he shouted.

  Zahra seized her advantage, put her head down and sprinted.

  It was ten minutes later, when she’d reached the comparative safety of a busy road, that she dared to slow her pace and look again. Her lungs and muscles were screaming out in protest, begging her to rest.

  The man was gone. For now. But somehow Zahra knew he would find her again.

  Chapter 13

  Notting Hill, London

  Tapper closed his study door as quietly as possible, placed a glass of Armagnac on his desk, and sat. He drew his mobile from a dressing gown pocket, searched his contacts then tapped a name on the screen.

  It was 2am, but the man he was calling needed to know.

  It rang six times.

  ‘Yes,’ a weary, muddled voice answered.

  ‘It’s Harry.’

  There was a pause. ‘Christ, do you know what time it is?’

  ‘There’s something you need to know.’

  Another pause, then: ‘Wait a sec.’

  There was a sound of movement, a muffled apology. Seconds passed, a door closed. ‘This had better be good.’

  ‘It’s about the riot.’

  ‘You’ve handled it well. Word is, the PM is appeased. Just make sure the investigation is tied up pronto, the detainees are blamed. You know the score.’

  ‘There’s a bit more to it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Tapper started from the moment he’d seen Zahra Idris, then explained how the riot had been entirely of his own making.

  When he’d finished there was a moment of silence, then the man on the line hissed: ‘You’re telling me all this happened because you thought you saw the girl. Christ, Harry. What the hell were you thinking?’