He had gone to get the trolley they’d wandered away from when he became aware of the man hovering the other side of the display. A young man, slight, wearing spectacles and holding a blanket, who looked at Beth, then walked towards her. Nick headed discreetly in the same direction. The man got there first and said in a low but clear voice,
“Hello, I saw you and had to come over. Did you feel able to take my advice?” Nick moved nearer. “You’re looking much better.”
“Sorry … do I know you?” Beth gazed at him with a puzzled smile.
The man said nothing for a moment. “You remember, yesterday evening, you …” He stopped.
Beth shook her head. “Not me. I was at home on my own yesterday evening.”
The man’s eyes flicked to Nick, now standing beside her, and his manner became formal. “I’m so sorry. My mistake.”
Beth smiled. “I love that blanket.” It had brilliant squares of pink, orange and red. “Can you tell me where you got it from? I’d like to get one.”
An unreadable expression crossed his face; he looked down at the blanket, and up at her again. “Over there, by the wall.” He pointed to the shelves it came from, hesitated then walked away from them towards the exit. While Beth went to get herself one of the blankets, Nick abandoned the trolley and went after the man, catching up with him by the mirrors.
“Excuse me, I couldn’t help hearing, you said you knew my friend.”
The man paused before he replied. “No. I thought she was someone I’d met recently, but close up I could see I was wrong. It was the hair. Stupid of me.” He smiled politely and turned to go.
“Who did you think she was? If you don’t mind my asking?”
Intelligent eyes considered him, their expression the one Nick associated with people he’d just shown his phony police I.D. to. “Why do you want to know?”
“Curiosity.”
A split second, then, deliberately, “My brother’s fiancée. I met her yesterday. They’re superficially similar, from a distance.”
Balked, Nick watched him walk away towards the exit. The man was lying. He had come across Beth Two, Nick would put money on it. What was the advice he had given her? No chance of finding out, he’d never tell him, he’d clammed right up. Quiet intellectual types were the most obdurate, in Nick’s experience. He followed the man, keeping a safe distance. After he’d paid for the blanket, the man walked to the car park, got into a red Fiat Panda and headed for the North Circular. After noting the registration number Nick went to join Beth. He’d trace him, find out who he was, not that it would help; if he had met Beth Two, she certainly wasn’t with him now, and there was no reason to believe that he would be seeing her again.
The whole episode was tantalizing, but as far as he could see, there wasn’t a darned thing he could do about it.
Replica ~ Lexi Revellian
CHAPTER 18
A place of my own
Sunday morning. I woke, stiff, chilled and tired, remembering where I was and not wanting to open my eyes and face the day. I curled into a tighter ball, to conserve heat. Stale sweat from yesterday, the different rank sweat of fear, fought the dank smell of the steel cabin. I’d go to the Barbican, strip and wash with my ill-gotten soap and flannel, and spray on some Sure For Men Active. A pity there was nothing I could do about my clothes. I’d check under the bin, though it was far too early. Then I might try to make myself look different …
I grew colder and more uncomfortable; thirsty, too. No way was sleep going to return. Suddenly, a thought made my eyes snap open – Alex Rider, I placed the name now, hero of Anthony Horowitz’s series, the teenage spy. My face felt hot. No wonder the doctor in the flat believed I needed psychiatric help.
Aching all over, I sat up and reached for breakfast. Orange juice and a ham and cheese sandwich made me feel marginally more optimistic. Perhaps Jenny would manage to take my letter to Rob today after all; I’d got a bit of food, and some money, and it might not have to last that long. I tidied the cabin; stacked the bottles and cans out of the way, folded the blanket and hid it under a heap of newspapers with the candle and other things. Taking a deep breath, I nerved myself to leave; after all, if they’d found me, they’d have broken in, not waited outside for me to emerge. I moved the plank and opened the door, letting in an icy blast – no one out there – then clambered down to the ground, and went round to the space between the flats and the hoarding. Unstable piles of timber jutted beneath tangles of buddleia and sycamore seedlings, treacherous underfoot. I picked my way to the hidden far corner to have a pee. No woman likes to do this outside; we’re just not designed for it, particularly on a cold day. So much easier for men, but at least I had toilet paper.
In the grey light I could see the block of flats more clearly, and on my way back, something I hadn’t noticed before struck me; it was possible to get into the ground floor. Round the front and side, where a shop window would be, the walls were only two bricks high, the building supported by red steel girders; breeze blocks, planks, sheets of ply and plasterboard, a supermarket trolley, a child’s plastic chair, a collection of bottles and drifts of green net – what was it? littered the concrete floor. Inside, an open staircase led upwards.
Cautiously I climbed the stairs, hanging on to the handrail, fearful of missing treads because in places boards had been laid down. On the first floor, glass crunched underfoot from a broken window; a smell that had me holding my breath, and ‘FUCK OF’ written on a closed door. (My fingers reached for the stolen Argos pen to add the missing ‘F’, but I resisted the urge.) I guessed someone lived in squalor behind that door. I tiptoed past, through into the second flat on that level; big windows all across one side, a wall covered in smears and whirls of multi-coloured paint, the kitchen units strewn about the room, more bottles and cans. Work must have stopped just before they fitted the kitchen, judging by the ruled pencil lines, neat holes for electrical sockets and metal brackets on the walls. Cables snaked over the floor jumbled with bits of timber and plasterboard. In the bathroom, an overturned bath lay beside rolls of insulation. None of the plumbing was connected.
I climbed carefully to the next level, which smelled of damp plaster. The flats here were in a worse state; more windows had been smashed and snow had blown in and melted. The third floor was better, and also had a closed door, this one with a lock. Inside the flat, a cat meowed, making me think with a pang of Inky Pink. If people lived here, I could too; it would be an improvement on the steel cabin, more protected from the wind. The idea grew on me. The block was a twenty minute walk from the Barbican, and close to the canal. If I put a lock on the door, I wouldn’t have to worry about my stuff being stolen, or being attacked at night while sleeping. I decided to select myself a new home.
The flat I chose was on the fifth floor, as I thought fewer vandals would go that high. All its glass was intact, there were no residents, and although it was a mess, it could be tidied. As a start, I heaved all the cabinets the right way up and lined them against the wall in the kitchen area. Drawers, I’d put my things in them … such things as I had. I collected the debris scattered over the floor to a corner. A definite improvement, a nice space. I glowed after my exertions, and felt curiously hopeful as I looked around my new home. A big sheet of ply leaned against a wall, and if I wedged it at an angle in the hall when I was inside, no one would be able to push the front door open.
I took the rubbish downstairs, brought my things up to the flat, and put the food and toiletries in the bottom drawer of a kitchen unit, as pleased as a child playing house. Kneeling by the big windows, wrapped in the blanket, I gazed over the roundabout where four roads met. A sudden memory assailed me from a year after my mother died, when I was twelve and Dad had remarried. We’d moved house. My stepmother used to tidy my room while I was at my new school. I’d come home to find all my things in different places; some of them, which she’d seen no use for, missing. That bedroom seemed not to belong to me like my old one had, so I made my own secr
et space in the shed at the bottom of the garden. Somewhere comforting to go and read, with a few bits and pieces I didn’t trust Alison not to throw away; a broken plastic horse toy from when I was little, my mother’s watch that no longer worked, a cushion from our old house before we moved to Scotland. I had a blanket knitted in different coloured squares I used to wrap myself up in on cold days. I remembered how warm and safe I’d felt, in spite of the loneliness, the draughts and the spiders. This flat felt a bit like that.
I knew it was too early for Argos to be open on a Sunday, so I went to see if there was anything kicking around the site I could use. Nothing much; I collected some of the green net and folded it up with the idea it might be handy. Time to go to Primark. I put bread and cheese, orange juice and my book in a stray plastic bag to take with me.
The Regent’s canal was five minutes walk from my derelict block of flats, then the towpath took me right to Mare Street. I felt safer by the canal than on the roads; I’d started to worry that some vans and ambulances were covert Security Service spy vehicles full of spec ops. Pizza deliverers, too, made me paranoid; especially the ones on motorbikes not mopeds. My encounter with that man had made me noticeably more scared.
Primark was busy, but nothing like the Oxford Street store. I picked a black V-neck jumper for four pounds, and a bra and pants set for three eighty-six. I longed for fingerless mittens, better than gloves because you need never take them off, but left them for the moment. I dithered for ages over whether to buy some trainers at six pounds. My stolen ones were too big, and starting to come apart at the toes. But if I got them, I couldn’t afford socks, and my socks were damp and horrible. In the end I decided on the trainers, and when no one was looking, pushed a pair of socks deep into one toe. I went back for the mittens, scrunched them inside the other trainer, and lined up to pay.
This was the first time in my life I’d shoplifted, and my face burned as I stood in the queue. But the girl hardly glanced at me, and put my purchases in a bag without noticing the hidden items or my shaky fingers as I handed over the money. I was extremely glad to get out of the shop, but it wasn’t till I reached the canal I felt sure I’d got away with it.
My shopping spree left me eighteen pounds ninety-two pence, enough for the sleeping bag but not much over for food. Still, I might be able to scrounge stuff past its sell-by date thrown out by a supermarket. I had all day to look. I changed into my Primark trainers on a bench by the canal, keeping the old ones just in case. The new socks and fitting shoes felt marvellous, and I set off with a spring in my step.
Once I’d bought a sleeping bag, I made my way to the Barbican, and had a thorough wash and shampoo. Not having a towel was a drag; why hadn’t I taken one from that doctor’s flat? I had to pat myself dry with lots of paper towels, and think myself lucky to have them and not a hot air blower, though that would have been handy for my hair. But my hair dried okay on its own – luckily, the less I do to it the happier it is. I hated it in my early teens when it was short and stuck up all round my head. I wanted straight blonde hair, not irrepressible red curls. Then in a rare moment of defiance aged fifteen, I told Alison I didn’t want my hair cut any more, I was growing it. Once past my shoulders, something marvellous happened; its own weight held it down, and I started getting compliments. A boy at a party said I looked like a model, and from then on I liked my hair.
If I couldn’t get this mess sorted out soon, little as I wanted to, I’d have to dye it. The colour was far too noticeable, and I needed to look different.
I changed into the new underwear and jumper and found a comfortable sofa on which to read my book, appreciating the non-numbness of my fingers and toes. From time to time I moved levels, with the hope the security people wouldn’t notice me. I wished the library was open on a Sunday; I wished I could afford to see a film. I had an uncomfortable nap on the floor of a cubicle in the Ladies to try out my sleeping bag, and while I was there checked under the bin, without really expecting anything. There was no note. This way of passing time was quite boring, and not relaxing, nothing like hanging around your own place.
After lunch, I walked to Liverpool Street Station. There’s a big Boots the chemist in the basement shopping area. I wanted to check out the hair dye; a goth look, black hair and lots of eye makeup would radically change my appearance. The one I chose, Nice ‘n Easy Perfect 10, was six pounds ninety-nine, which I hadn’t the money for and didn’t dare to steal; but I slipped a plum lipstick into my glove, and a black kohl pencil up my sleeve before I left.
Replica ~ Lexi Revellian
CHAPTER 19
Thames House
Beth’s heels rang on the paving slabs as she approached the stern façade of Thames House and her new job, hugging her fake shearling coat around her, its big collar up. She supposed one of the men was following, though she hadn’t spotted him. On the left, through winter-bare trees, the Thames was iron grey in the dim morning light. The open spaces, muted colours and freezing cold made her think of Russian spy assignations in films; men in dark coats converging and leaning over the parapet, staring at the water while dealing in complex betrayals.
Entrance number six was at the rear of the building. Beth had arrived far too early, something she tended to do when nervous. She walked up a flight of stairs to an office, where a secretary took her name, made a call, and asked her to wait. Beth sat, flipping through a Telegraph colour supplement from a pile on a table, while the secretary tapped away on her computer. More than half an hour later, an inner door opened and a woman in a blue suit, white blouse and pearls walked to the secretary’s desk. She bent over her computer screen.
“Yes, that’s more the sort of thing, if you could do the rest like that too, please.” She smiled briefly, then turned her attention to Beth. “I’m Moira Smailes, you must be Beth Chandler. Do call me Moira. So sorry to keep you waiting. Would you like to come with me?”
Beth followed her out of another door into a lobby with a lift which took them to the top of the building. They walked down a bare cream-painted corridor with closed doors along each side. Moira Smailes opened one bearing the number 518, and ushered Beth in. The small office had a window looking out on similar windows the other side of the building. The desk held an elderly yellowing computer and a telephone; there was a swivel chair, several grey filing cabinets, a massive photocopier that probably cost a fortune twenty years ago, a drooping spider plant, and a worn square of blue carpet which didn’t quite reach the walls. Moira Smailes turned on the computer. It made a whirring sound. They both watched as nothing else happened.
Moira lost interest first. “It takes a little time to warm up. I’d like you to load these forms on to the computer using Excel.” She opened the nearest filing cabinet, and removed a sheaf of files. “We’re updating our database. Save it using the same titling system as on the files, but with underscores. You’ll have some admin duties too, the details are in here.” She opened the desk drawer and handed Beth a folder. “There’s a canteen on the ground floor, anyone will direct you to it. If you have any queries, ring Jo on that number on the front. Let her know if you want to leave the building at lunchtime.” She gave a perfunctory smile, and moved briskly towards the door.
Beth sat at the desk, opened a file and took out the first sheet of paper. It was filled with typewritten lists of names, dates, places, and numbers. All the pages were pretty similar, only the details on them differing. Transferring this into Excel was going to be mind-numbing. The computer gave a grudging beep, and a muddy image of a cloudy blue sky appeared on its screen, then, after a couple of minutes, a line of icons. Beth walked round the room to allow the computer time to compose itself for work. At least she had a window, even if the view was boring. She took down a curling 2001 calendar showing country cottages and put it in the bin. The spider plant was not completely lifeless, so she ventured into the corridor to look for the Ladies, taking the saucer the plant was standing in to fetch water. The plant watered, and dead bits pulled off it,
she settled to her unrewarding task, wishing herself back at the Marling Institute, wondering who was doing her job, and whether the Prof and the Fubars would get on with the new person.
Nick knew the meeting was going to be a frosty one, and he was right. Sir Peter made his displeasure abundantly clear; but for Nick’s incompetence, the operation would now be satisfactorily concluded. Because of him, it was dragging on, with the ever-present risk of disclosure and publicity. After an unsmiling Sir P. had left, Dario and Paul gleefully commiserated with him over his failure. Nick then swapped his shifts with Fraser, and Fraser was none too co-operative about letting him have the six-till-two stint, though they both knew the ten-till-six he was getting in exchange to be more desirable.
Once Fraser had gone, Ollie rolled his eyes. “Scots git.”
“Sorry about that, Oll.” Working nights would reduce his opportunities to see Lisa.
“Just one of those things, plain bad luck. Not your fault. D’you remember that time in Ipswich?”
Nick did. They’d been undercover, trailing a visiting Yemeni national they’d had a tip off about, hoping he’d lead them to the local sleeper cell. It was a gusty autumn day, and as the man walked down the street an estate agent’s sign fell off its building and hit him over the head. He died five hours later in hospital without regaining consciousness.
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