It was a primitive response to patrol the flat – checking the doors and the windows. Walking through to the bathroom – her eyes on the mirror. Peggy’s name written over and over in lipstick when she’d been drunk. JP had once accused her of being obsessed with Peggy. But then JP came from a big Irish-Catholic family who loved each other as much as they drove each other crazy. He didn’t know what it was to have no one to love you, no one to love. Honor did though, and it was a lonely place to be. Peggy mattered. She was the only family Honor had. Her chosen family, and without Peggy, Honor had nothing to hold her together. It had taken her years to get past the tragedy of her parents. Suffering. Tears. Choosing to smile and nod, all the while feeling like she’d been obliterated. Like she wasn’t even there. Peggy saw past all of it, reaching into the cold darkness and bringing Honor back to life. Yes, Honor owed Peggy a great deal. She thought back to the video – she couldn’t help herself. Ned’s rodent teeth and auburn hair. Like a red squirrel. His self-conscious, self-important warning. His final words. She’d barely registered them at first.
That if he himself disappeared. She should run.
Because Ned Fellowes was dead. And Peggy Boland was gone.
So where did that leave Honor Jones?
Only then did she think to look.
In the darkness of her bedroom as next door’s baby wailed behind the party wall, she stayed at the window for three hours before she sensed rather than saw his shape in the shadows of the empty house opposite and two doors down.
There was a man outside her flat – standing in the lee of the doorway where it was darkest. And Honor was of the opinion he intended to kill her.
Her iPhone in her hand, she almost gave in then, almost pressed 999. An intruder. A burglar. A stalker. The call in from a lone female – an MP no less. The police would come, but as soon as the watcher heard a siren, glimpsed a blue light, he would melt away, disappear into the shadows and the brickwork. And if she called the police, she would lose the only clue she had – the stranger waiting for his chance to kill her.
He was good. She was prepared to admit, even admire, the killer’s patience and professionalism. But she could be patient too.
For years she played chess against her father.
And Honor Jones possessed an advantage the stranger knew nothing about, because Honor Jones never saw the world as a safe place. For her, it had always been a place of monsters.
Only when she decided her plan of action, did she take a blanket from the bed and go back through to the lounge, switching off her lights to stretch out fully dressed on the couch.
As the mantelpiece clock ticked away the minutes, she could feel him out there – waiting.
She feared him. Of course she did. He was a stranger who meant her harm and she wasn’t a reckless fool. The urge came on her again to call for help. Was this too much for her to handle alone? She pulled herself up, balancing on her elbow, her hand reaching out for the phone then flung herself down, clutching the blanket, dragging it up to her chin, burrowing in it to try and warm herself and stop the shivering. She was made of sterner stuff – wasn’t she?
Then again, she could go to her upstairs neighbour, Hugh. Naked. Dishevelled. A maiden distressed. In need of comfort. Knock on his door, slide into his bed. His surprise. Warm reassuring hands over her body. Ensnaring him. Hugh looked like he could handle himself. The broken nose, the broken little finger cocked at some bizarre angle which he’d explained away to her one day boasting of schoolboy rugby and glory on the field. But no, it would be wrong to put this on him.
JP Armitage was older than Hugh, older than her, but she didn’t mind that. He had a personal trainer, worked out to keep his belly flat, watched what he ate – high protein, low carbs, barely any alcohol. However youthful JP kept himself though, Peggy warned her that sleeping with him was a mistake. But it was such a little thing to do for him and he was so keen, so extraordinarily grateful for her attention. He worked her, she knew that, over the years; pulling her in with his devotion, his power and status. The alpha-male. The ultimate father figure, but one she could control this time. One who loved her more than she loved him, because it was altogether safer that way.
Strange what your mind turns to, sliding between sleep and wakefulness, when death looms. The fact she should write a note to Ned’s family, and what to say. Peggy of course. Where she was right this second, and what else she could do to find her. If she only had the time to do it. And she thought about her mother. Her smile. When she woke the last time, she was suddenly awake, fully awake, aside from the fact she thought her mother called out her name in warning.
Chapter 5
LONDON
5.32am. Tuesday, 7th November
It was damp and bitter – the street lights still on – and Honor yawned as she walked down the path, but it was out of fear rather than tiredness. A cigarette and matches were already tucked into the sock. Earbuds hung from her ears, the wire taped to her skin under the running vest, and the jack unplugged so she could hear him coming. She kept her gaze straight ahead, resisting the impulse to stare into the doorway where she knew he stood. If only Hugh had done what he always threatened to do, got up to run with her. If she turned back, if she screamed, Hugh might yet hear and the watcher would go away. Surely it was better to live another day?
But then again, the watcher might harm Hugh, and she didn’t want that. This was her fight – not his.
As much to convince herself as because she was ready, she pulled open the gate and set off. There was no point running away from danger. Her mother taught her that much, because you never could run fast enough.
For the first 100 paces she allowed herself to hope, allowed herself to think that she called it wrong and that Ned’s hysteria had infected her, when not a noise so much as a vibration across the water brought her back to reality.
It was hard to tell without looking back, but she judged him to be a quarter of a mile behind her, and closing. She could feel the blood pump faster in her chest, and as she breathed in, she imagined him breathing out, in and out, drawing deeper as she did. It was too intimate, and she hated him for it.
She felt him close again. Her stride was shorter than his and timing everything. Her breath grew more ragged and a sweat broke out on her forehead. She wasn’t as fit as he was but she was fitter than most, fitter than he would expect.
He was almost on her, fifty paces between them she reckoned, when she kicked up her heels, pushing herself. Flying.
Briefly, she considered hurdling the railing and disappearing into the undergrowth, but he’d catch her and strangle her in the dank foliage amid the tinnies and used condoms. She resisted the temptation to hide from him. Committed. Focused. Locked on.
The bench stood further down the path than she remembered. The seat, lichened green and slick with dew, and as she sat the dampness ate through her jogging pants and settled in the marrow of her bones. She pulled the cigarette out of her sock and stuck a match. He wasn’t a stalker or a psychopath, she reminded herself. He wasn’t deranged and this wasn’t personal. Honor was relying on the fact that civilization was built on reason. Reason and money. She fought the urge to shake compulsively.
Smoke filled her lungs – curling up from her mouth as she watched the path. Bring it on, she thought.
He was bigger than she expected – taller and broader – in a dark fleece and jogging pants. From last night, she thought he’d be a small man made for cracks and shadows, but he was huge. He broke his stride, stopped. His eyes locked on to hers and she felt a moment’s electric triumph at the dumb shock in them. Hunter and hunted. Which was which?
She pulled first one bud and then the other from her ears. If she was going to die, she chose to die on her terms – facing him down. Nobody’s victim. But she didn’t want to die. Not today. Not this morning. Because there were things she had to do – like find Peggy.
“I have to finish the cigarette.” With the tip of her thumb nail she flicked ash
from the barrel on to the damp ground, and behind the trees, there was a squawking and clattering, as birds rose from the unseen lake up into the air.
He stood still – his left hand bunched into a loose fist, the right flat along his thigh. She couldn’t see a weapon but she knew he carried one.
He was six feet away and it came to her that she could still run. Twenty feet beyond the shadowed, mossy bench lay open ground, and she might be lucky. A passing policeman? A dog-walker? But she wasn’t going to run. That wasn’t the plan. Instead, Honor stretched out her left arm along the bench, studiedly casual. It was important not to show fear, because fear invited violent men to do their worst – excited them to frenzy – she’d known that since she was a child.
Inhaling. Fire devouring the fragile paper and packed tobacco. She didn’t want him seeing the tremble in her fingers so she flicked the cigarette on to the ground. Vile habit – smoking – she should give up before it killed her. Peggy was always telling her.
With a smokey sigh, she stood to face him. Younger than she’d expected – younger than her anyway – a powerful jaw, his face chiselled but brutal. Was he too young to put any value on life?
“I was warned you’d come and I didn’t believe it,” she said. Her executioner was all she could see now, all that was left of her world. “Have you been sent to kill me?”
It was strange to think she could be dead within seconds. She wondered if Ned had known he was about to die. Hoped not.
But Honor wasn’t Ned Fellowes, and she wasn’t an innocent. Her killer might not realise it yet but she was his opponent, his enemy in whatever game they were playing. Control had slipped from his hands to hers. And she was playing her hand to win. Because if she was right, Peggy needed her and Peggy was worth the risk she was taking. Worth any risk.
Honor took a step closer. Her hand reaching out to him. If she could only make a connection.
“Where’s Peggy?”
A reasonable question, but the stranger didn’t respond and his silence infuriated her. She put her hands on her hips – her feet apart. Filling the space. Owning it. Making herself bigger.
“You’re going to kill me because I’m looking for her, aren’t you? That’s the only possible explanation for you standing here. Which means you must know where she is. Tell me. Please.”
She tried to reach into him for what she needed.
Peggy. North had seen the name written on her mirror. Was Peggy the reason he had to kill her?
He didn’t know.
All he knew was that Tarn needed Honor dead. Tarn’s hand on his knee.
“She’s dangerous and she’s too much of a risk to leave out there. Honor Jones threatens everything.”
Why come out all alone into the deep, dark woods?
Because of Peggy.
Because she wanted to ask him that question.
Need, he thought. What it must be to need someone enough to stake your own life on it. He hadn’t needed anyone in the longest time.
“Where’s Peggy?” He didn’t mean to, but he thought she saw it anyway, the tiniest shake of his head, a flicker in the downturn of his mouth. He had no idea where Peggy was. He had no idea who she was. Honor Jones took another step closer to him. She wasn’t trembling any more. Her pupils were wide and black.
“Whoever you are, mister.” She jabbed the air. “Whatever this is. It’s wrong, and you must know that at least.”
She gathered herself, and he had the impression she was reining in an impulse to take hold of him and shake him apart till he bled, or wept, or disappeared to nothingness. She was tiny – there was nothing of her, and he beat back his own instinct to smile.
Tiny beads of perspiration on her upper lip. The scent of fresh smoke and mint on her breath. She was near enough to take her and kill her where she stood. But he wanted to hear what she had to say.
“Don’t kill me. Do the right thing. Maybe for the first time in your life.” She didn’t like him. “Help me find her.”
He’d sworn an oath.
He’d killed any number of bad men. Often they knew what was coming. Sometimes they didn’t. But at the point of death, they thought only of themselves. They knew their crimes. Honor Jones thought only of her friend, and he sensed no guilt.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to die. It was an order, he told himself. And he was duty-bound to follow it. Tarn made that clear.
His fingers found the ridged handle of the knife.
The bullet in his head would kill him sooner rather than later, North knew that. He didn’t know if the fact he believed Honor was innocent was down to his intuition or because the bullet had driven him mad. She was frightened but not for herself, and she was grieving.
As North heard the birdsong, a fragile pink and pale gold streaked the London sky and the dusty blackbirds and mottled thrushes seemed to wake at the same moment.
His weight on the balls of his feet.
Forty-two seconds.
He sensed Honor brace, steady herself, and he felt her sigh, smelling the citrus notes of her mixed with smoke, only after he’d passed her by.
He released his grip on the knife.
Intuition or insanity? North wasn’t killing Honor Jones MP today or any other day.
Chapter 6
WESTMINSTER, LONDON
9.10am. Tuesday, 7th November
God, she needed a cigarette. Every time she thought about that man, she started trembling. Honor took a sip of the black coffee which she’d let get cold and glanced towards the entrance.
No pass-holder walking in off the Embankment gained access to the foyer without holding a lanyard against the electronic reader which released the revolving glass doors. Through security – the X-ray machine, bodily pat-down and physical inspection of bags – no visitor gained access to the bustling atrium, without a pass-holder on the other side of the glass doors ready to meet them. She could see some young guy now, patting his pockets, gesturing with his hands. She was guessing he’d lost his official pass. They wouldn’t let him in – he would have to call a colleague down to vouch for him, before they wrote him out a day pass. Yes, she made the right call – she was safer in the Commons than at home, and safer again in a public space than in her office.
In the open-plan café, Honor shifted the table so that it was set square on to the knee-high wall rather than on the diagonal like all the others. Next to the tables, a bank of fig trees shaded customers as if they were in a Paris park instead of under the arching glass and ironwork dome of the MPs’ offices at Portcullis House.
She settled her Macbook towards the edge of the wood, her cup to one side, and her iPhone on top of a pile of Commons papers she’d picked up from the Vote Office. She nudged everything again, and only then did she settle.
This morning was a Hail Mary and it hadn’t worked. Stake herself out in a clearing to see what terrible beast came out of the jungle to devour her. Then catch it and tame it.
Shaking her head, she stared at the laptop’s blank screen. What was she thinking? She was lucky he hadn’t torn her limb from limb.
Or did she get it wrong?
Honor stared up into the canopy of leaves, as she considered the idea the runner this morning was just that. Blameless. Some young jogger who headed into the office with a tale of escaping a lunatic woman who accosted him in the park.
But if that was the case, wouldn’t he have run past her? Before she started talking?
Honor struggled to remember if she blocked his path while she fired her questions. Tried to recall the look in his eye as she challenged him to kill her. Did he even speak English? He hadn’t said a word. Was the entire encounter a hideous over-reaction to Peggy going off-grid, and poor Ned and his conspiracy theories?
The police believed her for all of five minutes. The sergeant frowned with concern that she’d been followed on her morning run. He scribbled away. The time. The park. The description. But his writing slowed when she mentioned Ned being murdered. Stopped when
she talked about Peggy disappearing. Eventually, he took her in to an interview room, provided her with a polystyrene cup of sugary tea and 20 minutes after that, a hard-faced detective came in to inform her that Ned left a suicide note. In his pocket. No, there was no return train ticket. Only a single – Newcastle to London. Honor was confident that she wouldn’t have been told that much if she wasn’t an MP. As for Peggy, yes, their Northumbria Police colleagues had Honor’s concerns on record up in Newcastle. Was there anything else they could help the honourable member with? The detective glanced at her watch as she asked.
But it was real, she knew it.
Ned wasn’t suicidal. She had seen the ticket and she’d heard his plans to meet a girl called Jess the next day.
She shuddered as she thought back to the runner who’d followed her into the woods, the set of his jaw, the narrowed eyes. He was going to kill her – she knew it. But for some reason, he changed his mind.
And if the stranger came for her this morning, time was running out.
Ned said there were others missing. Not just Peggy, and she dismissed it as a paranoid delusion.
He also said don’t search the internet.
The green light of the camera flickered above her screen as she booted up the laptop. Did that usually happen? She couldn’t remember. Her fingers went to her lips. Hesitating.
Chapter 7
LONDON
9.10am. Tuesday, 7th November
If he didn’t kill Honor, someone would – and soon. He hadn’t rung in to confirm the termination.
Plus they would be all over her laptop and phone.
As North watched, occasionally the MP for Mile End picked up her cup as if it didn’t have a handle, and took a mouthful of coffee. North knew it was cold because she wrinkled her nose every time. Once or twice, a researcher or a fellow member glanced across from the snaking queue at the café bar, but he figured the tension, the concentrated way she leaned her head on her hand, her elbow on the table, walled her off from casual approach. She raised her head to look up into the trees as if she was thinking hard, then went back to staring at the computer screen before closing the lid to draw a pile of paperwork closer. North didn’t think she was reading it.
Killing State Page 4