by Tina Clough
When he is talking about his own specialist field of knowledge there are no half-finished sentences, no hesitations. He speaks fluently and coherently; it makes him a different person.
‘Who knows how to do this and how hard is it?’ says Dao. ‘And how did they mount stuff on the outside of the building that high up? And where does the electricity come from?’
‘They must have put it up the same way we took it down. One person in the window at the kitchen end and one at the middle window. Both reaching out and across, drilling anchors into the wall, getting things fastened, inserting the camera in the wooden window frame and so on. A bit laborious, but not difficult. Those long windows have small opening panes at either end, otherwise it would have been impossible. There was a power cable running from the box, in at the lower edge of the kitchen window, down behind the full height cupboard unit that butts up against the window frame and then into the power point for the dishwasher in the cupboard under the sink. Very cleverly done and most people wouldn’t notice.’
‘Why not batteries?’ I ask. ‘Wouldn’t that be simpler?’
‘Well, yes – but if they thought it would be there a long time?’
He stops talking and drinks some coffee, his eyes constantly moving around the room over the rim of the mug. I am impressed by how complex the whole set-up was, and the time it must have taken.
‘Quite a risky thing to do, breaking into her flat and doing something that took so long. What if she had come back? And the way it was done, obviously very tidy. So we know two people are involved, or more. Not a lonely stalker, unless he brought someone with him. If it’s official surveillance, who would it be?’
He doesn’t answer, just gets up and scoops up the papers. ‘I have to go and see that client. Samantha says I can see her tomorrow morning. Do you want to come?’
We say we will, and he leaves at a run.
When he has left the house feels calmer. His behaviour adds stress to every situation; I find him intensely irritating. His mannerisms are disruptive, his half-finished sentences mean you never know if he has finished talking or if there is more to come. He is easily distracted and goes off on a tangent. But maybe he was different with Hope; he seems to have been a supportive brother, someone she felt she could rely on. Or was she the strong older sister and involved him closely in her life, perhaps to give him something he could not provide for himself?
While we are making dinner Dao asks, ‘Do the police spy on people? I mean, in their homes?’
‘The police can use listening devices, but only if they think someone’s involved in serious crime. Willow will be able to tell us. And then there’s the intelligence services – I think they can do just about anything they like. Or it might be a private surveillance firm. God knows if Willow’s request for information will produce anything.’
Chapter seven
Samantha’s office is a surprise. We take the lift to the fourth floor in a relatively modern office building in Hobson Street and find ourselves in a replica of a 1960s living room. The only sign of the present era is a laptop open on a desk to one side. She herself looks exactly like the photo from Hope’s phone. Tall and thin, short grey hair and a beak of a nose.
As soon as we introduce ourselves, she asks, ‘Any news yet?’
Noah shakes his head. ‘No, nothing. But I’ve got a few things to ask you.’
She is clearly very worried, but there are no questions or exclamations of dismay. A low-key, self-controlled woman; I like her.
We sit in armchairs with wooden armrests around a kidney-shaped coffee table with splayed legs. It is an oddly comforting room. Not a single mass-produced decorator item in sight; no glass-topped desk making a power statement, just a quaintly old-fashioned, comfortable space.
Noah brings out his folder of papers and hands Samantha the photos. She flicks through them and goes back to the first ones.
‘These were taken when Hope and I went out for a meal about ten days after she got back. That young chap was on the other side of the street when we came out. She said he was her stalker, but that he had never approached her, just kept turning up.’
‘Did she say how often she had seen him?’
‘I got the impression it was only the last week or two – since she got back, anyway. She said he was never outside her flat. He would just turn up where she went in the evening. He would be somewhere close by, when she came out from a restaurant or a bar. She’d been out quite a few times since she got back, catching up with friends. She said she noticed him because he was so good-looking and such a smart dresser. She didn’t seem particularly worried, more amused than anything else. She said he never tried to talk to her.’
Dao and I exchange a glance. We have done some research on stalker behaviour and what motivates them. Dao had commented on how common it seems to be that stalkers keep sending things to the person they are fascinated with: notes, emails, flowers.
‘They want a response from you,’ she said. ‘If someone is being generous you might feel you should say thank you, even if you don’t know them – and then they can reply to that and so on. Start a conversation.’
Samantha looks down at the photo again. ‘He is handsome. I noticed that even from across the street. Hope attracts a lot of attention herself. Men often look at her in the street in that particular male way – turn around for another look. She always laughs it off, but I have seen it many times. She has something that really makes men pay attention. I said she should take a photo of him, let him see she was doing it. Maybe that would discourage him from following her around.’
‘He turned up when she was leaving places,’ says Dao. ‘But he didn’t follow her there. So how did he know in advance where she was going to be? He could only know that if he’s–’
I know she is thinking of the camera in Hope’s flat and overall surveillance; so does Noah. He interrupts quickly, as if to stop her mentioning it in front of Samantha. I have no idea why.
‘Yes, very strange,’ he says hurriedly, his voice a bit too loud. ‘Now, the next photo is that guy with the hen and the cats. Since I talked to Dao and Hunter, I’ve identified him. He’s Spencer, the documentary maker. I’ve heard Hope talk about him.’
‘That’s right. He’s a very good friend of Hope’s and also a client and friend of mine.’ Samantha looks at the picture and smiles. ‘Quite eccentric and very charming. How did you work out who he was?’
‘He is in one of Hope’s journal stories. Last night I trawled through more files on her laptop and I discovered that she occasionally saved things in random places, not with her other stories. By mistake, I imagine. I’ll have to go through everything, but it takes time. The Spencer story was where she saves articles she is working on. I printed a couple of copies for you guys to read.’
VISITING SPENCER
Spencer opened the door, with two cats and a hen crowding around his feet. I had to laugh. ‘Two cats, OK – but a hen inside? Let me take a picture of you and your family.’
‘Oh, she’s very good.’ He shooed his pets out of the way. ‘She comes in the back door and just potters around and picks up crumbs from the kitchen floor and she gets on fine with the cats.’
‘House-trained?’
‘No, sadly not.’ He looked fondly at his hen. “I think I could have done it, if I had started when she was a chicken. I close the door to my bedroom which is the only room with carpet. Yesterday she laid an egg behind the sofa.’
The discussion about a documentary went in a different direction from what I had imagined.
‘I’m thinking more of a sort of kaleidoscope format,’ said Spencer. “You know, having bits of your filmed interviews and the voice clips interwoven with other material, still photos, library footage of towns, markets, interviews with refugees and asylum seekers. Painting the big picture from a mosaic of snippets – images and words.
‘Like a general impression of the overall culture?’
Th
e two cats were sitting on the windowsill, basking in the sun. Spencer reached out a hand and absently stroked the nearest one. I thought what a great photo it would be, geraniums in pots, cats and his bearded face.
‘Yes, the overall ambience of the country, which you know so well – but showing good and bad without prejudice. Wonderful food, markets, fabrics, metal work, but also the cruelty and cold-blooded abuse of those who break the rules. And all under the shadow of the Taliban and endless strife and uncertainty.’
Ever since he rang I had wondered what had started this. As far as I knew he had not been there since he did a gap-year trip through Asia thirty years ago; now he appeared to be infused with an almost missionary zeal to present it to the world in all its glory and horror.
‘Why do you want to do it? What started this idea?’
‘A woman,’ said Spencer and cast a glance of shy glee across the table.
‘A woman! I thought you had sworn off women years ago.’
‘I know. Funny, isn’t it? But I met this woman and she’s inspired me. She is an immigrant and she has told me so much – and then Samantha told me about your trip and it just seemed as if it was meant to be.’
We spent an hour looking at the material I had on my USB drive. Even as we talked the thing started coming alive. When I left we had a basic plan for working on it together. Spencer promised to write an outline and email it in the next couple of weeks.
‘If we can get some funding, or even a small advance, I’ll be OK. It’s not an expensive thing in itself, nobody needs to go off for another trip and there aren’t any film crews involved apart from someone to do the voice-over – and, of course, lots of editing.’
I promised to show him the draft for the articles as soon as they had taken shape. My head is full of half-formed ideas.
‘Yep, that’s Spencer all right,’ says Samantha and shakes her head. ‘Very interesting guy. Not business-orientated and not commercial enough to earn big money, but he has produced some very good work.’
Noah picks up the pages and returns them to his folder. ‘I’m going to call him later. I want to know if she told him anything useful. I have Hope’s phone with me – there are some contacts on it that I’m not familiar with. Can I run them past you?’
‘Of course.’ Samantha casts a quick glance at her watch. ‘Fire away.’
‘Jane H is the first one.’
‘Probably my hairdresser. I recommended her to Hope a couple of years ago. We can cross-check the number.’
‘Louise.’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Mirrie.’
‘Miranda Hanson, friend of ours, editor.’
And so it goes on until Noah says, ‘And last of all, Willard.’
‘No idea. I’ve never heard the name.’
We get up to leave and I look around the room again. Samantha smiles. ‘I did it like this when I took the lease here nearly twenty years ago – not that I knew then that it would turn into a precursor to the current craze for mid-century style. I just liked this kind of stuff, bought it from second-hand shops and it cost practically nothing.’
‘I presume you’re going to call all these people and see if they know something?’ I say to Noah as we go down in the lift.
‘Yeah, I’ve got to try everything.’
‘Noah,’ says Dao seriously. ‘You have access to her emails on her laptop and her texts and the call log on her phone. Have you checked everything by date to see who she was in touch with after she came back? Someone she might have told about some drama on her trip? Perhaps someone who’s not in her Contacts list – just a number.’
‘No,’ he says slowly. ‘There might be somebody I’ve missed. Very good idea. Thanks, Dao.’
He is learning to pay attention when Dao suggests something.
Chapter eight
Noah calls the next morning. ‘This Willard guy – he only met Hope recently, on the flight back from Pakistan. They seem to have gone out together a couple of times since. I didn’t have long on the phone with him – he was pretty frantic about some kind of transport issue, something to do with a turbine. I’m seeing him tonight after work at his place. He said you can come too.’
Today he seems quite coherent, no half-finished sentences. I have a few questions about Noah that I would like answers to. There was a guy in my unit in Afghanistan who was a bit like him; he got pulled out halfway through a deployment.
‘OK, text me the address,’ I say, a bit taken aback by how involved we have become in this.
I turn off the heat under the porridge pot and go upstairs. Dao is getting dressed after her shower and I sit on the bed and talk to her. In her usual methodical way, she has laid out what she is going to wear in a line on the end of the bed. Today it is dark grey jeans, a bright red T-shirt and her striped white-and-grey hooded zip-top. The hoodie is exactly like the one I bought her after I found her in the forest. She was devastated when it wore out from constant washing, but we managed to find another just the same. All her things look like doll’s clothes; she can pack for a week in a carry-on bag.
‘We’ve been invited to meet the mysterious Willard tonight at his place. Are you OK continuing with this or would you rather we get out of it somehow? We don’t actually have to be involved from day to day.’
Dao slides the T-shirt over her head and reaches back with both hands to lift her long hair out from under it. I love the way she does that.
‘I think we should help him. He’s a bit weak. Not the sort of person who can do what you can – you know, things that have to be done, even if they’re really hard or against the rules. I just want us to find Hope.’
Seeing the scars on her back is a reminder of her past. After I found her in the forest I set out on a personal mission to find Bramville, to punish him for what he had done to her. I wanted to kill him. But someone else got to him first and he died a gruesome death.
But will we find Hope? And if we find her dead or damaged, how will that affect Dao?
Last year a friend of Willow’s arranged for Dao to meet with two senior maths staff at Auckland University. After a couple of hours of putting her through her paces they offered to overlook the fact that she had not been to school since she was ten.
‘You are self-taught and have an excellent grasp of isolated aspects of quite advanced mathematics,’ said the senior person. ‘I am very impressed. In some areas you are at third-year level. You have a great talent, but there are big gaps in your underlying knowledge. If you want to study here, we will assist in every way we can.’
After thinking about it for a week or two she turned them down. Media were still very interested in her at that time. The two academics we talked to were clearly fascinated by her on a personal level, which probably influenced her decision. Too much attention makes her withdraw. She said ‘No thanks’ and they offered her access to the university library, which she uses all the time. Maybe they hope she will come back to them at some stage. Now I wonder how she will cope with more attention if we manage to follow through on this search for Hope.
Late morning Dao is buried in a textbook and oblivious to the world. When I tell her that Noah has called again and will drop in a USB stick on his way somewhere, she barely looks up. ‘OK, that’s good.’ She goes back to her book.
‘He says we should read what he saved on it before we see Willard tonight.’ No answer.
I carry on with my proposal which is more difficult than usual. Setting up a so-called personal protection squad for an African opposition leader is nothing out of the ordinary: it’s what we do. What makes this one different is the skill specifications involved – directly from the client; not based on our assessment of his needs. He went to Sandhurst and spent some time in the UK armed forces; what he is asking for is a small assault unit. Either because he thinks someone is planning to take him out or because he is planning to eliminate a rival and wants to be safe from retribution. He has informed us that he
has an ‘arms bunker’ at his country estate; I am leaning towards the elimination of a political rival. I am having a hard time laying my hands on the required number of guys not currently deployed, people I trust to form a strong unit with the right experience.
My partner in London and I try to never send men into situations they are too inexperienced to handle. We’re not in the business of getting people killed unnecessarily.
Noah comes by a couple of hours later. He has made a detour on his way to a North Shore client and has no time to talk. He pushes a USB stick into my hand.
‘I found some of these in Hope’s desk drawer this morning. There are some very interesting stories on one of them, so I copied them for you. I haven’t gone through everything yet. Please read the first two or three pieces before we see Willard. See you later!’ And he is gone.
‘How do you want to do this, Dao? Read them together on a laptop or print them?’
‘Print them, please. I’m having a paper day.’
On a paper day she reads nothing on a device. Willow told her something about pixilated blue screens being bad for your eyes and she must have been convincing; Dao has had a paper day about once a fortnight ever since. I am exempt; apparently it is too late to improve my chances.
I print two copies of the first three stories and we sit down on the sofa to read. Dao lies with her feet across my legs, so I can do one of the things I do best.
‘Can you please rub my scar, Hunter?’ she says. ‘You haven’t done it for ages.’
While we read I gently rub the deep, dark brown scar made by the shackle she wore for years. It goes right around her ankle and it is brutally ugly, like a branding. She believes that rubbing it will eventually make it better. It looks exactly the same as it did a year ago.