“Excuse me.”
The woman looked up at her.
“Sorry, but I don’t suppose you know what number? Her house.”
Aaisha shook her head. “Sorry.”
Rita nodded. “No problem.”
She could find it, she knew that. She only had one street whose windows she needed to look in. How long could it take?
Chapter Thirty-One
Jennifer crashed into the house, tired and frustrated. The forty-minute walk back to the constituency office followed by the five-minute drive home had done nothing to dissolve her anger. She’d been recognised by two separate people on the way, both of whom reacted with surprise. One was pleased to see her, the other suspicious. She’d had to snap out of her black mood and switch into professional mode, something she’d become practised at over the years.
She flung her bag onto the kitchen table. She peeled off her jacket and threw it over a chair. It fell to the floor but she ignored it. Her shirt, crisp and white this morning, was sweaty and creased now.
She took a few deep breaths, listening to the house. It was quiet. Yusuf would be out at the homeless shelter, Hassan at school. She had the house to herself. It felt odd.
Then she heard movement upstairs and remembered Meena. Allowing her to stay had seemed like a good idea at the time but now she wasn’t so sure. How long before Yonda reported her missing? It wouldn’t take much to imagine her coming to the house of her former patient and her ex-boyfriend’s family.
But she owed Meena. She’d been gentle with her during her Celebration, ignoring the fact that she was answering the wrong questions. Jennifer smiled. At least her media training had been some use.
She bent to pick up her jacket and headed for the stairs. She needed a shower and a change of clothes.
Meena was coming down, looking embarrassed. She wore the same black trousers and shirt and green hijab she’d been wearing the day she arrived. Jennifer kept offering to wash them but it seemed she preferred to do it herself in the bathroom sink. At least she’d accepted Jennifer’s spare pyjamas. They were too long for her, the legs trailing behind her ankles, but it was better than having the poor girl sleep in her clothes.
“Hello,” Jennifer said. “How are you?”
“Fine thanks. You?”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look it.”
Jennifer put a hand to her face. “Don’t I?”
“I heard you come in.”
Jennifer had slammed the door and stomped her way into the house. It hadn’t occurred to her that Meena would hear.
“Oh. No.” She sighed. “I went to see Tom Hamilton. The MP.”
Meena’s eyes lit up. “Oh? And?”
“Not good. Come downstairs.”
She turned for the kitchen; the shower would have to wait. Meena followed behind her, almost silent. Jennifer wondered if she’d been washing her black socks every night too. Was that why she got up so late? Was she waiting for it all to dry?
There was a still-warm pot of coffee in the machine. Jennifer grabbed two mugs and poured. She placed them on the table.
“Milk?”
“No thanks.”
She opened the fridge, grabbed the milk then sat opposite Meena.
“What did he say?” Meena asked.
“He said he couldn’t help.”
“But Samir’s his constituent.”
“It’s not about Samir. It’s me. I’m toxic, it seems.”
“Toxic?”
Jennifer sat back and folded her fingers around her coffee. “An embarrassment. John Hunter – the leader of the party – has—”
“I know who John Hunter is.”
“Sorry. Of course you do. Anyway, he’s told them not to go near me.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
Jennifer looked up. Meena’s eyes were on her, her face calm.
“Can you believe it’s because I’m a friend of the Prime Minister?”
“Catherine Moore?”
“The one and only.”
Jennifer nodded and drank her coffee. She felt tired. Samir had never felt so far away, even with this girl who claimed to love him sitting opposite her. Especially with her there.
“Doesn’t that help?” asked Meena.
“That’s what I thought. But she won’t help me either.”
“How do you know?”
“I went to see her.”
“At Downing Street?”
“Yeah.”
Meena let out a whistling breath. “You don’t mess around, do you?”
Jennifer shrugged.
“So why won’t she help you, if she’s your friend?” asked Meena.
“As far as she’s concerned, that relationship is over. She wants nothing to do with me.”
“Oh.”
Meena slumped in her chair and picked up her coffee. She winced; it was hot, without milk.
“Can I tell you something?” asked Jennifer.
Meena looked up. “Of course.”
“You can’t tell anyone. Not Samir, not Yonda.”
“I’m not really in a position to tell either of them right now.”
“No. Sorry. OK. Well, it’s like this.” She paused. Could she trust Meena with this? Did it even matter if she did tell anyone? Yusuf wanted her to go public with it, after all. “Catherine Moore helped me. She told me about Samir.”
“What about him?”
“That he was under suspicion. She warned me.”
“How? How did she know?”
“She was a Home Office minister. She had access to files.”
“But wouldn’t that be breaking the law?”
“Yes. She broke the Official Secrets Act.”
Meena leaned back. “That’s your answer then.”
“What is?”
“Tell her you’ll expose her. She’s the Prime Minister. She’ll do anything to avoid being arrested.”
Jennifer shook her head. “It’s not as easy as that.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got no evidence, for starters. And she’s my friend. She may not care about that, but I do. She put her neck on the line for me.”
“Isn’t Samir more important?”
Jennifer looked across the table at Meena. She seemed so mature, compared to Samir. What had she seen in him?
“Yes. He is. But that doesn’t change the fact I have no evidence.”
Meena slumped back again, gazing at the table. “How did she tell you? Was it by phone? Email?”
“No. It was—”
“No. She wouldn’t have been as stupid as that. Face to face, I’ll bet.”
“She sent me a note.”
“A note?”
“A handwritten note. She put it under the door to my office.”
“Do you have it?”
Jennifer shook her head. “I can’t find it.”
Meena straightened. “Hang on a minute.”
“What?”
“A handwritten note?” Meena was rising from her chair. She looked flustered.
“Yes.”
“Oh. Oh I think, I mean I could have…” Meena looked up at Jennifer, her expression wary.
“What?”
Meena drew in a breath. “I think I’ve found it.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Rita hated this. Standing outside like some idiot, watching people’s houses. Looking through their windows like some kind of stalker.
The street was a long one, with over a hundred houses. Despite being close to the motorway, it was quiet, with little traffic. Which made her conspicuous.
She decided to start at the far end and work her way back. But there were no alleyways, no catering bins she could hide behind. This was a neat suburban street with tidy front gardens and cars parked on driveways.
She found a house that looked unoccupied and decided to find shelter in its front garden. It was overgrown with weeds and tall grass and offered the perfect
hiding place. But everyone who passed would throw a glance at this house; it seemed they were all aware of it and interested by it.
A middle-aged man came out of the next-door house with a bin bag. She crouched down and watched him, trying not to breathe.
He turned.
“Oi!”
She slid down into the bushes, her heart thumping.
“I can see you, you know. Who are you? That’s private property.”
“Sorry.” She stood, keeping her body low to avoid being seen from the houses opposite, and retreated to the street. He was standing on the pavement outside his house, hands on hips.
“That damned house,” he said. “Always attracts trouble. You’re not doing drugs, are you?”
“No,” Rita replied.
“Well bugger off. Some of us have got teenagers. We don’t want your sort hanging around.”
She crossed the street so she could get to the top of the road without passing him. She felt his eyes on her back as she hurried away, breathing heavily. Could he have recognised her?
Chapter Thirty-Three
“You’ve what?”
Meena shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been going through his things. But it gives me a connection to him, being in there. With his stuff.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jennifer. “Tell me about the note.”
“Well, I saw something tucked under his mattress. It must have shifted with me sleeping on it.” She tugged at her hijab.
“Go on. Where is it?”
“Wait a minute.”
Meena pushed her chair back and left the room. Jennifer stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Meena’s footsteps upstairs.
Jennifer’s hands were shaking, her breathing rough. Why was she taking so long?
She stood and went to follow her. When she reached the stairs, Meena was coming down, a piece of paper in her hand.
Jennifer reached out for it. It was folded tightly. She opened it.
Your son’s on a list. Suspected of associating with members of a proscribed organisation. Don’t know any more.
Destroy this.
Jennifer put a hand to her chest, staring at the words. They danced in front of her eyes. She was back in her office, before Samir had run away, before they were both arrested. Before she’d known Meena existed. Catherine had summoned her to a pub outside Westminster, then not turned up. On the phone, she’d told Jennifer to go back to her office.
“Is it enough?” asked Meena. She was hovering, peering around her at the note. Jennifer realised again how short she was, or maybe it was just her own height.
“I don’t know. Her name isn’t on it.”
“Nor Samir’s.”
“But the handwriting. It could be matched.”
Meena nodded. Jennifer heard a car pass outside. She glanced at the door.
“Come back into the kitchen.”
They took their places again, the note lying flat on the table between them.
“What are you going to do?” asked Meena.
Now that she had it, her evidence, Jennifer was more confused than ever. She needed to get to Catherine. If she told her, if she warned her…
“Are you going to the press?”
Jennifer looked up at Meena. “Why would I do that?”
“You’ve got evidence that the Prime Minister broke the law. It changes everything.”
“No.”
“It does.”
“Not that. No, I’m not going to the press. I’m going to Catherine.”
“Catherine Moore?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
Jennifer felt her shoulders slump. She was tired. She’d dreamed about Samir last night. He’d appeared in his room, been there when she’d opened the door to check on Meena. The whole thing had been a mistake. He’d never been arrested, never been under suspicion. He was still here, where he should be.
Except he wasn’t.
“You already told me she won’t listen to you,” Meena said.
“She might now.”
“You know her better than me, I suppose.”
Jennifer eyed Meena, wondering how well she really did know Catherine. Had everything she’d said to Jennifer been a lie, a front to use her, find out what the Opposition was doing?
No. It had been more than that.
She stood up. “I’ll talk to her. She’s a politician. I know what they’re like. She’ll do anything we ask, if it means holding onto power.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am. We’re going to get Samir back. Trust me.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rita walked slowly up and down the street at irregular intervals. In between, she took shelter in a bus stop on the main road. She received uneasy looks from the people waiting.
She stank. Her hair was a thicket of tangles. But the buses were frequent and no one had time to call the police.
She walked along the road maybe seven times that first day, each time going slowly, scanning the houses as surreptitiously as she could. She picked times when she thought Jennifer might come out, or at least there would be enough traffic for her not to be noticed: rush hour, the school run. She felt more comfortable at night, knowing the shadows acted as a disguise. And those houses that left their front curtains open were easy to peer inside, but Jennifer wasn’t among the occupants she saw.
The night grew darker. It was getting cold. She decided to head back to the church and see if she could find shelter. No one was there but she found a spot tucked into the side of the building and managed to get snatches of sleep. In the morning a woman woke her.
“Hello.”
Rita sprang up, panicking. Sleep still tugged at her and made her mind foggy. She said nothing, unable to find the right words.
The woman smiled. “I’ll give you the name of a hostel. You shouldn’t be out here in the cold.”
The woman approached her. Rita shrank back and the woman stopped. She was short and chubby, with curly red hair and a green coat with a pocket hanging off. She looked kind, if a little down-at-heel herself.
The woman continued towards the door Rita had entered by the previous day. “Come on in. You need some breakfast.”
Rita followed, her stomach growling in response.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Catherine didn’t return Jennifer’s calls. She tried the Downing Street switchboard, her constituency office, even the Palace of Westminster. No call came back.
She called Maggie.
“I appreciate this. I know you’ve helped me get to her before.”
“No worries. If it means a bit of fun at the Prime Minister’s expense, I’m game. So what do you need me to do?”
“Get close to her. In the lobby, on the way into a vote or something.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
“There has to be a vote coming up where you’re supporting the government.”
Maggie laughed, her voice deep and cigarette-scarred down the phone. “There’s a vote on Thursday. John’s supporting her. But not me.”
“You’re breaking the Whip?”
“Come on. That hasn’t stopped me before.”
“Alright. So can you find another opportunity to get close to her? I want you to tell her something. I don’t want her aides to hear.”
“I’ll manage something, don’t worry. So what’s the message?”
Jennifer licked her lips. She’d gone over this many times. She needed something that would be clear to Catherine, but to no one else. It had to sound innocuous, while being anything but.
She’d written it down.
“Right. I need you to say exactly these words. Exactly as I tell you.”
“Hang on.”
The line went quiet. Jennifer listened to movement in the background, wondering if Maggie had changed her mind.
“Maggie?
“Sorry. Needed to find a pencil. Fire away.”
Jen
nifer cleared her throat. “OK. Here it is. Tell her: Jennifer says thanks for the letter you sent her. She’s so glad she’s found it.”
“What letter?”
“I can’t tell you. Sorry.”
Maggie snorted. “Oh, this is fun. Cloak and dagger. Don’t worry, love. I’ll be discreet.”
Jennifer swallowed. Maggie was normally about as discreet as a cockerel at dawn. But she was the only person who Jennifer could trust to help her. She’d considered John, but after what Tom had said, he was out of the question.
“Leave it with me,” said Maggie. “D’you want me to call you when it’s done?”
“You don’t need to. I’m sure I’ll be getting a call.”
“Right-o. Take care, Jennifer.”
“I will. Thanks.”
The call came that evening; a mobile phone number Jennifer didn’t recognise. She answered it, hesitant.
“Hello?”
“It’s Catherine.”
“Catherine, hello. How are—”
“Let’s drop the pleasantries, eh? You’re trying to—” She hesitated. Jennifer wondered if anyone would be listening in; Downing Street staff, security services, hackers?
“I’m not trying to do anything. I’m just asking for your help.”
“You’ve got a funny way of going about it.”
“This is important to me. My son could be deported.”
“Look. Come to my constituency office. Glenda will give you a call, time and date.”
The phone went dead. Jennifer stared at it and allowed herself a smile.
Yusuf made a copy of the letter for her and hid the original in a safe he’d bought especially.
“It’s a bit much isn’t it, for a letter?” she asked.
“Not this letter. You have no idea who could be after it. We need to get our burglar alarm checked properly, too.”
She frowned at him, worried at what she’d started. Had she made her family targets again? Was Hassan safe?
On Sunday, she headed out for their meeting, her briefcase perched on the passenger seat next to her, empty save for a notepad and the photocopy. She patted it each time she stopped at traffic lights, making sure the passenger door was locked.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 64