The Strange Death of Fiona Griffiths (DC Fiona Griffiths)

by Harry Bingham

  ‘Finding this hard, eh?’ he says.

  ‘Are you alive?’

  ‘Am I alive? Yes.’

  ‘And I am? I mean, you think I am?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘What’s my name?’

  ‘Your real name? Fiona Grey. At the moment, you’re pretending to be someone called Jessica Taylor, but that’s just a temporary thing. You’re still Fiona Grey underneath.’

  ‘Am I getting married?’

  ‘Getting married? No. Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Who’s in this bathroom?’

  ‘Right now? You and me.’

  ‘You haven’t looked.’

  Henderson makes a show of looking. The bathroom is tiny, so I suppose his initial estimate was always likely to be accurate. But he confirms it: ‘Just you and me. I’ve checked.’

  His words give me the confidence to look around. And he’s right. I can’t see Hayley Morgan anywhere on the floor and even she wouldn’t be small enough to fit in the cupboards. ‘Sorry. I thought there was someone else.’

  ‘No. Just us.’

  He starts saying some other things, but it all feels very complicated and I don’t listen.

  I don’t know why he uses so many words.

  After a bit, he stops talking and lifts me up and carries me through to the bedroom. The blonde girl, Jessica, stares at me from the bedroom mirror and I want to go back into the bathroom, but when Henderson works out what’s bothering me, he lifts the mirror down and places it, glass side inward, against the wall.

  I look around cautiously. Say, ‘Is she here? The blonde one?’

  Henderson starts to say one thing, then sees my face and says, ‘No. It’s just you. You’re Fiona Grey. The only people in this room are you and me. Nobody else.’

  ‘And you’re alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I am?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure.’

  I get into bed then. Don’t get changed with Henderson there, but do what I need to do. He tucks me in. Helps me with pillows. He rubs my shoulder in a nice way, and I can feel that his hand is definitely warm, which means he is alive and, in that case, I probably am too. I almost ask him to kiss me. Not because I want his kisses exactly, just that all that warmth and activity would be the best possible kind of proof.

  But I don’t ask.

  He sits there holding my hand and I start to feel more normal.

  ‘Sorry, Vic. My head. It doesn’t always work brilliantly. It goes funny sometimes.’

  I point at my head, in case he has trouble locating it.

  ‘You’re doing fine. It’s not for long.’

  At some stage, I go to sleep. At some stage, Henderson leaves.

  In the morning, I see him again. Fiona Grey is still on police bail and she has to report every week to the police station down on the bay. This is my first time doing that since I dyed my hair. When Henderson enters my flat, he’s worried that I’m still crazy. But I’m not. I’m feeling OK.

  He gives me – gives Jessica – a wig that’s more or less Fiona Grey-ish. I tuck my blond pixie-locks under the wig, dress soberly in what I have left of my old clothes, and present myself for Henderson’s inspection.

  ‘The old Fiona. Welcome back.’ He looks me over. ‘You’re all right, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After last night, I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bit weird that.’

  ‘For you, maybe. I’m like that sometimes.’ I shrug. ‘It comes and goes.’

  The truth, more or less.

  He checks my ankle for the presence of the bracelet, checks the battery level, then drives me down to the station, parking a few hundred yards away.

  I put my handle on the car door, but don’t yet get out.

  ‘Vic?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Last night. That sort of thing used to happen more. I’m OK now mostly, but I’m under a lot of pressure.’

  ‘I know. You are.’ He’s about to give me the you’re-doing-well speech, but that’s not what I want now and I cut him off.

  ‘There’s a medication I used to rely on. Amisulpride. It’s an anti-psychotic. An anti-nutter drug, basically. It’s what they give to schizophrenics.’

  ‘You want some?’

  ‘Not to take it, no. But to have it, yes. Just in case. A precaution.’

  I’m not lying to him. Ever since coming out of hospital, I’ve carried the drug with me. Haven’t used it for years, but I need to know it’s there if I need it. And last night was a bad episode for me, as close to the edge as I’ve been for a long while.

  Henderson gives me that stare that sane people give their less-than-stable friends. It’s a kind enough look in its way, except there’s always that hint of condescension in it. A hint of top-hatted Victorian smugness.

  ‘Do you know what you need?’

  ‘Yes.’ I find paper and pen in the seat pocket and write out a prescription. Amisulpride. Normally sold as Solian. I choose the liquid formulation: 100 mg/ml in a 50ml bottle. I prescribe myself 200mg twice a day. Pass the sheet over to Henderson.

  ‘If I get this . . .’

  ‘If you fake a prescription with that on it, I’ll go to the pharmacist and pick it up.’

  He smiles. I’m his favourite sort of nutter: one who’s happy to do his dirty work. ‘I’ll get onto it now.’

  I walk down the road to the police station. The duty sergeant doesn’t treat me any differently from the other people in reception. While I’m waiting, I scribble a note to DCI Jackson.

  New identity: Jessica Taylor. Am permanently wired for sound. Also permanent location-tracking. Do NOT attempt to make contact. I give my new address, but add, Flat wired for audio, video. Do NOT enter. Inform Adrian. Infiltration going well. I’m fine. FG.

  I don’t give the note to the duty sergeant, because I don’t want him to say anything that the ankle bracelet might pick up. So I just fold the note and write on the outside For DCI Jackson. Urgent and Confidential. Operation Tinker. I add his work mobile as well, so that anyone seeing the note will realise that whoever’s written it knows Jackson well enough to call direct. I leave the note in an out-tray on the front desk.

  Then leave. Walk down the block. Get into Henderson’s ever-purring BMW. Give him my wig, fluff out my hair. Take off my grey Matalan jumper to reveal a printed top in reds and golds and oranges. Add a leather jacket, waiting for me on the back seat. Dark glasses, worn up, with tortoiseshell frames. Henderson, meantime, comes round my side of the car. Plugs something into my bracelet to download the audio straight into his laptop. He listens to the audio on headphones as I adjust my make-up. By the time Jessica’s red lips and black-rimmed eyes are staring back at me, Henderson has heard all he needs. He snaps the laptop shut. Looks over at me. Smiles and shakes his head at the transformation.

  ‘OK?’ he asks.

  ‘They didn’t beat me up.’

  Henderson smiles at that. ‘I think we don’t pay you enough,’ he says. Slips the car into gear. And we drive off, Henderson, Jessica and I. Fiona Grey lies crumpled on the back seat: an old grey jumper and a less-than-flattering wig.

  Do NOT attempt to make contact.

  Do NOT enter.

  Am permanently wired for sound.

  This is what I wanted. What I engineered. And for the first time since accepting the assignment, I wonder if I’m crazy to have taken it at all.

  45

  I don’t like Jessica, but she’s good at her job. It takes her three weeks to compromise every major computer system in Cardiff.

  Henderson helps, of course. He, or one of his colleagues. At any rate, Jessica gets moved around from job to job, office to office, in a way that little Fiona Grey never did. Jessica is a bird of brighter and more glamorous plumage than her discarded predecessor, and she flits through the high-life of commercial office cleaning with the assurance of an A-lister o
n Oscar night.

  In three weeks, Jessica has stolen passwords and planted software on the systems of six nationally important companies plus two major government agencies. It’s not even hard. Stealing the passwords is a piece of cake. Planting the software takes a little more time, requires me to dodge around the whereabouts of my cleaning partner, but it’s still not hard. Most cleaners dislike doing the bathrooms and I just offer to take over a few of their bathroom chores in exchange for ten minutes alone in whichever corporate systems suite we happen to be in. My colleagues know that I’m up to something – they assume I’m looking for cash to steal – but they don’t really care. So Jessica steals passwords, plants software and cleans an almost endless array of corporate bathrooms.

  I even, strangely, start to make my peace with this strange blonde girl who cleans with me. For all her loudness and her trashiness, she is more popular than I am, than Fiona Grey was. I don’t like her friends much, their sunbed skin and their Marlboro Lights. Don’t like the gold jewellery, the high-volume mascara, the rapid conversation and too-loud laughter. But I know my limits. I’m not good at making friends. Jessica somehow does it for me. I stand in her shadow, a gawky sister at the dance, feeling better for the company that I wouldn’t otherwise have.

  Brattenbury doesn’t forget me. Six days after I left my note for Jackson, new neighbours move into the flat two doors down the corridor from me. I don’t recognise the young couple, though they seem nice enough, but I do recognise the woman’s ‘father’. Fifty-four. Divorced. Two kids. The DCI from my training programme.

  I help them carry some boxes in. Tell them about how parking works. The woman – ‘Karen’ – makes tea. The guy – ‘Aaron’ – shows me his automatic pistol. Shows me that Karen has one too. Shows me a box of electronics and points at my ankle. I slip my boot off, while continuing to chat brightly with Karen about the local shopping.

  Aaron does something with his box of tricks. The DCI shows me a piece of paper, on which is written:

  Hello Fiona,

  Like the new look! To confirm: we will not speak to you unless there is an emergency. We have your flat wired for sound, but we won’t insert video. We did not enter the flat and will not do so. Aaron will use your ankle bracelet to monitor your movements. You will be tracked 24/7. The audio recorder in your bracelet does not transmit signal, however, so we cannot listen in – we can only follow your movements.

  We have armed police officers on standby at all times. Use the same emergency codes and procedures as before. No word on Roy Williams. No breakthroughs on the farmhouse. Just get yourself there safely. We’ll watch you all the way. Then keep your head down. Those SCO19 boys are pissed off at missing the show last time. They won’t miss it this time.

  One assignment for you, if you can manage it. We need to know when they plan to launch. If you can find out, please do. But your safety comes first. Roy’s safety second. Launch timing comes third. Don’t place yourself at risk.

  Also – I know you’ll want to know this – we’ve got something of interest. Last time Henderson visited the osteopath, he exited via the building neighbouring the health centre. We spoke to the osteopath who confirms Henderson did not receive a treatment, just stepped through the connecting door into the building next door. Osteopath confirms this was not the first time this has happened. We’re applying for surveillance warrants for that other building now. Fingers crossed on that. We have looked at visitor sign-in books, etc. Nothing obvious so far, but we’ve only just started.

  Susan sends love. So does Dave Brydon. Jackson wants to know if you’re taking care of yourself. I hope you are! Take care, stay safe.

  Adrian.

  I read the letter twice, then hand it back to the DCI. Aaron raises his thumb and points at my ankle bracelet. Shows me a monitor that indicates he has indeed picked up my signal. Karen shows me some red-spotted tableware that she picked up cheap in Cardiff Market. Asks me what I think.

  She’s talking a lot to make it easier for me to keep my cover up, but I’m OK anyway.

  I take the paper from the DCI and write, Get me lock picks. Disguised, obviously. Hair grips? Make-up stuff? I know how to use them.

  The DCI stares at me. It’s a ‘you know how to use lock picks?’ sort of stare.

  I nod, in a ‘doesn’t everyone?’ sort of way.

  He spreads his hands in a ‘have it your way’ way.

  The whole thing with the letter and the guns and the box of electronics and the conversation-by-gesture takes only three or four minutes. I don’t stay long. Not long enough for the tea they offer even.

  I’d almost have preferred flying completely solo. This silent watching isn’t much comfort to me. And no one says it, but if Henderson wants to shoot me, then he will. By the time an armed response unit is on the scene, I’ll be as dead as I’m ever going to be.

  But still. It’s good to know Brattenbury is on the case. And I welcome those snippets of news. No word on Roy. Nothing on the farmhouse. In a strange way, I’d be disappointed now if this case was broken without me. It’s my case and I’ve earned the right to be there at the close.

  I don’t see Henderson much. He comes by every two or three days to download the audio and replace the batteries on my ankle bracelet. Sometimes he’s in a rush. Just does his stuff and goes. Other times, he lingers. Takes me out for a meal or makes tea and paces around my tiny flat, staring out at the street, trying to spot any surveillance vehicles. He brings me that prescription too. An NHS thing. Looking totally kosher. When I take it to the chemist, they give me the drug with little more than a whiff of ‘ooh, look at the nutcase’.

  A few times I go to the library to check the internet. As always, I have to check my bag at the entrance and, a week or so after meeting Aaron and Karen, I find that the make-up in my bag has changed a little. Experimenting later, in a coffee shop toilet, I discover that I have acquired a couple of raking-tools-cum-hairgrips. Also a tube of mascara: something called Glam’Eyes Lash Flirt, a product which would attract me more had it been less reckless with its apostrophe. I fiddle for a while, then manage to detach two slender lock picks from the shaft of the tube. An eyebrow pencil gives me one more pick. An eyeliner gives me two more, plus a rather weedy-looking torsion wrench.

  Five picks, a couple of raking tools and a wrench. It’s a pretty feeble set, to be honest – the one I use normally has more than thirty picks – but most locks give way to even quite basic technology. And Brattenbury’s buddies have done a superb job of concealing the objects. The mascara looks just like mascara, the eyeliner like eyeliner. They’re not fake either: the make-up itself is real enough, as Jessica is quick to prove to herself. And I’m pleased to have the equipment. It’s a slim advantage. An edge that Henderson doesn’t know I have.

  And, though my investigative freedom is acutely limited at the moment, I make use of what little I have.

  At work one day, just after I’ve corrupted another computer and just before I turn my hand to all the bathrooms that Stella has left for my attention, I call up – via a proxy server – all the data that Brattenbury’s team have accumulated on the building next door to Henderson’s health centre.

  Names of staff and visitors. Dates and times. Building ownership. Tenancy agreements. Insurance details. Council tax filings. Planning permission applications. Fire safety records.

  I review it all briefly – very briefly, I don’t have long – then whack out an email from my fake Hotmail account. An email to my father. I write:

  Dad,

  At Christmas, you said you might be able to help my investigation. I’m hoping so! I’ve attached a whole lot of info, which doesn’t mean much to us – but somewhere here there is (I think!) a lead to a man who is responsible for three deaths already. I’m guessing that man is wealthy, capable and has some legitimate money as well as some extensive criminal interests. We’ve got nowhere with this and I’d love any help you can offer.

  Could we meet up? That’s totally not allowed un
der police procedure, but I’m missing you all so much and I’d love to see you. Friday evening, maybe? At your cocktail bar? One little wrinkle though. I’m wearing an ankle bracelet that contains a very sensitive audio recorder, so we can meet, write but not talk. Oh, and I’m blonde at the moment and called Jessica. I’ll tell you more when all this is over. A few more weeks then we’re done.

  It will be amazing to see you. I’m absolutely fine but really missing you all.

  Lots and lots and lots of love.

  F.

  I attach a set of the most interesting documents to the email and send it. The whole thing took me twelve minutes, which is pushing the limits of what I can get away with safely. Then close up the computer, run to the bathrooms and start to clean and wipe like crazy. Jessica, in the mirror, cleans and wipes like crazy too and, for the first time almost, she looks like she means it.

  Later that morning, Henderson drops by my flat. Says, ‘We’re almost done in Cardiff, but I’ve got you a placement in Birmingham. Birmingham, then London.’

  Jessica is painting her toenails when he says this. The colour on the bottle says Urban Coral, but that makes me think the makers can’t know much about coral.

  ‘I’ll get caught,’ I say. ‘I’ve done what you asked.’

  ‘There’s more money. Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried about the money. I was worried about going to jail for seventeen years.’

  ‘We’ll put the money offshore. Bank account. Your name. You set the passwords and security info. The British police will never find it. You’ll have access to the money, wherever, whenever.’

  ‘Wherever? Literally wherever? Like there’s a cashpoint in Drake Hall?’

  Drake Hall: the prison where Anna Quintrell is currently considering her future.

  ‘Twenty grand. For two weeks in Birmingham, three weeks in London.’

  ‘Get someone else, Vic.’

  He stares at my toenails, as if disconcerted to find them changing colour. I’m wearing Aztec print leggings and a tank top. Sitting on the floor with my feet on a towel. Brush in one hand, bottle in the other.