by Adam Hamdy
Her professional life wasn’t the only source of change. Harrell had insisted she go into therapy to deal with any residual effects of the kidnapping and torture, and so each week Ash walked six blocks south of Federal Plaza to visit the office of Dr. Lana Hilden, a specialist in post-traumatic stress. They spoke of Ash’s childhood, her time with Wallace, the stresses of work, and the glaring nothingness that stood in place of her love life. Ash played along, sharing and caring, smiling and nodding, pretending to lap up the doctor’s advice. She felt better, but it was nothing to do with the hours spent in this bright, modern office. Nor was it the result of the exercises Dr. Hilden had given her. Ash felt better because her father no longer visited her dreams. Like a ghost with one final task, she believed he’d been set free because she’d finally learned what he’d been trying to teach her all those years ago.
People were weak. She saw it all around her. Her superiors all eyed each other with suspicion, wondering who was truly loyal to the Foundation. Her colleagues suffered from the same paranoia. Every day she woke to a world filled with betrayal, infidelity, abuse, violence, and corruption, and nearly all of it stemmed from human weakness. Allow people too close, and that weakness became a threat, a destructive force that would consume everything in its path. She’d let Wallace get too close, and had almost died because of him. Her father had been a monolith, standing alone, placing himself above all others, and even when he’d murdered someone, he’d walked free, because he’d never allowed anyone to get too close, and had always protected himself against the possibility of betrayal.
Ash was in the middle of a course of cosmetic treatment on the scar that encircled her neck, mainly to keep Harrell happy and give him no reason to suspect that her experiences had changed her. All that was left was a faint line. The cosmetic surgeon had said it was similar to an old C-section scar, and Ash had smiled inwardly at the fact she now had a permanent reminder of the twisted birth of her new self.
Her hair had started to grow back, but she liked to think that beneath her short crop the burns still marked her skull, a permanent legacy of the lesson that had been seared into her head: Trust no one.
“Have you spoken to him since?”
Dr. Hilden’s voice intruded on her thoughts.
“John Wallace,” she clarified. “Have you talked?”
She crossed her legs and straightened her gray pencil skirt.
“No,” Ash replied.
“And how do you feel about him?”
“The same,” Ash lied. “I’m busy, and he kinda disappeared. I don’t know where.” And I don’t care, she thought, but knew better than to articulate.
If she suspected the deception, Dr. Hilden said nothing. Maybe she was playing a game, too?
“Why don’t we leave it there, Christine?” she suggested. “We’ll pick this up next week.”
Ash smiled broadly, her mask conveying warmth and friendliness, while inside she felt nothing but rage toward this patronizing quack.
“Thank you, Doctor Hilden.” She got to her feet.
“Please, call me Lana,” Dr. Hilden suggested, returning the smile.
You need a friend, do you, Doctor? Ash thought to herself as she left the woman’s office and headed back to work.
Bailey’s back prickled with mid-morning heat and he regretted his decision to wear a dark suit, but didn’t see that he had much choice. Anything else would have looked out of place in a cemetery, and as he walked along the path, flanked by the rows of gravestones set on Highgate Hill, he reminded himself that there were worse things than a little sweat. He’d worked hard to stop himself from going to the Dark Side, and always tried to be grateful for life’s little blessings, in an attempt to ensure that he never again lost himself to depression and anxiety. All those nights wasted on booze and pills, those terrifying panic attacks, they were all symptoms of post-traumatic stress which he’d avoided treating.
Once he’d recovered from his injuries, he’d returned to Jean Davis and her tiny office on Edgware Road. He’d apologized for deceiving her and had asked for her help. They’d been talking for the past four weeks and he felt better than he had in years. His work bringing Mayfield to justice had earned a promotion to Chief Inspector, and he was assigned the job of identifying the Foundation’s blackmail victims, many of whom had been too embarrassed to come forward.
His first arrest had been Diana Fleming, the British negotiator who’d sent him and Melissa to Mayfield. She’d been distraught and full of contrition, and Bailey had discovered that she’d been trying to protect her husband. His company specialized in machine tools and the Foundation had proof that it had broken sanctions against North Korea. Bailey had almost felt sorry for Fleming when she’d been charged, until he’d reminded himself that she’d been prepared to send him and Melissa to their deaths.
The Blake-Castillo bill was in the process of being repealed, the idea of regulating the internet tarnished by Smokie’s criminality and the Foundation’s blackmail. As the full extent of the conspiracy had become known, support for the initiative had dissipated faster than mist in a hurricane.
Bailey’s duties had meant regular contact with Christine Ash, who was leading the Bureau’s investigation into the Foundation, but their easy rapport was gone. Maybe he’d said or done something during a booze-fueled bender that had driven her away from him? She was courteous and professional, but guarded. Bailey got the sense that she’d been through a lot, but she never wanted to talk about it, and he hadn’t found the opportunity to have a real conversation with her. He’d read the Bureau report, and knew that there were big questions over her escape. The Bureau hadn’t been able to identify her rescuers, and Ash had suffered memory loss, meaning there was no official explanation of how the four men had died in the nightclub where she’d been held captive.
No one had heard from John Wallace, and he wasn’t responding to any emails. He’d spent two weeks in FBI custody getting medical treatment and being debriefed, but had vanished the moment he’d been released. Maybe he’d returned to Afghanistan? Or maybe he was drifting the American continent, keeping himself hidden from the remnants of the Foundation? Beyond vengeance, they had no ostensible reason to want him dead, but Bailey could imagine how paranoid Wallace’s experiences must have made him. He didn’t blame him for wanting to stay off the grid.
Bailey was sad to have lost touch with Wallace, but he had other things to be grateful for. Frank and Jimmy had recovered from their wounds, which had made Salamander happy. They’d slipped back into an “ask no questions” relationship, but Bailey knew that their shared ordeal had brought them closer than ever.
When he’d heard how Terry had died in his son’s arms, Bailey had almost wept. Salamander had wanted to kill the man responsible, but Mayfield was proving to be a valuable source of information, and the Met was working with the Security Services and the FBI to link his cell to the wider Foundation network. Danny had cried like a newborn at Terry’s funeral, and on the few subsequent occasions Bailey had seen the young villain, he’d seemed more subdued.
Bailey could see a small group gathered beside a grave, and recognized the two children, each holding one of their father’s hands. Connor Greene acknowledged Bailey as he joined the small gathering of friends and family who’d come to honor Sylvia Greene’s stone setting. Francis Albright and Melissa Rathlin stood nearby and both nodded greetings in Bailey’s direction. Connor’s sister, Marcella, stood with her two boys and a man Bailey presumed was her husband.
The vicar gave a reading and said some prayers, and everyone, including Bailey, cried for the memory of a good woman who’d made one mistake which had put her life in jeopardy. Mayfield had shared the information they’d used to try to blackmail Sylvia. Early in her career, Jack Diggs, a crooked policeman who’d died a few years back, had pressured her into dropping an investigation into a pedophile who was later convicted of murdering two young boys. Sylvia had hidden her shame from everyone, but the corrupt Erimax internet secu
rity software had enabled the Foundation to find the old evidence in a secret file concealed on her hard drive.
Her bravery and the sacrifice she’d made were unparalleled. She’d forgone a life with her husband and two boys in the hope that Bailey would be smart enough to piece together the puzzle of her death in a way that wouldn’t put her family at risk. She’d sacrificed everything to protect those she loved, and it was the knowledge of her altruism that made Hector and Joe’s tears particularly painful to witness.
When the service was over and the mourners were milling around, wondering how to return to their normal lives, Connor approached Bailey and offered his hand.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, his eyes red raw. “I just wanted to know how much we appreciate what you did. I knew she’d never choose to leave us . . .”
Connor collapsed against Bailey and the two men stood in an emotional embrace for what seemed like an age. Finally, when he felt able to bear the weight of his grief alone, Connor stepped back. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times, but no words would come, so he simply nodded at Bailey and hurried away to join his boys.
“I wish we could bring her back,” Melissa said as she drew alongside Bailey and took his left hand, which just gave the faintest twinge. Apart from the occasional dull ache, his bones had fully healed.
“So do I,” he responded.
Melissa had been crying and her makeup had run, but it didn’t make her any less beautiful. She was another blessing he had to give thanks for. They’d spent a lot of time together analyzing the information Mayfield had given the London Record, and one night Bailey had plucked up the courage to ask her out.
As they stood in silence, watching Connor and his sons shuffle slowly down the path toward the road, Bailey put his arm around Melissa’s shoulder and pulled her close, grateful to be alive.
The visitors’ room was exactly as he remembered it. The guard led him to one of the many white PVC stools and he sat on the hard plastic. He touched the peaked tip of his baseball cap, pulling it down over his face. With over 1,500 visitors per day, it was unlikely anyone would even notice him, but he’d still gone to some lengths to disguise his presence, wearing a cap to hide his face and giving a fake ID at check-in. He’d first had the idea almost six weeks ago while still in Bureau custody, when he’d heard the rumors that the Blake-Castillo bill was going to be repealed. All those pointless deaths, all that needless pain: nothing had changed.
He hadn’t done anything about the nagging thought but had sat with it, churning it around in his mind to see whether it stuck. He couldn’t shake it, the idea that he had to make amends for what he’d done. That he had to make all the suffering mean something. The lives that had been damaged and lost created a debt that needed to be repaid. There was only one man who could help him.
Visitors and inmates were using the intercom system to trade words across the reinforced glass divide, and as he looked around, he could see that some of the conversations were heavy and sad, while others were alive with anger, but none could possibly be like the one he was about to have.
Steven Byrne shuffled toward the stool on the other side of the partition, and his face betrayed surprise as he took his seat. He’d recovered from his wounds, but looked tired and drawn, as though Rikers was slowly draining the life from him.
The media overflowed with stories and conjecture about the disgraced billionaire, but one tale that seemed true was that Steven had been betrayed by his lawyer Alan Cook. The bald man Wallace had seen sitting alongside Steven in the Senate Committee hearing had been blackmailed by Smokie into forging papers that had given the violent gangster control of some of Steven’s empire. Cook had committed suicide rather than face the ignominy of arrest. Another betrayal. Another casualty.
Wallace lifted his receiver as Steven did likewise.
“John, what are you doing here?” he asked.
That’s exactly how this begins, Wallace thought. He’d spent weeks imagining this conversation, and whenever he’d played it out in his head, those had been Steven’s opening words.
“I want to make amends,” Wallace replied. He could never bring Erin or Max back, but he could prevent their father’s life from ending in such abject failure. “You told me that you wanted to do one good thing. One good thing to honor your children’s memories before you leave this world.”
Steven nodded, his face somber.
Wallace knew exactly how he felt. In his darker moments, he thought about joining Connie, taking the easy way out and ending it all. But she deserved better. She deserved meaning, and Wallace was determined that something good would come out of all the destruction. He’d lost everyone who’d ever meant anything, including Christine Ash. He choked whenever he pictured her face looking up at him, her eyes blazing with boundless hatred. It pained him to think of the anguish he’d caused someone he loved so much. She was the last person who might have been able to redeem him, his only meaningful connection to the world. With her gone, and after everything that had happened, he knew that he could never have a normal life.
“It’s not too late, Steven,” Wallace assured him. “It’s not too late for us both. We can do something good together. We can change things and make sure that what’s happened to us—the pain, the people we’ve lost—we can stop that from happening to anyone else.”
Deeply moved, Steven stared into Wallace’s eyes.
“I’m offering you my help,” Wallace told him. “We can do one good thing before we leave this world.”
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my wife, Amy, for being nothing short of amazing. My three children, Maya, Elliot, and Thomas, deserve medals for being so gracious about the amount of time I spend locked in the office with my imaginary friends.
My editor, Vicki Mellor, gets a special mention for all her valuable insight and for trusting her instincts and gambling on a story that would unfold over three books.
My thanks also go to her successor, Jen Doyle, for the hard work and inspiration that has helped shape Freefall.
I’d like to express my gratitude to Jason Bartholomew, Nathaniel Marunas, Amelia Iuvino, Elyse Gregov, and the whole team at my North American publisher, Quercus, for their sterling work.
Thanks also to Laura Jarrett for copyediting the American edition of Freefall so thoroughly.
To Hannah Sheppard, my literary agent, for being such a delight to work with, and for a steady stream of beach photographs that remind me what the outside world looks like. Thanks also to Christine Glover, my wonderful screen agent, who ensured that Pendulum found a great home.
Jo Liddiard, Katie Brown, and Helen Arnold did sterling work marketing, publicizing, and selling Pendulum, and have earned my eternal gratitude for helping it reach so many readers. I’d like to thank the entire team at Headline for making the publication of Pendulum and Freefall such wonderful experiences. I’d also like to thank the teams at Hachette Australia and Hachette New Zealand. I’m grateful for all your efforts.
The first reviews of Pendulum came from Kate Moloney of Bibliophile Book Club, Liz Barnsley of Liz Loves Books, Jackie Law of Never Imitate, and Christine Marson of Northern Crime. As the first Pendulum reviews, these four will always be special, but I’d also like to thank everyone who takes the time to share their thoughts on my work. In particular, I’d like to extend my appreciation to Willem Meiners of Paperback Radio and Jay Roberts of Mystery Scene for their positivity and support. After spending months laboring over a book, it’s encouraging to know that the effort is appreciated.
I’d like to thank my family and friends for all their kind encouragement and support. Janet and Jeff Ford, Paula and James McLellan, Shirley McLellan, Jonathan and Sheena Forrest, Sarah-Jane and Ralph Rogers, Jane and A. J. Johnson, Simon and Nessa Crown, Arvinder Mangat and Amanda Fong, J. B. and Clare Berty, Roy and Jane Hughes, Bryan Oxby, Maurice Leyland, Jane and Richard Sellman, Stephen and Belinda Bayfield, Neil and Kate Williams, Penny and Philippe LeToquin, Matt Hubbard,
Phil Bland, Rachael Cahalin, Susan Hayes, Steve and Jane Ellsmoor, Lucy Cudden and Ifan Meredith, and so many others to whom I owe my sincere appreciation.
Winklewuss! You know who you are.
To all the crime and thriller authors who have been so friendly and welcoming: Anna Mazzola, James Law, Kate Rhodes, Mary Torjussen, Jenny Blackhurst, Roz Watkins, Felicia Yap, and Kimberley Howe, among many others. I’d also like to offer special thanks to James Patterson for his kind words about Pendulum.
A special shout of appreciation goes to Dean Baker, Tom Coan, and Tallulah Fairfax for helping me see Pendulum in a different light.
I’d like to thank my manager, Pat Nelson, for being a stalwart champion of my work. Also Adam Sydney, my author pen pal, who sends words of wisdom from his home halfway up a volcano, and Jenny Rowe for all her research and insight.
Graham and Hilary Sedgley and family deserve a special mention. If you ever fancy a second career, Graham, you might want to consider becoming a bookseller . . .
Thanks to Joe Haddow and Simon Mayo for making the BBC Radio 2 Book Club such a memorable experience, and I extend my appreciation to everyone who was involved in the selection process.
David Headley, Daniel Gedeon, Harry Illingworth, Emily Glenister, and the entire Goldsboro Books team deserve special thanks for championing Pendulum.
Thanks also to Steve and Denise Lawson of the Nantwich Bookshop for supporting Pendulum and making me feel so welcome.
A nod of gratitude goes to Josh Sedgley for my author photograph, and I’d like to thank Ann Fisher and the Fisher family for making us feel so welcome at Oakley Hall.