Killing State

by Judith O'Reilly

  “Peggy wants you and the children here, Sonja. Don’t be going anywhere. She’ll be back – I’m sure of it.”

  Sonja bowed her head and her hand slipped away from Honor, her index finger blotting tears, not allowing them to fall. The toddler’s arms around her neck – his cheek against hers, and across the room, Honor bit the inside of her lip till it bled.

  It was Rahim who ushered her upstairs after she’d finished her coffee, as if he wanted her to see for herself that Peggy was gone.

  On the landing, Honor emptied out her own pockets. Mac. Jacket. Jeans. £150. The parents were sleeping in the study, the children in the guest bedroom where she herself normally stayed. Honor pushed open the door, and left the notes on a pillow. She’d have to figure out what more she could do for the family when she got back to London.

  Holding her breath, she entered Peggy’s bedroom. Please, please let her be there.

  Sweetpea!

  But the room was empty.

  Honor sat down on the side of the bed and there was a bark as a scrawny greyhound shot from under the bedframe, heading for the door, his frantic claws scrabbling against the floorboards.

  “Jansky,” Honor called, but he wasn’t stopping. Her heart pounded. He was a rescue greyhound. Kept hungry so he’d run, all set for the knacker’s yard when he stopped catching the hares. A neurotic bag of bones Peggy said, but she loved him all the same. She took him everywhere. Even to work.

  Peggy’s office was on the third floor of a massive concrete and glass building that housed the physics department of Newcastle University. Honor knew that much from a previous visit. Ned was dead. Peggy wasn’t home. But perhaps she was on a simple study trip, and perhaps her work would know all about it?

  The departmental secretary seemed as good a place as any to start.

  The door was open. Almost hidden behind a towering wall of paperwork, a pinch-faced woman in a knitted tabard and a matching olive-green blouse hammered at her keyboard. Smaller piles of paperwork were stacked on the adjoining windowsill along with an ugly cactus in a chipped mug without a handle. Teetering on the edge of the desk as if considering whether to jump, was a brass nameplate engraved with the words Anne Craggs.

  Over 13 years, Honor had never heard Peggy express dislike for anyone – with the singular exception of JP. Peggy had made it very clear she had no time for JP Armitage. The most she said about the secretary was she thought she had a difficult home life.

  Honor attempted to channel Peggy’s patience as she explained who she was and why she was there as the woman continued to type.

  “Professor Boland upped and left.” Sniffing, the secretary reached for a handkerchief tucked into the sleeve of her blouse, the corner just visible like the nose of a white mouse. “No notice. And a great deal of work for everybody.”

  Especially her, she meant.

  “‘The ‘department’”, the woman said it as if it was a sacred thing, “had to pull together. I was required to redraft timetables. There was – disruption.”

  A second greyer handkerchief appeared and sniffing again, Mrs Craggs mopped at her nose as it ran with clear water, before crumpling it and stuffing it back up the other sleeve.

  “Do you have any idea where she’s gone?” The cactus was dying, Honor noticed.

  “Chile.”

  The secretary spat the word out. Heat. Glamour. Advancement. Exoticism. None of which could ever be hers. Honor understood the other woman’s envy, but it didn’t make her want to slap Mrs Craggs any less – violence flaring like a lit match tossed into a pool of petrol. Her own anger frightening Honor – making her think of her father.

  Honor kept her voice relaxed. Smiled. Charming. Perhaps she could see the letter of resignation?

  Mrs Craggs moved aside a photograph frame of three weasel-faced children to paw at the stacks of paperwork on her desk. Slid open a drawer full of sinus medication and chocolate wrappers. Closed it again. She didn’t think so. That would be against departmental policy. Sniffing, she offered Honor the suspicion of a smirk and Honor fought the temptation to embrace her genetic heritage, take hold of the letter opener on the desk and stab her to death.

  But she had come for more than Mrs Craggs.

  Honor started at one end of the corridor and knocked at every door. The first four were empty.

  Emeritus Professor Dr John A. Swann’s door was already wide open, a frail voice instructing her to Come right in, fear no evil as she raised her fist to knock. Behind an immense iMac, the professor’s head tilted to one side to peer at her with interest – his spine curved over into the shape of the letter C.

  John Swann. Johnny is my darling, Peggy said once. If he was seventy years younger, I’d marry him tomorrow. Why – how old is he? Honor asked her. Big Bang old, Peggy said.

  Beckoning Honor in, the tiny professor reversed back from his desk, his right hand on the gear stick of the motorized wheelchair, the arthritic fingers gnarled and set at a 45 degree angle.

  “What an unexpected delight.”

  As he manoeuvred himself around the desk it was hard to see the professor’s face in full, but he appeared to be beaming. Puttering to a halt in front of his desk, he reached out to close the door with a slim rubber-tipped cane.

  “I have the advantage, Miss Jones, because I recognise you from the news, and because Peggy so often talks about you.”

  Honor blinked back at the kindness. It wouldn’t do to cry. She wanted information rather than comfort.

  Dr Swann raised his eyebrows and they disappeared into his dandelion hair. The position of his head gave the academic the appearance of acute shyness as if he couldn’t bring himself to look directly at the world. But Honor didn’t think he missed much.

  He pointed at a tub chair in the furthest corner.

  “Did she forget something? She didn’t need to trouble you. I’d have sent it on.”

  “I haven’t heard from Peggy, Dr Swann,” Honor sat down. The chair was low slung to give its occupant a better angle on the academic’s face, she realised. “Your secretary tells me she’s taken a job in Chile.”

  The light went out as the professor’s already corrugated brow folded over and over on itself.

  “Apparently so. All very spontaneous.” Trying and failing to sound joyful. In his lap, one hand nursed the other as if one or both hurt. “It’s selfish of me, the elderly get that way I’m afraid, but I was so sorry to see her go. Without even the chance to wish her well. I miss our morning coffees together. I even miss Jansky.” He reached over to Honor – his palm warm and papery on her arm. “But lately she’s seemed preoccupied. Not happy, and she’s always such a positive person. I’ve been worried about her myself – I’m hoping the move restores her.”

  Anxiety shut down Honor’s throat.

  “Where would she go in Chile, Dr Swann?”

  Behind them, the door slammed against the wall and Honor jumped.

  “You always attract the glamorous visitors, Swann. They must feel sorry for you.”

  The speaker held out his hand and Honor stood to shake it, trying not to stare at the intruder’s shining pate or notice the acrid scent of an unwashed body or that flakes from his pink skin fell off in her grip.

  “Dr Walt Bannerman. At your service, Miss Jones.”

  From his leer, Dr Bannerman believed himself to be a desirable man, although Honor had no idea why.

  He let go of her hand with apparent reluctance, as his lashless eyes slid down her body, resting on her mouth, her breasts, beyond and back to her breasts.

  There was a buzzing noise as Swann reversed and turned his wheelchair, his colleague forced to step away from Honor or risk being run over, and the elderly don retreated behind his desk.

  Bannerman made no effort to hide the fact he knew who she was. The secretary must have called him on an internal line or scuttled round to his office, sniffing all the way.

  Honor disliked her even more.

  “I brought you something.” With some ceremo
ny, he drew a thin wallet from his mustard-coloured tweed jacket pocket, fishing in it to pull out a scrap of card. He held it just out of her reach, even so Honor could read “Professor Peggy Boland” written in Peggy’s angular script. The nameplate from her office door.

  “I always envied Peggy her view over the city,” Bannerman explained, “so when she left, I claimed it.”

  “Her office was virtually identical to your own,” said Swann.

  Bannerman ignored his colleague, but his lips thinned to nothing.

  The nameplate was only a ruse, thought Honor. An excuse to be nosy. She reached for the card and he twitched it away. Incredulous, Honor glared and the picture of benign condescension, Bannerman brought it back within reach. Another flare of anger as she took the card from his fingers. Why had he kept it? A souvenir of Peggy?

  A souvenir from her office. This oddity with his turtle nose and flakey skin was working where Peggy should be working, sitting where she should be sitting.

  “What happened to her books and papers?” The question sounded abrupt, accusatory even. But Bannerman didn’t take offence, merely waved his hand and flakes of skin filled the air between them.

  “Everything was picked up by courier. I boxed them myself. A personal favour.” He gave a bow from his scraggy neck as if waiting for applause at the generosity of his nature.

  Honor let out the breath she’d been holding. What did she think? That Peggy would have left behind directions as to where to find her.

  “Did the courier say where they were going?”

  Bannerman shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling against the sound of crunching bones.

  Utter indifference. He looked over to his colleague behind the desk as if for affirmation. “Word is Chile. Isn’t that so, John?”

  The elderly professor nodded.

  “It’s not my field. I’m the history of science discovery. My concerns are the past rather than the future, but I did wonder if she had perhaps gone to ALMA?” Swann proferred the thought as if he didn’t believe it.

  Honor screwed up her face. Did Peggy know an Alma? She’d never mentioned her.

  “The Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array,” said Swann. “They’re building it in the Atacama desert in northern Chile. Sixty-six high-precision antennae. She’d wanted to visit for a while.”

  Had she? thought Honor. Why didn’t she say? They could have gone together.

  Bannerman’s arms wrapped themselves around his own scrawny body. Loving himself.

  “Old Man Swann’s in shock at the loss of his pet. One more reason to retire, old man. They must have made her a great offer. And money in UK universities is so tight these days. I do know she was struggling to pull together all the funding she needed to progress her research. Good for dear old Peggy striking out for Chile. A one-woman brain drain.”

  He pulled out a scrap of paper and a cheap orange biro from his pocket and scrawled something.

  “Chilean universities – in case she isn’t at ALMA. Give her my best when you talk to her. Swann here would get his wheels stuck in the sand, but tell her I’m open to offers.”

  She checked into the first hotel she came across. Cheap. Cheerful. A high street name. The greasy-faced porter leering at the single woman without luggage. She blanked him. Who cares what he thought.

  Honor spent three hours emailing the three Chilean universities which Bannerman named: the Universidad de Chile, Pontificia Universidad Catolica de Chile, and Universidad de Concepcion. She allowed herself the thought that when she found Peggy she’d catch a plane. Visit her in the desert. Drink tequila together. Then she widened the search to include the Universidad de La Serena, Antofagasta, Catolica del Norte, Valparaiso and Andres Bello. Finally, she hit the phones to the people at ALMA. Nothing. No Peggy. No tequila. Only rising panic.

  And later, on the lumpy mattress in the trough of strangers’ bodies, hands cradling her head, she listened to the raucous nightlife and disco beat of the bars below and opposite. Then to the departing drunks, and the hour of silence before the birds woke and the rattle and rumble of traffic started up again. She forced herself to drink a cup of tea and chew her way through the toast she’d ordered on room service. Sip. Chew. Swallow. Till it was done.

  She didn’t believe Peggy was in Chile.

  And it was impossible to escape the fact that Ned Fellowes was dead.

  Attempting to tamp down the crushing fear in her stomach even as she vomited up the tea and toast.

  It wasn’t even seven when she reported Peggy missing.

  Chapter 17

  A1

  4pm. Tuesday, 7th November

  The roads were busy, but he’d have liked them busier. He’d have preferred traffic to get lost in. Blaze after blaze of headlights travelling the other way, drivers keen to get home and out of the weather. London getting further and further away. Though still not far enough, fast enough for North’s liking.

  “I talked to a Detective Chief Inspector Hardman. Huge. A heart-attack waiting to happen,’ said Honor. “He seemed concerned. I liked him. At least he didn’t laugh at me and tell me I was being ridiculous. He took it all down. The text she sent me. That she’d left work with no notice. The fact her purse was still at home with everything in it. And I told him about Ned.

  “He wanted to know if there’d been any relationship breakdown, whether she might be escaping a negative situation, if she had mental health issues, any alcohol or drug dependency. I said No to all of it.”

  She wanted to trust the policeman. North felt the urge run through him. But she didn’t trust Hardman. She didn’t trust anyone but Peggy Boland.

  “You know how many women go missing in the UK every year, North?”

  Black stains covered her blue wool dress, tight against her figure. Her own dried arterial blood.

  “Around 27,500 of them. Most are resolved within 48 hours. 99% of cases are closed within a year. What if she’s in the one per cent?”

  He felt her sadness as she stood in the doorway of Newcastle’s Central Police Station where she’d met with Hardman. She’d closed her eyes. Willing herself to reach through the ether to Peggy. Willing Peggy to answer. Anyone could fake a resignation letter. Hardman admitted that. And time was ticking on.

  “I was back in London by the time he talked to her – or someone pretending to be her. She said she was in Chile working. Miles from anywhere. A desert. Terrible line. She had rung him, but how would she know to do that? Said someone at the university got a message to her. Who? She apologised for the confusion. Implied I had no boundaries – that we’d had some catastrophic falling-out – which isn’t true. Said she was sorry to hear about Ned but that he was a disturbed young man. Hardman was kind. He told me people never ceased to surprise him. That sometimes they simply walk out the door and start over – whatever heartbreak they leave behind. Told me to give it time.

  “I didn’t know what else to say, because if Peggy could ring a Newcastle policeman, why couldn’t she ring me? It wasn’t her – I know it.

  “Who wants me dead, North?” Against the noise of the rain and the engine, the back-and-forth screech of the windscreen wipers, her voice was small. “Isn’t that where we start?” He kept silent. Choosing not to kill her was one thing. Defending her in extremis. Even keeping her alive. But betraying the organisation he had worked for over the last five years was something else even if they were trying to kill him. The Board was powerful, secretive, and had been in existence for nearly 500 years under one name or another. He’d been told its origins, its structure, and its modus operandi when he joined – secrecy was its eternal watchword. He couldn’t and wouldn’t betray Tarn like that.

  The problem was Honor made him feel unsure. Threw out an energy which upset his coordinates. Locate the objective. Pursue the enemy up and until their surrender or conquest. She turned in her seat to watch his reaction to her question, and it came to him that she hadn’t expected an answer. As a politician, she didn’t expect to hear th
e truth, because she never told the truth.

  The headlights of the oncoming traffic swept over her and away.

  “Who are you working for, North?” She wasn’t giving up. “Are you freelance?”

  She was feeling for what he knew. Was he a mercenary? A criminal? Was this political? Was he political? An agent of the state? Licensed to kill? She was an interrogator with a Madonna’s face.

  North kept up with politics and current affairs out of interest and because when he had to kill someone in the headlines, he liked to know who they were. He was a weapon of the Establishment, he knew that. Did that make him political? Or was his role purely practical? A means of human deletion like pressing the key with the arrow which pointed left – editing what was already written and changing the story which was yet to come.

  The silence between them filled up with her disappointment, which made it easy to hear the ringing of the dashboard phone.

  When he first bought the Range Rover, he disabled the anti-theft device which would allow it to be tracked in the event of it being stolen. That would have been the first thing they thought to do. Then they’d have checked for a phone.

  Green light and a harsh electronic buzzing filled the cabin. No one had the number, and the phone had never rung. But it was ringing now.

  North cursed. They’d gone out through A&E where the ambulances stretcher in their passengers, moved straight through to the underground car park and were out of there within a minute and a half. But it wasn’t fast enough.

  He pressed the pick-up button.

  “North, darling.” Tarn’s voice was distinct and clear as if he was in the car with them. “You’ve been a bad boy.”

  North glanced over his shoulder to check the backseat, half-expecting to see Tarn, to smell cigar smoke. He thought of Bruno watching him in the mirror. The big man’s hostility. North didn’t know the nature of the relationship between Bruno and the judge, though he could guess. If Bruno ever got the chance, he would break every bone in North’s body just to hear the snapping sound.