by A J Waines
‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’ I asked eventually.
‘Honestly, Sam, I feel terrible.’ His voice was breaking up, brittle with repentance.
‘Good – and so you should.’
‘I couldn’t explain properly at lunch yesterday, it had to be under wraps. They were still trying to reach one of the other trauma specialists to save having to get you on board. I kept telling them they must find someone else… that it wasn’t fair on you, with you going away and all that, but…’
He admitted that what he’d done was unforgiveable. I agreed with him.
There was a prickly pause. ‘Would an expensive dinner for two cut it, do you think?’ he suggested.
I let him wait.
‘At The Dorchester?’ he added.
‘I doubt it,’ I said, neutrally.
‘Really?’ I had him worried.
Another pause. ‘Throw in champagne and you might be in with a chance,’ I said.
‘You’re on,’ he said, relief saturating his voice.
He knew he owed me – big-time.
Miranda looked like she’d been up all night when she answered the door. She was still in her dressing gown and had trouble parting her eyelids. Her white-blonde hair was stiffened by a build-up of styling gel and resembled a scouring pad. She mumbled something that I took to mean come in and backed inside.
Miranda’s flat was effectively an extended art studio. What had once been an open-plan sitting room barely lived up to its name any more, with a single lumpy sofa pushed to one side in front of an old television set. The rest of the space looked like a warehouse. There were two easels, each holding a canvas in progress; finished canvases leaning in stacks against the walls and battered trunks acting as tables for paints, jars of brushes and palettes. Wherever there was room for something to hang; the end of the iron staircase, the edge of a door, there was an oily cloth or a paint spattered T-shirt. It was the kind of place where you’d leave after a visit with a wet splodge on your backside if you weren’t careful.
The bare floorboards creaked with every step and I found myself crossing the room swiftly to get to the kitchen in order to stop the noise.
I made us both coffee. Miranda took the sofa and, after careful scrutiny, I sat beside her on the arm. I always found it hard to relax at Miranda’s, but it wasn’t all about the inhabitable conditions. At least I wasn’t constantly on the lookout for another person’s belongings, like I used to be whenever I came here. A crumpled black shirt, a discarded wrapper of his favourite snack, a notepad open at one of his poems – items I’d recognise that would turn my stomach and bruise my heart in equal measure, every time my eyes rested on them. Thank goodness those days were over. He was long gone.
‘I’m so sorry about Kora,’ I said, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.
She was huddled over, her hands jammed between her knees. I noticed how prominent the bones in her wrists were, the sunken skin around her mouth.
‘Why Kora?’ she whispered. ‘What has she ever done to anybody?’
I’d met Kora several times at openings and special events at CCAP, where she’d exhibited her sculptures. She was girlishly pretty with thick hair halfway down her back. I’d seen her recent work; faces emerging from veils all made of wax. They looked like the ghosts you might see in a 1930s horror movie. Unnerving, yet beautiful.
‘Come here,’ I said, pulling my sister into both my arms. She leant into me, allowing me to stroke her hair. Simple actions such as this weren’t always so straightforward.
‘Have you been to see her? Will they let you?’
‘No. Family only at the moment. She’s not… in a good way.’
She buried her head against my stomach.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she spluttered. ‘That poor little boy. Raven isn’t even two years old, how is he going to cope if his mother… if she…? And Sponge. He’s in a dreadful state.’
Sponge was Kora’s partner. I first met the two of them in a café on Camden High Street. He was a happy-go-lucky Geordie who also worked at the art project. No one seemed to know his real name.
‘She’s such a sweetheart. Wholesome and totally trusting of people, possibly a bit too naïve at times.’ She sniffed. ‘Everyone thinks the world of her; so radiant and carefree.’
A handkerchief was permanently squashed into Miranda’s hand and she pressed it against her eyes and nostrils from time to time. It wasn’t her fault, but I’d missed out on a lot of my childhood because of her manic behaviour. She was two years older than me, but had always felt like the younger sister, forcing me to grow up fast. I love her to bits, but with professional parents focused on their careers, I was the one who had to keep an eye on her. Whenever she left the room, I’d be on red-alert; listening, waiting, poised to rush out and stop her from breaking something or hurting herself. That sense of foreboding had never fully left me.
She gripped my wrist. ‘You do understand, don’t you, that I couldn’t go away on holiday… after this?’ she added.
‘Of course. I know.’ I wiped a stray tear from her cheek with my thumb. Even if I hadn’t been railroaded into helping the police, I could never have taken off and left her like this.
‘You could still go,’ she added, pulling away. ‘You don’t have to worry about me. You could catch a flight today.’
‘No, no. It’s fine. I’ve got work, now, as it happens.’
That was the moment I should have told Miranda that I’d agreed to help with the case, but it felt beside the point, somehow. What mattered most was how Miranda was going to get through this.
‘Have you eaten?’ I asked.
She wasn’t really hearing me. ‘I might go over to see Sponge, later.’ She exhaled heavily. ‘I might need to go to the project…’
Almost everyone at CCAP, like Miranda, had a troubled background; a history of drugs, gambling, self-harm or some psychological affliction that had blighted their lives. The ethos of the place was built around acceptance and a non-judgemental approach, and it had become the backbone of my sister’s existence, fulfilling her need for identity, purpose and structure. I hoped that after what had happened, it wouldn’t alter the safe status that place held for her, in her mind.
‘Have you taken your–’
‘Don’t fuss!’ she hissed, flapping me away. I took a quick glance around the room and spotted a bottle of tablets, open, standing on a tin palette.
It had taken Miranda until last Christmas to tell me that she’d heard ‘voices’ in her head from as early as five years of age. I’ve always tried to be supportive and sympathetic towards her, especially in the last few years, so I don’t know why it had taken her so long to tell me. Maybe it was my job that put her off. I’d never told her that my choice of career stemmed not from a fervent desire to understand and help other people, but to help her. Perhaps she’d guessed at some point and found it all too humiliating. So, yes, I’d kept secrets from her, too. We were both as bad as each other.
With the right medication, Miranda had managed to tame the errant voices. She described them as a bland commentary, like a radio playing in the background that she could now turn down at will. On good days, the voices were absent altogether. Under times of stress, however, they had a tendency to get louder and more demanding. They came in many forms. During a particularly bad episode, Miranda found triggers in traffic signs and number plates. One time, she believed she was receiving instructions to march onto Waterloo Bridge and drop her purse into the water and another time she found herself in a church, stripping off, having been ‘instructed’ to leave all her clothes on the altar. With this level of potential instability, I needed to know how resilient she was after Kora’s appalling assault.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, nuzzling into my neck. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘What about extra support, to see you through?’ I suggested. Following previous lapses, Miranda had ended up being sectioned and sent back to a secure unit at Linden Manor. I couldn’t
bear to see her being taken there again.
‘Is this a consultation?’ she said, drawing back.
‘Of course not. I care about you.’
‘I’m not going to do anything stupid, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘It would be good to have people around you.’
‘I’ve got friends,’ she said defiantly. ‘I know what I’m supposed to do.’
I reached out to pat her knee and thought better of it. I rubbed my sweaty palm on the sofa instead. ‘You know you can call me any time, okay? And I’ll regularly check in with you.’
‘Fine.’ She sounded like a grounded school kid. Miranda’s moods were like that; she could swing from loving to hostile in a matter of seconds. Especially, it would seem, with me.
I got up, ready to go. ‘What are you going to do now?’ I asked breezily. With someone in distress, it was always good to help them put a few plans in place, very basic ones, to get some order into their day.
‘Drop in to see Sponge, then go to the project. See if anyone knows any more about what happened. Hang around. Drink decaf coffee.’
‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘And you’ll cook a proper meal tonight?’
‘Yes, Mum. I’ve got some salmon.’
Her mention of food made me realise I was hungry. I checked my watch to find I only had a few minutes to grab something to eat before I needed to head off to the east end of London. I decided now wasn’t the time to tell Miranda I was due to meet the sole witness to Kora’s attack. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and left.
Chapter 5
Friday, June 15 – Three weeks earlier
‘Are you getting in, or what?’ the cab driver calls out.
Pippa French had been standing outside Languini’s Bar on her phone and bobbed down to the window.
He said her full name. ‘That’s you, right?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be going.’
‘It’s fine, love,’ he said. ‘I’m to drop you off at the corner of Ferndale Road, EC2. It’s only a few minutes and it’s all been paid for.’
It wasn’t exactly the usual way she met a source for a story, but she had checked this guy out thoroughly, hadn’t she? Philippe Morino was a bona fide dealer at Sotherby’s; it was all on the level. In any case, it was still light, there would be plenty of people about.
As the taxi darted through the back streets, he phoned her again. She heard a slight clunk as the call was connected and he admitted he was using a public phone box.
‘I know, it’s not very professional, is it?’ he said, sounding embarrassed. ‘I’ve made so many calls about this painting today, my phone’s dead, can you believe it?’
He had further instructions for her. Once she left the taxi, she was to cross at the traffic lights by the hotel and take the street down the side of the bespoke tailor. After that she should keep going until she reached the square with a church in the centre. She hurriedly scribbled down his directions. He asked her to come to the third house on the right with the dark red door.
‘What’s the number?’
‘That’s all you need,’ he said.
Pippa almost got cold feet at that point, perched on the edge of her seat in the taxi. Why the need for this silly treasure hunt?
He had to placate her. ‘I know, I’m sorry it’s so covert. But I can’t risk bringing the painting out into the open. It would draw too much attention and I know you’ll need to see it before you run a story. You can’t just take my word for it. Speak to Carlo Hennings at Sotherby’s if you like, he’s the only other person who knows about the scoop.’
Pippa recognised the name – she’d done a recent feature on art restoration and had got a quote from him.
‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I think I will check,’ she said. ‘Just… you know…’ She laughed nervously and he chuckled along with her.
‘No problem. I can give you his direct line.’
‘It’s okay thanks, I’ll go through the switchboard.’ She wasn’t going to fall for him giving her some dodgy number.
‘Sure. I’ll call you again in a few minutes.’
She tried Sotherby’s main number again and was put through to Hennings’ office, but of course, it was outside working hours and she reached only his answerphone.
Now what?
She was torn, but the ambitious competitive streak in her was winning over. Sometimes you had to take a leap of faith as a journalist, run the gauntlet and hope for the best. Okay, she hadn’t got to speak to Carlo Hennings, but everything Mr Morino had said so far added up. If she got this story her kudos would go through the roof. If it turned out to be a wild goose chase, she’d just go home.
Mr Morino rang back minutes later. ‘Oh, yes, I’m sorry, I forgot Carlo would have left by now. He had a charity thing to go to in Bond Street.’
Pippa happened to know that was true; the receptionist had mentioned it just now when she’d checked to see if there was another number she could try. Bolstered by this comforting reassurance she waited for the taxi to pull up on Ferndale Road and went on her way.
Chapter 6
Friday, July 6 – Day One
I left the train at Limehouse and dropped the wrapper from the sandwich I’d wolfed down en route in a recycling bin at the station.
The Docklands Light Railway came into operation over thirty years ago, but the station here still looked fresh and clean. I was struck by the imposing broad Victorian archways, although the angular metal and glass the architects had added seemed oddly disrespectful in contrast. When I looked up, the design jutted out of the old brickwork like a see-through umbrella.
I turned left at the bottom of the steps and headed straight towards the boats. My first impression of the marina was that there should have been more people about. It was lunchtime, on a giddy summer’s day and I’d expected a hubbub of activity. Instead, apart from a perpetual string of joggers and a cluster of fishermen, their legs dangling over the water, the area was deserted. It became clear why. There were no benches inviting visitors to sit and enjoy the view, no bars or cafés, no amenities apart from an estate agent, a dentist and an art gallery. Perhaps it was a deliberate ploy to keep non-residents at bay.
Each of the new apartments had its own balcony, but some of the high-rise blocks were already in need of repair, strapped up with scaffolding and flapping blue tarpaulin. It was quiet in an eerie rather than tranquil kind of way, as if something bad had happened here recently. Only streets away, the customary buzz of traffic, horns, sirens and people going about their business felt more real and inviting.
Ahead, beyond the basin of water was a white church and to the right in the distance, the tall sparkling tower-blocks of Canary Wharf. I spotted a uniformed officer across the water and followed the path around the edge, crossing several bridges and a large lock leading out onto the Thames, to meet him.
The boat in question, Louisa II, was moored on the third of three pontoons, berth number thirty-four. Aiden Blake must have been no ordinary student. Not many nineteen-years-olds owned a narrowboat at all, never mind one this impressive. Access to the pontoon was through an imposing iron gate, locked with a key pad and surrounded by coils of galvanised razor wire. PC Spenser Ndibi, one of the officers I’d met at the briefing that morning, came along the gangway to let me in.
‘He’s expecting you,’ was all he said.
I followed him along the wooden platform and stepped onto the front of the boat. Once I’d ducked inside, it wasn’t just the size of the boat that took my breath away. Aiden, slight – but around six feet tall – stood holding the back of a chair, his hands tight around its wooden frame. He had hair the colour of golden syrup down to his shoulders, held away from his face with a footballer’s headband. I couldn’t see the colour of his eyes but they were wary, warning me to keep my distance. I’d rarely been so struck by anyone on first meeting.
He looked away when I said hello, so I stayed where I was, not wanti
ng to crowd him. This was a tricky situation that needed to be handled with the utmost sensitivity.
Constable Ndibi came alongside me. ‘Aiden? This is Dr Sam Willerby. She’s a clinical psychologist,’ he said. ‘She’s going to help you get back to normal.’
Aiden’s chilled stare punctured the air. A barbed wire fence, like the one at the entrance, was between us right from the start. I smiled, but Aiden wasn’t looking my way. He continued his opaque, unfathomable gaze into no man’s land.
I quickly scanned his clothes to get a sense of how well he was looking after himself. He wore scruffy black jeans, a polo shirt and had bare feet. A typical student. I noticed the label of a well-known shoemaker printed inside a shoe on the floor to my left. Handmade, no less. Perhaps not a typical student, after all.
Aiden looked clean and groomed, but his whole being seemed to convey mixed messages; proud and helpless, all in one. His polo shirt hadn’t seen an iron and was incorrectly buttoned. There was patchy stubble dotted around his chin and his jaw bone twitched as if he was grinding his teeth. I had the feeling he was using every ounce of energy to prevent himself from falling apart. My guts squirmed at the daunting task that lay ahead of me.
‘When I got here, he was hiding inside the wardrobe,’ whispered PC Ndibi, pointing to the far end of the boat. ‘He’s looking more perky.’ I made a mental note that Aiden’s current blanked-out appearance was, in fact, an improvement. ‘When we brought him back from the hospital, he curled into a ball. Like he thought he was in an earthquake and everything was collapsing around him.’
The constable beckoned me past Aiden through the saloon into the kitchen area. Aiden stayed where he was, still gripping the chair. A grim determination was holding him inches from an unseen cliff edge.
‘I don’t think you’re going to get much out of him, not right now, anyway,’ he said. ‘I might as well give you the grand tour of the boat.’ He pointed to the glossy wooden sink unit. ‘This is the galley.’