Killing State

by Judith O'Reilly

  “You’re a long way from home, Ned, honey.”

  Over the steaming cup, his nose twitched at the mention of home. His eyes were a clear amber peeping out from under his russet hair. He had waxed the tips of his moustache she realised, the curling ends spiralling in on themselves like an old-fashioned strongman.

  There was a chink as he put the cup back in its saucer. He’d drained it.

  “Two hundred and eighty-three miles.” He grinned at her and then looked away – the grin quick and furtive behind the beard, one front-tooth lying over the edge of the other. “It took three hours and 13 minutes. That’s 11 minutes longer than the average journey. I asked the guard whose name was Peter and he attributed the difference to ‘signalling at Peterborough’.”

  There was an old-fashioned ringing which got louder as he pulled his mobile from his pocket, and his train ticket fluttered to the floor.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow, Jess. I told you.”

  Honor bent to pick up the ticket, sliding it back across the table to him.

  Silence.

  “Leave it up there. I’ll clean down the whole thing when I come in.” Silence. “I know you do.”

  He put his phone down and shook his head as if to clear it of the distraction that was Jess, before reaching across to grip Honor’s forearm.

  She bit her tongue to stop herself from yelping in protest.

  “Ms Jones, you’re an important person.”

  Close up, his crossed-over teeth looked sharp and the twitching nose reminded her of a rodent.

  “No.” With her free hand, Honor removed Ned’s hand from her forearm. He sported a thick red rubber band on his wrist she noticed. “I’m an MP – a public servant. You’re every bit as important.”

  “But you know the Prime Minister. You talk to her. You meet with her. You need to tell her that citizens are disappearing. She’d want to know.” Ned sat forward on the edge of his chair, his hands clasping and unclasping. Long bony fingers with bitten-down nails. “Every day. There. Gone.” Ned snapped his thumb and middle finger together as he had before, and this time there was a loud dry report like gunfire.

  What had Peggy said about him? He’d been sectioned because he posed a risk to himself, not to others. Please God, he was harmless.

  Honor gestured at a passing waiter that she wanted the bill, scribbling in the air with an imaginary pen, and Ned’s voice became more urgent. She took a mouthful of the flinty wine as she glanced at her watch – calculating when she could leave. Five past ten – she’d give him another five minutes. Was he having another breakdown? Should she persuade him to ring back this Jess-person, and then talk to Jess herself?

  Evidence compelled him to the conclusion, he said, that 33 citizens had disappeared. Honor could help. She was part of the Establishment, and that was useful. It might make all the difference. He needed official protection, and he knew he could rely on her. Meanwhile, he would do everything he could to find the disappeared, and he would keep in close touch with Honor and the Prime Minister – provide them with regular reports. Oral or written, whichever they preferred.

  “Trust no one, Ms Jones.” His hand rose to his beard and he pulled and tugged it, glancing about. The Middle Eastern businessmen long gone. “Don’t talk to anyone about this apart from me. It’s not safe.” He placed a memory stick in a plastic wallet on the table between them. “This explains everything.”

  Poor sweet Ned. Was he down in London on his own? Did he have anywhere to sleep tonight? His family was in Newcastle. Why was he even down here?

  “Ned can I call someone for you? Jess maybe? Is Jess worried about you?”

  He looked at her – stricken. There was a pause. A heartbeat. Two before, wailing, he slammed the heel of his hand against his temple. Honor pulled at his arm, rocking the table as he struggled to hit himself again and again, and the empty wine glass crashed to the ground, smashing into a million pieces.

  “Stupid Ned,” he whispered. Dropping his head, curved over on himself, he rocked back and forth before his fingers went to the rubber band on his wrist. He snapped it – once, twice, three times. And again – three times. A red line appeared on his pale skin as he lifted his head to lock eyes with her.

  He was calm. At peace.

  The waiter hurried towards them. A brush and pan in one hand, the bill in the other, but she held up her palm to stop him coming further. The waiter glanced towards the uniformed concierge standing behind the desk, and the concierge moved out.

  “I haven’t made myself clear Ms Jones. Peggy is in trouble. She’s been taken. They have her. She’s one of the disappeared. I should have said that at the start.”

  A hole opened up at the centre of Honor. In her chest cavity she could feel the pounding beat of her heart.

  “Ned, Peggy is working on something and is off-grid so she can concentrate. She sent me a text.”

  The text leapt into Honor’s mind as she picked up her bag. “Working on something big sweetie. Need head-space. Will be in touch as soon as I can. Peggyx.”

  The dismissal.

  Loss.

  Ned’s hands flapped in denial. “That’s what they do.” His nose twitched and his voice grew louder in the sudden quiet of the atrium. “What they say. ‘I’m away’.” He snapped at his band. “ ‘I’m on holiday’.” He kept snapping. “ ‘There’s been a bereavement in the family’. ‘I’m on a deadline. Sorry to cancel’. ‘Will get back to you. It might be a while’.

  That’s ‘Them’.” Finally, the band snapped. The two pieces flying in opposite directions, but Ned didn’t notice. “Did you see Peggy? Did she ring you after the text? I know she didn’t, because I’m telling you Honor – she’s gone.”

  Ned was a paranoid lunatic. Honor’s heart started to race. She’d couldn’t draw breath. Had forgotten how. She needed air. She had to get back to the reception and JP, almost stepping on the silk hem in her haste to stand. Poor Ned. He had to be off his meds.

  He slid the small plastic wallet over the table towards her. Afterwards, she thought she picked it up because he used her name. For the first time. Used it as if she was a friend who owed him that much courtesy. She opened the sparkling evening bag, tossing in the wallet. Nauseous. Irritation rising hard and fast. Not at rabbity Ned with his rubber band and his twitches and his Asperger’s. At bloody Peggy. Needing space to work on something big. It was the most inconsiderate thing she had ever done, because it wasn’t just Honor she’d abandoned – it was everybody. It was Ned. She wanted to scream. To weep. When Peggy did make contact, Honor was going to bollock her from here to Kingdom Come.

  Chapter 14

  WESTMINSTER

  A Little Later

  He was being followed. By the Embankment, Ned was convinced of it. A tiny woman in a camel coat sliding out of a doorway to trip-trap behind him, but as Ned slowed his pace, considering his options of escape, she lunged past him, almost running, into the open arms of a beaming overweight man in a pin-striped suit.

  He’d relaxed then. Stopping to watch the fat man lift his companion, swinging her round, the coat flying out behind her, one heel falling to the ground. The camel-coat woman picked up the shoe, leaning on the fat man to slip it on to her foot before tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. Together they walked to the river’s edge. Whistling, Ned climbed the concrete steps. As his reward, he would find a Domino’s and order a hot chilli beef pizza with mushrooms and smuggle it through hotel reception to eat while he watched the news. He’d ask them to leave it uncut, because he preferred to cut it himself.

  Nine identical slices. Otherwise he couldn’t eat it. Yes – the trip down had been hard, but he’d done what he set out to do. Asked Honor Jones MP for help. Told her what was going on. Given her the memory key. She didn’t believe him at first, but that was all right. He didn’t expect her to. He got upset, but he calmed himself the way he’d been taught. When he told her about Peggy, she left straight away to take action. He made the right decision talking to he
r. After he had eaten the ninth and final slice of pizza, he’d ring Jess. Tell her all about it.

  He was still thinking about Jess when the man barged into him knocking him against the stone wall of Westminster Bridge. Still thinking of her smile as the world turned upside down and he was falling. Still thinking about her till he stopped thinking at all.

  Chapter 15

  LONDON

  1.55pm. Tuesday, 7th November

  Settling into the tan leather seat and snapping the seatbelt into place in the silver Porsche Carrera GT, Honor ran her fingertips along the shining dashboard.

  North revved the engine, whistled in appreciation, and Honor groaned.

  “This isn’t your car, is it? You stole it.” She pulled her hand back like the dashboard burnt her.

  In the scheme of everything he did before, during, or since leaving the Army, stealing a car was the least of it. She must know that.

  “And you’re an accessory,” he glanced across at her, raising his eyebrows as they swung out from the gloom of the hospital’s underground carpark, up the ramp and into the heavy traffic all without stopping or his hand leaving the ball-topped gear lever. “Plus, you are suicidal and mentally unbalanced. It was all over the news.”

  The hospital wasn’t happy when she discharged herself – the panicking nurses summoned a consultant. North told them he was her brother which was the only thing stopping them from barricading the door. He was as dark as Honor was fair and twice her size – they made for an unlikely brother-sister combo, but he put his arm around her and she laid her head against his chest as if posing for a picture for the family Christmas Card. “My brother and I on suicide watch – Merry Christmas and festive greetings.”

  The bow-tied consultant arrived at a trot, spluttering about psych evaluations and “systems” to put in place. Honor heard him out, asked his opinion on the new health insurance system, shook his hand and walked out anyway – North lifted his electronic key fob first. They’d passed a couple of New Army soldiers as they’d slipped out of the door the ambulances used in A&E. North couldn’t prove it, but he was willing to bet they were heading for guard duty outside Honor’s ward. There had to be some perks to being a major shareholder in the New Army. Even if he didn’t believe a word Honor said, JP wanted journalists kept out and visitors kept to a minimum till he claimed her.

  With three times the horsepower of a normal car, the Porsche could do more than 200 miles per hour. North pressed his foot lightly against the accelerator and the racer responded immediately with a throaty roar. He was tempted to keep it. If he had to die, behind the wheel of a Porsche Carrera seemed as good a way as any. But an alert was probably out on it already. Even if the consultant didn’t yet know it was missing, the Board would check the CCTV in the immediate aftermath of Honor’s discharge from the ward.

  No Porsche then – but he still had options. There were three cars in lock-ups around London, a turbo-charged Mini convertible in Stoke Newington, a Jaguar XJ Supersport in Notting Hill and a V8 Range Rover in Rotherhithe. The Jaguar? Too flashy. The Mini wouldn’t do. Which left the Range Rover.

  Hands on the wheel, not too fast, not too slow, his eyes watching for pursuers, North did the calculations. The Board was looking for him. He was reluctant to take the job – only agreeing under pressure. They knew he didn’t kill Honor – worse yet, their other operative ended up dead in her bathroom. Honor was a good talker, but it was doubtful she talked a 15-stone goon into drowning himself and then cutting his own throat. Which meant she had help. Plus, they knew he’d found his own photograph and his own green-inked name. So the Board wasn’t just looking for her. They were looking for him.

  The lock-up down the cobbled alley and just off the main drag didn’t look much on the outside – it didn’t even merit a padlock. But in this part of London a padlock proved as much an invitation to the criminally minded as a deterrent. It did however possess a state of the art nine-pin lock.

  The pounding beat of gangsta rap started up somewhere close, the bass rumble loud enough to shake windows out of frames, and cursing, North leaned into the damp wood of the double-doors, bracing himself against the puddled road for purchase. Along the alley, a figure appeared, then another, the hoodied silhouettes lit by the orange flare of flames from a metal brazier. A grinding as the doors gave, frayed and splintering hems scraping against the broken-up concrete floor and splintered glass.

  On Jamaica Road, the lads gathered in the rain, readying themselves for a night of trouble ahead. North didn’t know the cause. Joblessness? Anti-immigration? Islam? Anti-Islam? No one needed a reason these days.

  North risked a quick look towards the end of the alley. They needed to leave before the boys got down to the serious business of burning out corner shops and lobbing bricks at riot police. As one of the lads turned his head and shouted, North pushed Honor into the darkness of the garage and half-threw her into the Range Rover. Rounding the bonnet, his hand against the cold, smooth metal, in the lit-up interior behind the glass of the windscreen, Honor sat complaining at his rough handling – her mouth, opening and closing. Politicians – they never knew when to shut up.

  The gang appeared in force, skidding to a halt, swinging themselves around the open doors as he slid the key into the ignition and pressed the accelerator to the floor, flinging Honor back into the passenger seat, her arms spread either side of her and the youths scattered. Who doesn’t like a few easy pickings? But they weren’t going to get themselves run over before the fun began. In the rearview mirror, the lads were turning their attention to the Porsche. To steal or to burn? To drive or to destroy? Everyday dilemmas for the modern delinquent. He hoped for the car’s sake, they would drive her, because if they did, surely they wouldn’t be able to stick an oily rag into her petrol tank, light it, and watch her burn?

  “You nearly killed those boys.”

  He fought an urge to stop the car, open the door, and push Honor out. Smiling at his irritation, she settled into her seat, angling it so that her body turned towards him, folding one bare leg under her, stretching out the other – he tried not to look. Theirs was a professional dynamic he reminded himself, unusual but professional.

  “Tell me about Ned Fellowes,” he said.

  “I told you.”

  “Did he really give you this?” He pulled the memory key out from his pocket and she snatched it from his fingers. “I didn’t steal it. You dropped it when you took your early bath.”

  She quietened, either at the reassurance or the mention of her near-death experience. He didn’t know which. He had killed a man for her. Given up his way of life, because she stood in a park and made him believe she was an innocent. Surely, he was entitled to know what this was all about.

  “A woman I once met, told me trust cuts both ways.”

  He gestured to the glove compartment and she opened it. Inside was a small computer

  Her fear of letting go, her suspicion flooded him. His own face staring at her as he’d stared in the park, ugly, cold, ready to kill her. But that was then.

  “How do I know this isn’t some long con you’re playing, North?” Her eyes were enormous in her face. “You could be using me.”

  “Back at you.”

  She studied the key in her hand. Ned’s earnest face. Russet hair. “Don’t trust anyone.

  Apart from me.” But he was dead.

  She pushed the key into the tablet. The screen went from green to black and finally to a small box, antennae waving on top of it like an old-fashioned TV, the white Play arrow obscuring the face behind it. Honor clicked on it.

  The young man’s voice was scratchy. A Geordie accent. North recognised him immediately – Ned Fellowes. He slowed, turning his head to avoid a roadside camera. The rain was heavy and set to get worse. According to the forecast, winds would kick in around Yorkshire and travellers were advised to stay at home unless their journeys were strictly necessary. He counted staying alive as entirely necessary.

  Honor sat with
out moving, but on screen, Ned couldn’t sit still – his rabbity nose twitched every few seconds, as if he scented danger. His hand went up to his beard which he stroked. Attempting to self-sooth, North judged.

  “To my certain knowledge, Ms Jones, 33 people are missing.”

  North grimaced and the young man twitched furiously as if sensing his scepticism.

  “I say 33 because I have proof of it, and I include, of course, our mutual friend Peggy Boland. I suspect, however, there are more.” The nose twitched again. “I know for a fact Peggy is missing, because I was across her emails and, indeed, all communications.”

  Ned did not appear embarrassed at this confession. As far as he was concerned, this was objective evidence in his case.

  “Dr Boland had no plans to travel. Indeed, she had 51 commitments including teaching, research and social events that she failed to honour on, or after, October the 9th. Among them a doctor’s appointment and a dental check-up, four choir rehearsals and a trip to the theatre. She offered no explanation, gave no notice, sent no apologies.”

  Honor’s finger pressed pause, and Ned’s rodent face stalled.

  “He was stalking her.”

  “I got that,” North said.

  As if he heard them, Ned leaned in towards the camera.

  “Dr Boland is my friend. Friendship is a responsibility I take seriously as I know you do Ms Jones, which is why I hope you’ll understand. Why you won’t think badly of me.

  “Three weeks ago, Peggy’s email password changed. Indeed, all her passwords changed. Peggy hasn’t changed her password for two years, four months and six days. Naturally, I wondered why she’d do such a thing, and it occurred to me Peggy had found out I’d taken what she might regard as too close an interest. When I attempted to make contact with her to explain, I was told she’d left the country. This struck me as – unlikely. Peggy’s absence…”. He hesitated as if reluctant to say the word. “…disturbed me. Lowered my mood. Doctors tell me in these circumstances that I have to take action to bring myself round rather than become ‘overwhelmed’. The action I decided to take was to find Dr Boland.”