by David Linzee
“I enjoyed your number on Saturday.” It was a deep voice and the Indian lilt was strong. “ ‘Akh Tanya, Tanya.’ I go to Covent Garden frequently. I was surprised your name was unfamiliar to me. I told Don, perhaps I can do something for your career.”
He sighed heavily. “Now look where we are. What a sad state of affairs. Jhumpa?”
“She knows it’s Parkdale.” Jhumpa was turning to face her boss and Renata could see her profile. No trace of a smile now. Her voice sounded anxious. “But she says she found out on the internet.”
“That’s true, I expect. They’re very public with this sort of information in America. And of course she’d have no difficulty accessing their websites from here.”
Again Renata thought, They don’t know about Peter. Don must not have mentioned him. He felt he’d handled Peter well, with his suave performance in their interview. He hadn’t noticed Peter following him the next day. Didn’t know he’d seen the Dark Lady, talked to Tavon Jackson.
“What else?” the boss said.
“That’s all,” Jhumpa replied.
“That’s enough. I don’t want her interfering in Parkdale, not at this time.”
Jhumpa leaned toward him urgently. “Sir, what can she do? Make phone calls? No one in America will take her seriously.”
The young woman’s friendliness to her had not been entirely feigned, Renata realized.
“But I don’t want to have to think she may be interfering in Parkdale.” The deep voice sounded weary and irritable. “You pulled me out of a meeting to deal with this, Jhumpa. The one with Nigel and Jeremy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Now I’ve come halfway across London. I don’t want to waste all this time and not come to a decision.”
“We can let her go,” said Jhumpa. “I’m sure of it.”
“Did she mention the dog walker?”
Jhumpa dropped her eyes.
“Ah,” said the boss. He seemed gratified to have scored this point against his overeager assistant. “Well, that’s it, then.”
His head turned slightly as he raised his eyes to the mirror to look at Renata. “You have a difference of opinion with the police. Is that right?”
Renata was too frightened to answer.
“Sir, again, it doesn’t matter,” said Jhumpa. “The police aren’t listening to her.”
He was shaking his head. “Jhumpa, enough. I’ve gone sour on this business.”
Jhumpa swung around in her seat to face Renata. Her black eyes were very wide. “If we let you go, you will go straight home. Right? You will stay in. For the next three days, you will make no phone calls. Answer none. If you don’t cooperate we will find out. You must do exactly what I say.”
Renata swallowed hard and found her voice. “I’ll do what you say.”
Jhumpa turned to look at her employer. She waited.
He sighed and said grudgingly, “All right.”
Jhumpa gave a curt order in Hindi and the mustached man grasped the handle and slid open the door. Jhumpa looked Renata in the eye again. “Remember. Three full days.”
Renata nodded and jumped out the door. She didn’t even look at the long, gleaming car parked beside the van. She ran to the mouth of the mews, slowing down only when she reached the crowded sidewalk of Torrington Place.
She was too nervous to stand in the street, hailing a cab. She walked on until she came to Euston Station. It was necessary to change trains, and she kept looking at her watch. It seemed important to get home before dark.
Chapter Fifteen
With a herd of homeward-bound office workers, she climbed the steps of Ladbroke Grove Station to the street. They trudged under the A40, elevated by stout concrete piers daubed with graffiti. Renata slowed down as she began the slight but long uphill slog. Eager as she was to get home, she was very tired.
The overcast sky had formed a lid over London all day. But now the sun slipped below the cloud layer, making its only appearance of the day a moment before it set. Slanting golden light bathed Ladbroke Grove. Along the row of old houses with columned porches and bay windows, colors brightened and shadows deepened. In front of Renata, a curtained window turned into a mirror, reflecting her and the pedestrians behind her. One of them caught her eye.
He was a fireplug of a man, short and solid, straight up and down from shoulders to waist. He was dressed nondescriptly, in baseball cap, windcheater, and jeans, except for new trainers in flaming orange.
She had seen those trainers before, as she was gazing down at the floor of the train car fifteen minutes ago. The man had gotten off at her stop. That didn’t mean he was following her. She moved closer to the street-side of the pavement, so that she could look into the wing mirrors of parked cars as she passed. The angles the first three gave her were wrong, but the fourth yielded a glimpse of a bland face under a cap. They passed a cross street, then another, and she continued to catch reflections of him. When she crossed the last street before her flat, he was still with her.
She told herself firmly that he had not been sent by Don’s boss. Jhumpa had won her the right to go home. If the boss did have men following her, they would be subtler. And they would be sleek Indians like the mustached man. Not this clumsy bloke.
He belonged to a more common species—the domestic perv. Like any woman who traveled alone around London and was even moderately attractive, Renata was occasionally followed, remarked upon, accosted. But what a day for this perv to pick to make a nuisance of himself. If he followed her through her gate, approached her while she was fumbling with her keys, she simply wouldn’t be able to cope. So she walked by her house.
She reached the top of the hill and her neighborhood’s leading landmark—a Sainsbury’s that was as big as an American supermarket, with a car park to match. She headed for it. Before sliding back, the automatic glass doors gave her a glimpse of Orangefoot. He was following her in. The huge place was filled with people doing last-minute, pre-dinner shopping. The crowds and bright overhead lighting and shelves full of brightly packaged goods made her feel more comfortable. She began to walk faster, zigzagging through the aisles, dodging shopping trolleys and the people pushing them.
As she approached the doors on the other side of the store, she had a good view of the interior behind her reflected in them, and she did not see Orangefoot. Perhaps some other woman had snagged his attention and he was chatting her up. Or, one appetite succeeding another, he was queuing for a sandwich at the takeaway counter.
It was perceptibly dimmer outside. The sun had dropped below the horizon. He’ll never find me again, she thought, and set out to flank the building and retrace her steps back home. A row of bollards marked off the car park. A man was sitting on one of them, smoking a cigarette. As she approached, he threw it away and stood. She couldn’t tell if he was looking at her. The visor of his flat tweed cap obscured his eyes. He had a narrow face and craggy features. He was a tall, thin, and long-limbed.
He took a step toward her.
That broke the spell at last. Idiot, she said to herself, fool. Tired and dejected, she had reached for the least troubling explanation. Now the truth hit her. Flathead was the partner of Orangefoot, and they had been sent by Don’s boss. He had changed his mind. He didn’t want to have to worry about her after all.
She was backpedaling toward the doors of the supermarket. She heard them swish open and turned to see Orangefoot come out. Veering away from him, she went the only way she could—through the gate and down the steps to the towpath of the Grand Union Canal. But that was all right; there would be plenty of cyclists and joggers. She used to jog here herself.
Jogging sounded a good idea right now. She broke into a run, her handbag flapping against her hip on its strap. There was no phone in it. The police still had her mobile. The waters of the canal reflected the light remaining in the sky so she could watch her footing. The paving of the path was uneven and the edge of the canal only a pace to her right. The grumble of traffic faded behind h
er and the only sound was the cawing of the crows in the tall bare trees of the cemetery across the canal.
She risked a glance over her shoulder. The men were pursuing at a run. Flathead was closer, only twenty paces or so behind. Orangefoot was almost invisible in the gathering dusk. She had only an impression of movement and flashes of his orange trainers. Flathead was moving along easily, long legs striding, arms pumping, torso straight up and down. Anyone seeing him would think he was just out for a jog, which was probably what he intended.
It seemed to be growing darker by the second and the path was not as populated as she had hoped. She passed two elderly joggers and a cyclist going the other way. What if she grabbed somebody and begged for help? He’d probably struggle out of her grip and run away—which would be the smart thing to do. These men were probably armed.
She glanced back again. Flathead was still keeping his distance, jogging easily. He looked like he could close the gap anytime but was waiting for full darkness to come and potential witnesses to dwindle to none. Which they would do: there was a stretch of wasteland ahead. It was a long way to the next road crossing the canal, to traffic and streetlights. If she veered left off the path, there was only bare ground and the fence surrounding the towering round grid of the natural gas storage tanks. Nothing to do but keep running.
Now she was passing a moored longboat. It wasn’t showing any lights. But the next one on had people living in it. There were lights in its narrow windows and smoke curling from a small funnel. Running along toward the bow, she saw a man standing on deck. The smell of sizzling meat came to her. He was barbecuing and talking on his mobile. Renata could leap aboard. She wanted to, but that would only put the man in danger with her.
She was passing him now, only feet away. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was modulate her voice, and she said, distinctly but she hoped not loudly enough for her pursuers to hear, “Those men are chasing me. Call the police. Please!” For a split-second they were face to face, hers imploring, his dumbfounded, then she was past him.
She faced front to find a cyclist about to collide with her. He was coming on fast, standing up on the pedals, in an American-style helmet and striped spandex outfit. She veered one way and he veered the other. He grunted “Stupid cow!” as he passed.
As soon as she had her feet under her, she looked back. Flathead sidestepped gracefully to let the cyclist by.
She faced front and put on speed. Reminded herself that years of voice training had given her capacious lungs and this sense of being out of breath was only fear. Just run for all you’re worth. No more looking back.
The instant she made that resolve, a noise made her glance over her shoulder—a heavy splash. Orangefoot was in the canal, shouting and thrashing. He too must have sidestepped to avoid getting hit by the cyclist, but not as sure-footedly as Flathead. The cyclist was still upright. His elbows wagged wildly as he pivoted the handlebars, trying to recover his balance. Flathead had stopped and was looking back.
Renata stopped too. The man in the cold, filthy water was shouting for help. There was almost an arm’s length between the water level and the top of the canal wall. He’d need a hand to scramble out. The demon cyclist recovered his balance and disappeared into the darkness. “He’s no use,” Renata heard herself mutter. “It’s on you. Help your mate. Go on.”
Flathead turned his back on his mate and started after Renata. She swiveled on her heel and lurched into motion. Worrying about secure footing was a luxury she could no longer afford. She picked up her pace. Her labored breathing filled her ears. To her left was a stretch of waste ground with rubbish heaps and dead scrub and bushes. She thought of trying to find a hiding place. But she wouldn’t be able to control her gasping and it would betray her.
She ran on. Now there was a chain link fence on her left. It was fully dark and no joggers or cyclists were in sight. No choices left, not even bad ones. She would not look back again. She was running full out, her whole torso shuddering with the effort to pull in more breath.
Ahead, a solid form materialized out of the darkness, a bridge over the canal. She recognized it and knew that if she could get to it, there would be a road with streetlights, people, and traffic. But it was too far away. The man behind her would be closing the distance. Any moment she would feel the blow at her back as he tackled her and slammed her to the pavement under him.
A car pulled onto the bridge and stopped. Red and blue lights on its roof were spinning. The police. The barbecuing man, bless him, had done as she asked.
Hope made Renata risk a backward glance. Her pursuer wasn’t giving up. He bent at the waist and bounded forward, putting his all into one last effort.
She did the same. She felt new strength in her legs, new breath in her lungs. She went up on her toes and sprinted, risking a headlong tumble into the canal.
A light shone out at her, close enough to dazzle. It was on her level—a policeman was down on the path in front of her. Not far away at all. She was safe.
Renata stumbled to a halt and looked back. Yes, the bastard had had enough at last. He’d taken to his heels. She turned toward the approaching copper. It was a woman—a rather pudgy Indian, not as tall as Renata’s shoulder. The nightstick secured to her belt was swinging, the handcuffs jangling, as she pounded past without a word, eyes and torch beam fixed on the fleeing Flathead.
In a moment, another copper approached, a gray-haired white man. “You all right, miss?”
Gasping for breath, she nodded.
“I have to go after my partner,” he said. “I must ask you to go with me.”
Renata nodded again. They set off at a brisk walk.
“Is he armed?”
“I don’t know,” she managed to say.
“Stay behind me.”
She didn’t mind that at all. He was a tall man, a reassuring bulwark. He muttered into the radio clipped to his jacket as they walked.
There was a sharp, dry crack. A gunshot. The policeman broke into a run. Renata followed. “Amital?” he said into the microphone, and when there was no response he shouted, “Amital!”
Exhausted, Renata fell behind as the cop ran on, playing his light over the path and the canal. A woman’s voice came out of the darkness. “Here! In the water.”
The policeman’s torch beam found Amital. Her long black hair had come unfastened and covered half her face. She was side-stroking toward the bank, one arm crooked across Orangefoot’s chest. She had him in a lifeguard’s carry so that his body was atop hers and his head above water. She knew what she was doing, but Renata could not tell if Orangefoot was in any condition to benefit. The visor of his cap covered his face.
“He shot him,” Amital said. “Bloke was shouting for help and the bastard just stepped to the edge of the canal and shot him. Then he ran off.”
The policeman crouched by the edge of the canal, setting down his torch and reaching out both hands.
“There are steps,” Renata said, suddenly remembering.
The policeman turned his head and gave her an incredulous look. “Steps?”
“They put them in when they dug the canal. In case a horse fell in.” She picked up the torch and shone the beam to her left. “There.”
The policeman went down the steps cut into the canal wall, wading in waist-deep to take Orangefoot from Amital. As he did, Orangefoot’s cap fell off, revealing the bullet hole in his forehead. He was dead.
Chapter Sixteen
The officers who had saved her life were PC Amital Singh and PC Neville Hillman. Renata shook them by the hand and thanked them when they parted at Ladbroke Grove Police Station. She had never felt so kindly disposed to the Old Bill.
Then DI Ian McAllister arrived, having been summoned from Hampstead Station. Over the next four hours, her opinion of the police sank steadily. He was as sluggishly methodical as before, questioning her, leaving her in the interview room for long periods while he was presumably making calls or consulting with other detectives,
returning to ask her the same questions again. He wouldn’t respond to her demands to know whether he believed her story, grasped that the attack on her was connected to the murder of Neal Marsh.
During one long wait, her thoughts turned to mundane matters. She picked up the phone on the desk and rang a friend who was also an impecunious mezzo-soprano. Renata asked if she would like to sing a Haydn High Mass next Sunday. She leapt at the offer. Then Renata left a message on the machine of the music director at the Brompton Oratory, explaining that she was indisposed and had found a replacement.
Finally, McAllister returned. He opened the door of the interview room but did not come in. “You’re free to go. A police car will take you home. Or … you said that you live alone, Ms. Radleigh?”
“My flatmates are away.”
“Do you perhaps have a friend you could stay with?”
Renata smiled wanly. “Would that be a precaution against Flathead coming after me again? Or against my doing myself harm while the balance of my mind is disturbed?”
The tufty brows lifted. McAllister sat down across the table from her. “I have never said or implied that you’re insane, Ms. Radleigh.”
“No. But I get the impression you think I ran away from a couple of muggers and the rest is my overwrought imagination.”
He sat back and crossed his legs to consider her words. He had the air of a chess player with plenty of time on the clock.
“That would be a possibility,” he said at last, “except that the man you call Flathead shot and killed his accomplice. That’s extraordinary behavior.”
“It’s bloody terrifying. Orangefoot was going to be arrested. Flathead shot him to prevent that—prevent his being questioned. That’s how important it is to the Indian billionaire to keep his identity a secret.”