“Hi.”
“They’re on their way. Nick, Dario said something which led me to make an inference. I’m hoping I’m mistaken. Have you been behaving inappropriately with Miss Chandler?”
Nick winced and decided to brazen it out. “Yes. That’s how I got hold of Beth Two’s letter. If I hadn’t been there, Rob would have given it to Beth and she’d know about the replica, exactly what you want to avoid.”
“Not good enough. I doubt you got into Miss Chandler’s bed with a view to securing a letter you didn’t know existed. You didn’t work for this, it fell into your hands while you were indulging yourself. It’s certainly not something you can take any credit for. Stop making up your own rules, Nick, I won’t have it. And if you insist on seducing females you’re paid to watch, do it in your own time. You can take this as a warning.”
The line went dead. “Well done, Nick, thanks,” Nick muttered. He sat on one of the leather benches, watching the door from behind his newspaper till Fraser and Katie turned up. With Fraser in place, Nick got Katie to accompany him as he searched the whole Barbican complex before leaving; he needed her to check out the Ladies’ cloakrooms. This took the best part of an hour, but he didn’t believe in neglecting the obvious.
Replica ~ Lexi Revellian
CHAPTER 24
Things are looking up …
Freddie was very good on the trip to the Barbican; he hardly cried at all, much less than I’d expected. I enjoyed coaxing reluctant chuckles from him, and it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if he didn’t understand what I was saying. A bit like Inky Pink. Trodden snow covered the pavements, not too slippery, and cars churned brown slush in the roads. The sun came out now and then, which was a pleasant change, though it was still freezing.
Unexpectedly, as I got closer to the Barbican, I got cold feet about checking the Ladies, not that there was any reason for Sir Peter’s people to look for me in the Barbican more than anywhere else. It was perfectly safe; nothing at all to worry about. But for some reason, just the thought of the walk towards the first floor Ladies made my hands sweat as if landmines lurked beneath the bland acres of carpet. I tried to believe my real fear was of the note not being there, which my subconscious for reasons of its own had translated into a terror of spec ops spiriting me away. But I wasn’t reassured.
As I entered the building it got worse; my heartbeat redoubled and fear made me dizzy. Pull yourself together, you’re being ridiculous. I stopped to make sure my most recognizable feature, my hair, was tucked under my hat, took off my maroon hoodie and folded it on the shelf below Freddie’s seat with trembling fingers, and made myself press on.
The first floor. A civilized smell of coffee; people sat around, on their phones or laptops, chatting or reading; impossible to know if anyone was watching for me. No mines exploded, no hand fell on my shoulder, and no note waited for me taped to the bin in the far cubicle. If the other Beth had got my letter, she was probably researching journalists and the note would be here tonight. The journey from the Ladies was as uneventful as the one to it, and I pushed Freddie out of the main doors into Silk Street with relief. My apprehension had been groundless.
Jenny seemed happier when we got back to the flat. She’d tidied up and put on make-up and looked a lot perkier, and was evidently pleased Freddie was still cheerful. She showed me where the things were to change him (I lied and said I’d had experience with a friend’s baby – after all, how difficult could it be?) Then she told me what to give him to eat, and said to make myself whatever I wanted. She said he might have a nap after lunch, or not. She wrote down her mobile number for emergencies.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” She halted by the open door, suddenly uncertain about leaving him.
“We’ll be fine, won’t we, Freddie? How long will you be, d’you think?” She was going to get the tube to Oxford Street for some retail therapy combined with last minute Christmas shopping.
She glanced at her watch. “It’s just gone ten thirty … I should be back before two. I might ring to see how you’re doing – and do call me if there’s anything at all …”
“I will.”
We stood at the window so Freddie could wave to her. After that we played with his bricks for twenty minutes; I wanted to be absolutely certain she wouldn’t pop back for something she’d forgotten. Then I scooped him up.
“Come on, Freddie. I know it’s wrong, but I’m going to wash my clothes. All of them, every last stitch, so let’s go and find a dressing gown for me to borrow. How lucky you can’t talk yet.”
I chose a grey towelling robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door, as it clearly belonged to Jenny’s husband, and men are less observant. I’d have to check for red hairs before returning it to its hook. Freddie watched with interest.
“Because I shouldn’t be doing this, I’m making up for it by doing the ironing while the washing is going round. If you like, you can be my second in command, and help me by playing on your own while I do it. Of course, I’ll still talk to you so you won’t get bored, and if you want me to look at anything I will. Then we’ll do some drawing. I’ll draw you a picture of Inky Pink.”
I was now enveloped in the grey dressing gown, with all my clothes in an unappetizing heap. I shoved them in the washing machine, added powder and set it to do a quick wash, thirty degrees. If Jenny returned before they were clean, tumble-dried and back on me, I’d have to say Freddie had been comprehensively sick – but I really hoped this would not be necessary. I’d have loved a bath, but it seemed too risky – I think I’d know if a stranger had a bath in my flat – and I wasn’t sure it was possible to look after a baby properly at the same time.
Freddie didn’t want to play on his own, so he sat in his bouncy chair and I folded the legs of the ironing board and knelt by it on the floor so he could watch me do the ironing. He quite liked that. Then we read a book together and he decided he would have a nap today. I had a nap too.
When the time came to change him, I wasted one nappy before working out how to stick the tapes on right, but I gave a running commentary on our progress and Freddie didn’t seem to mind my inefficiency too much.
Jenny didn’t get back till five o’clock. She rang to see how we were doing, and to tell me she’d be late. By the time she returned, laden with carrier bags, I was dressed in my own clothes once more, the ironing was done and neatly piled, and Freddie had had his tea and was drawing a picture. (Turned out he favoured abstract rather than figurative art, though he liked my cat and baby pictures.) I’d taken her at her word and eaten enough to make me feel fuller than I had for days; what with that, clean clothes, and the central heating, I felt marvellous.
Jenny was very struck by the fact I’d done the ironing. She got out her purse and did some mental arithmetic. She handed me two twenties and a ten pound note, and told me to keep the change. Fifty pounds! I could buy a lock for the door, get food, more clothes …
“Beth, any chance of you coming tomorrow? You’ve been a life-saver.”
“Sure. What time?”
“Say eleven o’clock? Would that be okay?”
“I think so. If not, I’ll ring you.”
I set off for the City. Now that I was so close to my goal, I couldn’t bear for anything to go wrong; I intended to be very, very careful.
In Southgate Road I bought black hair dye and scissors in a chemist’s, then doubled back to a builders’ merchant, Chas Tapp. The man was really nice and helped me choose a lock for my door, and also sold me a neat little blue-enamelled camping stove. He joked about my going camping over the Christmas break to enjoy the snow, and reminded me I’d need a gas cylinder for the stove. Stupidly, I hadn’t allowed for this, and it only left me with eleven pounds fifty-eight change. I had not meant to spend so much, but told myself it didn’t matter since Jenny would pay me again tomorrow. The prospect of a hot meal cooked in my own place was a cheering one. I went to the mini market next door and bought a tin of soup, bread and eggs,
then in a spirit of in for a penny, in for a pound, added a cheap bottle of screw-cap wine to celebrate my new job.
Two hours later, in a cloakroom in Liverpool Street Station, I surveyed myself in the mirror. My redhead’s skin appeared extra pale against black hair and eye makeup, lipstick providing the only relief from the graphic contrast of black and white. I resembled the cover of a vampire novel; I looked harder edged, older, less soft.
My reflection smiled at me. Not bad at all.
I picked up every single hair from where I’d hacked off some of the length to make my curls fluff up. I used a paper towel to clean spots of dye from the basin and floor, tore it up and flushed it with the hair down the lavatory, then flushed repeatedly till it was all gone. I put the empty dye packet in my bag. I didn’t want to leave any traces of what I’d been doing.
Nearly time to go to the Barbican and check the first floor Ladies. Anticipation zinged through me; I was confident the letter would be waiting under the bin.
Replica ~ Lexi Revellian
CHAPTER 25
Looking for results
His search over, Nick wished Katie luck and left the building. Outside, the Barbican was a labyrinth on a grand scale, with its mix of walkways, stairs, public buildings, car parks and homes. Locked gates protected private areas; some doors opened one way but not the other. An easy place to escape pursuit for anyone who knew it.
A staircase took Nick down to Fore Street. On his phone he brought up Google Maps. From the list of familiar locations Beth had given him, the obvious place to start was the City, since he was there already. First, Barts; a hospital has plenty of areas you can hang around with no one asking your business; it’s warm and has lavatories and places you can buy food. After that Liverpool Street Station for the same reasons. And he would methodically search every back street for an unoccupied building, a boarded-up flat, or an underground car park for signs she had slept there. Somewhere she wouldn’t be noticed, somewhere easy to get into for a girl with no tools or a ladder.
Nick visualized it as a computer game, a maze of dark streets, with two bright moving spots, him and the replica. Eventually, he’d corner her, move round a bend and those spots would converge. If he could find her hideout, he’d be waiting when she returned – unless the others at the Barbican got her first … which would be annoying, but he’d better get used to the idea. Having set it up for Beth to receive the letter and respond, there’d be no way Beth Two wouldn’t check for a note.
Sir Peter Ellis waited for Richard to answer his phone, tapping his fingers on the desk’s leather surface. He’d be there for sure, but he didn’t always pick up, a recurring source of irritation.
“Hello, Professor McKinnis here.”
“Richard. How are things?”
“I’m missing Beth.” The Professor’s voice was querulous. “This new girl hasn’t a clue. Doesn’t know where anything is, can’t spell, and insists on going home on the dot. I really don’t see why Beth can’t come back here.”
Sir Peter was not going to get drawn into this discussion again. He said briskly, “No doubt she’ll improve with time. I rang regarding quite another matter: tests on the replica, once we have it.”
“You know my reservations about that. No ethics committee in the country would find it acceptable. The girl is exactly the same as Beth. You can’t treat her like a lab rat. It’s inhumane.”
“You’re entitled to your views, Richard, and I respect your position. Nobody is going to insist you go against your conscience. However, from a purely scientific point of view I am sure you’ll be the first to admit this is a golden opportunity. Experiments on the replica are the quickest way to show what went wrong last Friday, and how you can put it right. And the faster you get results, the more soldiers’ lives will be saved. Isn’t that worth shelving a few principles for?”
“It’s unnecessary – I’m extremely close to a breakthrough, nearly there. And once you start shelving principles, you’re on a very slippery slope. If you’re going to use that argument, you might as well say why not experiment on both Beths, because of the quicker outcome you’d get when you have a control?”
Sir Peter sighed, audibly. “So what about limited involvement – are you prepared to suggest fruitful lines of study for someone else to try on the replica?”
“No.”
A pause. “I see. Well, in that case, Richard, you will have to accept that leaves me no option but to bring in someone who is prepared to do the research. I’ve sounded out Ben Pearson, and he’s very keen. He’s able to start this week. He’ll come to the Institute tomorrow morning, and I’ll expect you to give him duplicates of all the work you’ve done so far, and talk him through it.”
“I’m re-running the figures tomorrow. I won’t have time.”
“The figures can wait till Thursday. We need to press on with this. I’m relying on your co-operation, don’t let me down. I’ll be coming in with Ben to introduce you. I’ll see you tomorrow, Richard, at nine o’clock.”
As darkness descended over the city, Nick caught a taxi south across the Thames to his flat, looking forward to an hour or two at home after an unproductive day searching cold streets. He switched on lights and the central heating and made himself a mug of tea, then rang Fraser.
“Hi Nick.”
“What happened?” He knew they hadn’t got Beth Two; if they had, they’d have told him.
“Nothing. She didn’t show, that’s all. How good was your info?”
“Good. Are you sure? You couldn’t have missed her?”
“She wasn’t there. How could we miss that hair?”
“She wore a hat, maybe.”
“We looked at anyone who might be her wearing a hat. Unless she’s managed to grow five inches, get multiple face piercings or have a baby in the last four days, she wasn’t there. Katie followed the likely ones into the Ladies for a closer look. She didn’t show. Maybe she’ll turn up tonight. Paul and Dario are there now.”
“Maybe,” said Nick. “See you.” He walked restlessly to the window, sipping tea and staring out at the lights on the far side shimmering into the steely depths of the Thames. Odd Beth Two hadn’t shown up. Perhaps something had happened to her; living rough was not safe for a woman. Or she’d thought of another plan, a better one.
He went and turned on the bath taps, intending a long soak before getting into warmer clothes for the shift outside Beth’s that evening. It occurred to him he should have rung her, she might have expected him to after last night. He hadn’t thought of it. He rang Thames House and asked to speak to Beth Chandler. There was a delay while the receptionist tracked down her extension.
“Hello?”
“Beth. It’s Nick.”
“Oh … hi.”
He knew she was blushing. “Sorry I had to rush off this morning.” He realized he hadn’t worked out what to say. “So … how is your second day going?”
“Very like the first.”
“Ah.”
“A bit better with the new computer.”
“Lucky you managed to get one.”
“It’s much faster.”
“Good.” This was terrible. They were talking like two strangers forced to share a table in a crowded restaurant. “Thank you for dinner last night.”
“Oh, that’s okay …”
“No, without you, it would have been cheese and tomato sandwiches, and I can’t stand tomato.” Pause. “It’s the only thing I don’t eat. That and sprouts.”
Beth said nothing, no doubt reduced to silence by the stupidity and tedium of his conversation. To hell with it. “Beth, last night was great, you’re absolutely gorgeous, and I’d really like to see you again. Not just see you … but maybe I should take you out to dinner first, or something. So you don’t think I’m taking advantage of you …”
She laughed, sounding happier. “I don’t think that …”
“Don’t you? In that case, what are you doing at two o’clock tonight?”
&nb
sp; “Sleeping.”
“Shame … I’m six till two all this week. I shouldn’t leave Ollie on his own too much, he starts to think he can manage without me. How about Saturday? We could have lunch.”
“That would be nice. Yes please.”
“Deal.”
Nick pocketed the phone, grinning, and headed for the bathroom. He’d caught the bath just in time before the water lapped the overflow. As he stripped off, the phone vibrated in his pocket. A text message, plus a call. Pete.
“Hi.”
“The replica’s been picked up on CCTV on the corner of Old Street and Hoxton Street. Two images, I’ve emailed them to you.”
Nick put the phone on speaker while he studied the photos. The replica, recognizable in spite of the middling quality of the image, still in the maroon hoodie, awkwardly hugging a small, vaguely gothic bookshelf. Behind her, an elaborate mural of Marlon Brando in the Godfather; to her left, a row of bicycles. The camera had caught her because she was glancing up at the falling snow. A stray curl of red hair had escaped her hood. Black make-up made her eyes theatrical, and she wore dark lipstick, but the angle of the jaw, the curve of her cheek and full lips he knew intimately, unmistakeably, from kissing Beth last night; he knew what she looked like under those clothes, and what she felt like too. In the second picture she had turned to her left, away from the main road, and her head was down. Had she been like that a few seconds before, the face recognition software wouldn’t have picked her up.
“When was this?”
“Yesterday evening at seven forty-three.”
“Okay.”
He went to Google Maps. The only reason for her to carry furniture was because she’d found a hideout, and was heading for it; and it wouldn’t be too far, either, judging by the uncomfortable way she was holding the shelves. (Why did she want shelves?) Yes, here it was, recognisable although Google had logged the area in summer and there were sunlit leaves on the trees; parked bikes, same building though different ‘art’ graffiti, a profusion of bollards. He could see the camera that had caught her. She’d been turning left into Hoxton Street, heading north. He made some mental calculations and put the phone away.
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