Jo sat down beside the bed. She painted on a smile. Half the girl’s face was bandaged but one dark eye roved over Jo, then the lips moved. Jo leaned in to try and hear but the words were inaudible.
She glanced towards the staff nurse. ‘Do you know what she’s saying?’
‘Something in Syrian. And a name, I think. Amira?’
Amira was Razan’s sister. She wanted to know if they’d found Amira, that was Jo’s guess.
Razan’s hand moved slowly and Jo cradled it in her own. ‘We’re looking for Amira and we will find her.’
‘Amira?’ She whispered the name, followed by a dry sob.
‘Razan, you need to concentrate on getting better. We have officers out there looking for your sister.’ Jo hoped this was true. Hollingsworth had assigned Georgiou to follow up.
Still she was feeling uncomfortable and responsible. Maybe she shouldn’t have accepted Vaizey’s offer so readily when there was still work to do here? Or perhaps her old boss was right: you couldn’t take these things too personally. You just did what you could.
‘I’m going to go and make a phone call, do some chasing.’ She smiled and patted Razan’s hand. There was also the asylum question. Hopefully, Georgiou or someone would be talking to the Home Office.
Razan’s fingers clutched at her hand. ‘I promise my father. I promise take care of Amira.’
Razan’s father had lost both legs in a car bombing in Homs. He’d given his daughters a body-belt of US dollars and ordered them to leave him. This much the police had gleaned when they first interviewed Razan. It was one war story among many. Jo wondered how she would’ve coped in such a situation but then she pushed that question firmly away. There was no benefit to her or anyone else in thinking about that.
‘I know you promised your father. And you’ve done your best. He would be proud of you. You have to rest now.’
Razan turned her head slowly away. Jo could hardly catch the words. ‘No. Should be me. Me, not Amira.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
14 November 1999
Brighton
Dear Pixie,
Glad to hear things are looking up at school. And the junior school hockey team, wow, that’s awesome! Hockey was always my favourite at school. Make sure you get some good shin pads though. I’ve still got a dent in my leg from a bad tackle when I was in Year 10!
Uni, things are a bit different when it comes to extra-curricular. You have to make choices. I probably belong to too many societies already – drama is taking up a lot of my time – so sport will have to take a back seat. At least until I’m old and fat and have to get down the gym to avoid turning into Mister Blobby!
I hope you’ve made some new friends. Though I would say it’s a good idea to be picky. You don’t want to get lumbered. Someone you randomly meet at the beginning of term and you think is really great can turn out to be a complete pain. You then have to spend the rest of the year trying to avoid them. Trust me, it happens!
I’m making a new tape for you and it will be in the post asap. Craig David! Check it out! (This is actually a joke, which you will get when you listen to him.)
I know you want to come down one weekend and that would be awesome. There’s so much I want to show you, Pix, and tell you about. Don’t want to put it down on paper though in case you-know-who snoops through your drawers!
But I’ve got a bit of catching up to do workwise, so it’ll probably have to be after Christmas.
This term seems to be going really quickly. One minute you’re a fresher, the next everyone’s stressing about exams. I have to say, looking back now, school seemed much easier. Enjoy it while you can! At least you don’t have to do your own washing! My radiator is always covered in knickers, Granny B would not approve!
Really looking forward to coming home for Christmas and seeing you all. I might even let Carl win at Monopoly.
Ttfn,
Tons of love and hugs,
S xxxxxxxxx
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jo left a sharp message for Debbie Georgiou. By the time she reached the office she’d also given herself a stern talking to. There was only so much you could do. Then you had to move on. And she was moving on, definitely.
Detective Superintendent Vaizey’s door stood open. She tapped on it. He was on his feet pacing as he talked on the phone; he beckoned her in. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie loose. Jo found it difficult to guess his age, it must be late thirties, but he had the lean broad-shouldered frame of a man who worked hard to keep fit.
Vaizey pointed to a chair. Jo sat down while he continued his call. As she watched him speak she became aware of the fizz of pheromones prickling at the edge of consciousness, producing a tension in her belly. She was annoyed with herself, he wasn’t even that good-looking. Older men, father figures – it was such a cliché, given her history. She focused her attention out of the window: a brick wall and rusting pipework dangling from a corroded bracket. He was almost certainly married.
‘Yeah well, all right, mate. Don’t worry. We’ll sort something out. I’ll let you know. Yeah. You too.’
Hanging up, his gaze zoned in on her. ‘Didn’t expect to see you this soon. Are you sure you’re fit for duty?’
The look was challenging; she forced herself to meet it directly. It almost felt as though he’d changed his mind.
‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, sir.’
‘Okay. Well, I can only take you at your word. You’d better come and meet DS Foley.’
He was out of the door and halfway down the corridor before Jo managed to catch up. She wondered at his response; it was as if her arrival had irritated him, or maybe he was simply busy.
Operation Grebe had a large office suite at one end of the building. They processed a good deal of sensitive intelligence and there was a keypad lock on the door.
Vaizey rapidly reeled off the six-digit code and Jo got the distinct feeling this was a test. But she’d never had much of a problem remembering numbers or facts and figures. Regurgitating details in exams had always proved easy for her. Her brain liked facts. What it resisted were feelings.
Foley had a corner desk, littered with coffee cups and files. He was halfway through a bacon roll, which he put down, dusting off his fingers, as he saw Vaizey approach.
‘Morning, boss.’ He stood up. Matching Vaizey in height but with a barrel chest, he was twice the size.
‘Cal, this is Jo Boden. I mentioned her to you.’
Foley wiped his palm on his trousers and then held it out to shake. ‘Y’alright.’
Jo’s hand was swamped by his meaty paw. ‘Sarge. Really pleased to be joining the team.’
Foley shot his superior officer a quizzical look and then smiled.
Vaizey had his hands on hips. He looked anxious to be off. ‘Do you own your own place?’
Jo shook her head.
‘Never bought a property?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘You’ll soon pick it up. Cal’ll fill you in on the target.’ He gave them a curt nod then he was gone.
Foley picked up his roll and demolished it in two more bites. ‘Grab a pew.’
Jo rolled an adjacent desk chair over and sat down. Foley plonked back in his own chair and scanned her from head to toe. He made no attempt to disguise his scrutiny.
If he hadn’t been wearing a carefully laundered pink shirt and a silk tie with a gold pin, he might have passed for a thug. The bulk was muscle, his bull head was razored to jet black stubble, a narrow sculpted beard traced the contour of his jaw and upper lip. And the ebony eyes never left her face.
He smiled. ‘Quite a smack in the chops you got there. Must smart.’
Jo shrugged. ‘I’ll live.’
Foley smiled again, turned to his computer screen, tapped the keypad and brought up a file. ‘Right, well this is our target. Ivan Rossi.’ Several surveillance shots of a young man in his twenties danced across the screen. ‘No previous. Works in an estate agent’s in Shep
herd’s Bush. London boy, Dad’s Italian, Mum’s Ukrainian. And it’s Mum’s family that’s interesting. She has a brother, known to Interpol, who runs guns obtained from pro-Russian militia out of Donetsk.’
‘You think the nephew’s involved in trying to bring them into the UK?’
‘That’s the theory. And we’re talking about serious armaments here. Assault weapons and semi-automatic rifles of the sort we do not want to fall into the hands of some teenage gangster or wannabe jihadist.’
‘So I’m going to pose as a client, get him to show me a few properties?’
‘The last girl didn’t gel with him at all. We thought she was pretty enough. But maybe he’s picky.’
Jo tilted her head. ‘What are you saying, Sarge? This is a honey-trap?’
Foley chuckled. ‘Call me Cal, everyone else does. I hate Sarge. My old mum, she’s a woman of faith. Church every Sunday without fail. Called me Calvin and my brother Luther. Strong names for Jesus’s army, that’s her theory.’
Jo smiled back but she wasn’t about to be deflected. She already had the feeling that Foley didn’t like her. ‘Aren’t honey-traps illegal?’
‘Are you going to be difficult about this, Jo Boden?’
‘No. I just want to know what I’m being asked to do.’
He laughed again, but the eyes remained cold and hard. ‘You’re being asked to work undercover, to cultivate a target and to use your discretion. I’m not asking you to give him a blow job, if that’s what you want to know.’
Jo found his hostility unnerving. But he abruptly changed tack and grinned. ‘You know how much pressure we’re under here?’
‘Yeah, of course I do. And I’m not trying to be difficult. All I want is to be clear about the parameters.’
‘Fair enough. If I was you, with a nice shiny gong in the offing and my eye on an early promotion, I’d be watching my step too.’
‘Meaning what?’
He smiled and rocked back in his chair. ‘Actually, the boss has a plan. Lateral thinking, he calls it. His speciality. You look like you’ve been smacked about a bit, so we’re going to appeal to Ivan’s better nature. I’ll be playing the role of your abusive boyfriend. The big nasty black bastard – you get the picture? And you’re trying to find yourself a flat to escape me. You desperately need Ivan’s help and will use your injury to win his sympathy and then his trust.’
‘You think he’ll be amenable to that?’
‘Don’t know till we try, do we? That’s the job, Boden. If you’re up for it.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Briony Rowe borrowed a Canon XF305 from a mate who was a freelance cameraman. They helped each other out from time to time and he owed her a favour. She’d edited his latest showreel for him, producing a seamless sequence showcasing every brilliant shot. But, as an editor, that’s what you did: made everyone else’s work look fantastic. Very few people watched a show on the box or walked out of a movie going, Wow, didn’t you just love that editing. Editors were the unsung heroes, holed up in dingy edit suites, eating too many biscuits and getting fat. Briony had done it for ten years, she knew all about it and she’d had enough. Now her name was going above the title. She was a film-maker.
Having spent a year on the research, she knew her project was a winner. She had a hot topic – miscarriages of justice. There was drama, there was emotion and then there was that little sine qua non that cracked it with the broadcasters: this was real. Lives would be changed because of this film. She’d already rehearsed the acceptance speech she’d make on the podium at BAFTA. Unfortunately, it all hinged on the cooperation of Nathan Wade.
She’d met Nathan all those years ago in that faraway first year at uni. She’d noticed him in the library, wearing sunglasses as he browsed the poetry shelves. He looked dreamy and inscrutable with dark flowing locks like one of Georgette Heyer’s Regency bucks. She fell in love with him on the spot. Then she discovered they were all on the same course.
She was the one who’d introduced him to Sarah and they’d giggled over the sunglasses. Sarah joked that he probably thought he was Lord Byron, but she was being sarcastic. What Briony had never admitted to her friend was that to her he was the embodiment of all her teenage romantic fantasies: Lord Worth.
Sarah had teased her about fancying him, then, out of the blue it seemed, Nathan and Sarah were an item. Sarah could’ve had anyone, blokes trailed her like a bitch on heat, so it was more than a little galling when she picked Nathan.
Watching them from afar was exquisite torture for Briony. She imagined their more intimate moments and in an odd way she was glad to have someone as gorgeous as Sarah as her proxy. He loved her madly and extravagantly, that was obvious to Briony, and she came to regard it as fitting. The notion that he could’ve murdered her was absurd. It was a dreadful mistake, a police blunder of monumental proportions. And Briony Rowe always imagined, in the secret recesses of her heart, that one day she’d be the one to set it straight and rescue Nathan.
In order to get the film made Briony needed at least some interest from a reputable production company. She had a couple in mind; she knew a few of the key players because they used the facilities house where she’d trained and worked as an editor. But to get money on the table and secure a commission she was making a short trailer. This would be her pitch.
For budgetary reasons – she had no budget – she was opting to shoot guerrilla style. The crew comprised herself, on camera, and her assistant, a nineteen-year-old film student intern called Kayleigh, lugging the tripod and keeping a lookout. At a later stage she was hoping to inveigle her cameraman buddy into lending her a steadicam rig. But for now they were managing pretty well.
She’d also just received a piece of very welcome news. The Polish bloke who ran the coffee shop where Nathan worked had rung and said that, having given the matter some thought, Nathan had decided he was interested in taking part. This was the breakthrough she needed and a real boost to her flagging self-confidence. On the back of it she’d borrowed the camera, called Kayleigh, loaded her Mini Clubman and headed for Shooters Hill.
Greenwich Cemetery was located on rising ground beside the South Circular between Woolwich and Eltham. Briony had visited it before to search out Sarah Boden’s grave. The marble headstone was plain and tastefully carved with her name and dates plus the innocuous phrase: rest in perfect peace. The Bodens were not a religious family, nor, it seemed, did they favour florid sentimentality to advertise their tragic loss. But the dates – 1981–2000 – spoke for themselves. Sarah Jane Boden was a few months short of her nineteenth birthday when she died.
Briony found it interesting that they’d opted for burial rather than cremation. Maybe they needed something tangible to hang on to, a memorial they could visit. She hadn’t attended the funeral, which was a private family affair.
But Sarah’s murder and the subsequent arrest of Nathan had created a feverish maelstrom on campus. Rapists and murderers were seen to be lurking around every corner. The university authorities had moved swiftly to contain the hysteria and panic, counselling was offered. Briony was so upset that her tutor advised her to go home immediately, which she did. It was the news that Nathan Wade had been charged with murder that precipitated her breakdown. Her whole world had simply split apart. She didn’t emerge from her room for months. Only later did her failure to speak up come to haunt her. But by then it was too late.
Briony finally returned to university a year later and completed her degree whilst on antidepressants. Her experience of university and indeed her subsequent career had never really lived up to her youthful expectations. She was thirty-five, single and had become accustomed to disappointment. But she’d also learnt to simply get on with things, her nature was optimistic and she was currently doing an online course with an inspiring American guru on how to access your mind at the quantum level and reprogram it for success.
The Mini Clubman drove through the cemetery gates shortly after they opened at nine. On a cold January
day the place was completely deserted but Briony had a plan, should anyone challenge them. The cemetery contained a number of fallen servicemen from both world wars. Her cover story was that she was making a historical documentary on them and had the permission of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission to film.
In the event, no one bothered them. They set up the camera and got some fantastic general shots down towards the river; it was a bright morning with a chilly blue sky. The smog and air pollution that had plagued the London basin for weeks had been blown away by a change in wind direction. There was enough breeze to shake the skeletal trees, which, together with the spiky towers of the City hedging the skyline, provided the perfect backdrop. The graveyard itself was a quiet enclave full of crumbling Gothic angels, tilting crosses and various other funereal monstrosities, which Briony shot at alarming angles. They’d make a great montage.
Once they moved on to the actual grave, Briony framed a series of carefully composed shots. Later, once she’d secured his cooperation, she would film Nathan against a green screen and slot him into the graveside sequences in the edit. This would be the trailer that would sell the project – the pilgrimage of an innocent man to his murdered lover’s grave.
She would cut in some emotional close-ups of Nathan’s face. The years had not been kind to him, the handsome boy he once was had disappeared. He was thirty-five, like her, but looked much older; his hair was prematurely grey and balding, thinning strands replacing youthful curls. His eyes had a watchful stare and his cheeks were gaunt. A life destroyed by a terrible injustice; those eyes would look perfect on a nice big poster at tube stations.
The grave itself was well-tended and planted with pink and white hellebores now in full winter bloom. Briony was crouched right down beside it, panning across from an individual pure white petal to the cold marble headstone, which was why she didn’t see Alison Boden approaching.
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