Shattered: a gripping crime thriller

by Heleyne Hammersley

  ‘I’m not at my desk,’ she snapped, taking a step backwards as she closed her laptop. Simon was a stickler for the truth, from other people at least, and she felt the need to back up her statement by removing herself from the vicinity of her workspace.

  ‘Anna, I can see you. You just stepped back so you wouldn’t technically be lying to me.’

  She turned to see his grinning face peering through the glass-top section of the office door, phone still to his ear.

  ‘Fucking idiot,’ she muttered as she hung up and marched towards her boss and former lover. She pulled open the door. ‘What do you want? I’ve just finished for the day.’

  Simon’s grin widened. Anna could see that he was trying to wind her up, to bait her into losing her temper but she wouldn’t let him win. Not this time.

  ‘Ten minutes? I just need to go through the case notes on Jonah James.’

  ‘No, you don’t. I finished and submitted the notes yesterday. Why wait until knocking-off time to come and find me?’

  Simon hung his head and peered up at her through strands of blond fringe. His expression was sheepish but his eyes were on the verge of laughter. ‘I thought we might have a chat over a drink.’

  So that was his game. He’d been trying to win her back for a few weeks now. After the first few acrimonious months he’d obviously realised what he’d been missing and had decided to up his game. Anna wasn’t going to fall for it though. She’d been making discreet enquiries at other law firms and knew that there were positions coming up in Rotherham and Sheffield that offered better pay and the possibility of making partner before she retired. If she stayed here, she’d either never advance or, if she did, she’d never be able to shrug off the rumours that she’d only been promoted because she was sleeping with the boss.

  It had been a huge mistake. Still reeling from a nasty divorce and a relocation to Doncaster, she’d fallen for Simon’s seemingly effortless blend of professionalism and youthful good looks before she knew that he was a serial shagger and would chase anything in a skirt. She should have known. Simon was ten years younger than her and even though Anna knew she looked good for her age and she dressed to optimise her carefully groomed silver hair and trim figure, she hadn’t been convinced that Simon wanted anything beyond the challenge of getting her into bed. She’d had plenty of offers throughout her life and hadn’t been flattered by Simon’s attentions to the point of forgetting all reason. He’d just turned out to be different from the man she thought he might be. Now though, he seemed to have become obsessed with her – ever since she’d dumped him – and she wasn’t sure how to get rid of him.

  ‘I need to get home, Simon,’ Anna lied. ‘I’m still not fully briefed on the Portman case and we both know that we don’t need the publicity of another long battle.’

  Simon’s face went a shade paler. They’d still been sleeping together when a supposedly clear-cut case of entrapment had suddenly gone tits up and, in the long run, they’d been lucky to win. It wasn’t even a case that Anna had wanted. As a defence lawyer she preferred to support the misused in society, to give them a fair hearing, but she’d allowed Simon to coax her into defending a man accused of sexual assault. It was a high-profile case and had attracted a lot of publicity. Over the course of their discussions, it had become clear that the defendant was innocent of the charges but that he was certainly guilty of similar crimes over a period of three or four years. They’d won but it had left a nasty taste and had deepened Anna’s mistrust of her boss and her contempt for herself for being taken in by him.

  ‘Look,’ Simon said. ‘I just want to clear the air between us, that’s all. I didn’t like the way things ended between us and I–’

  ‘Simon,’ Anna cut him off, unwilling to listen to any more of his bullshit. ‘We had some fun and then I found out that you were seeing other women. It wasn’t what I signed up for, so I ended it. It’s not complicated and it’s not an issue. I’m in a hurry because I want to get home and change. I’m meeting somebody for a drink later and I haven’t seen them for years. I don’t have time for this.’

  He nodded and leaned against the wall of the corridor allowing Anna enough room to push past him. ‘I just hope he’s worth it,’ he muttered as Anna pushed the button to summon the lift.

  The lie had been a simple one because it had been based in truth. Anna had no plans to meet anybody that evening, but she did want to do some research and it was connected to her past. Earlier in the week she’d received an email to her work email address from an unknown sender that, when opened, claimed to be from somebody who’d known her over thirty years ago asking if she wanted to meet. Anna hadn’t recognised the name, so she’d ignored the contact, dismissing it as a crank or an elaborate phishing scam. The second email contained a photograph that had changed her mind. That and the name.

  She’d been using Anna since she’d graduated. Her full name, Anastasia, had always felt a bit pretentious and nobody could spell it properly so shortening it had seemed a good option at the start of her career. The name she’d used up to that point didn’t suggest ‘serious lawyer’ and she’d never been able to imagine introducing herself to potential clients as Taz, so the change had been made.

  Pouring another glass of Pinot Grigio, Anna stared again at the photograph. Grainy black and white suggested a newspaper cutting, the location unclear, but Anna knew exactly when and where it had been taken. Nobody who knew her now would have recognised the young woman in the image – face contorted with hatred as she pulled back her arm to throw a missile at a male police officer standing a few yards away – but Anna recognised her younger self clearly.

  Greenham.

  The word brought an onslaught of memories. Woodsmoke, cheap booze, pot and the constant, bone-numbing cold. The anger simmering under the surface of every interaction like the constant thrum of an engine in a waiting car. She’d spent eighteen months camped out on the perimeter of the base; eighteen months of hunger and frustration. But they’d also been eighteen months of camaraderie and fun.

  The photograph was from a sit-in with a large group of police officers in the background. Anna recognised two of the women to her right and remembered that they’d left after the first winter to shouts of ‘traitor’. She’d been so naïve then, so idealistic. A part of her was proud of the role she’d played in trying to build a better future, but another part was embarrassed by her former black-and-white views. Life had seemed so simple then. It was only after two years of study that she began to recognise the complexities and the nuances of modern life and international relations. She’d turned up for work hungover after Margaret Thatcher had resigned – who hadn’t? – but she hadn’t seen the fall of the woman as a victory for the downtrodden and deserted. Having lived through the fallout from 9/11 and now the Brexit debacle Anna had resigned herself to the stupidity and small-mindedness of politicians of all flavours and persuasions and accepted what she couldn’t change while still trying to change what she couldn’t accept. She hoped that, by now, she was wise enough to know the difference.

  The message was short and contained no hint of threat, but Anna couldn’t put a face to the name.

  Hi again Taz. I wonder if my last email got to you – perhaps you don’t remember me so I thought this might bring back memories. I loved my time at Greenham Common and remember you very fondly. You taught me so much and I often think of your stories and explanations. You were my hero. Good times, eh? It would be great to catch up sometime.

  Love Titch

  ‘Titch’ suggested either a child or somebody quite small, but Anna had no recollection of anybody at Greenham with that nickname. There were a lot of children around and Anna probably called most of them Titch at one time or another. Some came and went over the course of the year – their presence at the base dictated by school holidays – some younger ones were there all the time. It could have been one of the women – a lot were known only by nicknames in order to protect their identity if any of their friends were arr
ested and questioned about their associates.

  Anna looked at the photograph again. There were three other women and one looked quite small – was that Titch? She had no idea, but she did have some thoughts about where she might look for clues.

  The loft had been one of the reasons that Anna had bought the house. After her divorce, she’d needed to downsize from their five-bedroom Victorian terrace in a bright, leafy square in Lincoln but she had a lot of clutter still to sort through and the loft space in her current house was the perfect place to store it. The fixed sliding ladder that dropped down automatically when she opened the hatch on the landing had been a bonus.

  The boxes and bags stacked around the edges of the space and hulked against the underside of the eaves contained the remains of Anna’s possessions from her previous lives. They were still waiting to be sorted into junk and treasure, but she’d not got around to the final declutter. Hauling herself onto the boarded floor of the loft Anna sat hunched and looked around. She didn’t subscribe to the idea that if something wasn’t valuable or practical it should be thrown out – there were years of memories in these boxes and everything meant something. Didn’t it?

  She crab-crawled across to the far wall where her semi butted up against next door, and scanned the banana boxes and old suitcases. She remembered that most of her teenage pictures were in a suitcase, but she wasn’t sure which one. Only one way to find out.

  Dragging the first piece of luggage towards her she flicked the catches and lifted the lid. School books. A whole case full of exercise books and folders from her O-level studies. Anna closed the lid and tried the next suitcase – more old books. She struck lucky on her fifth try. A hard-sided, wheeled case contained dozens of packets of photographs stored with no thought to chronology or geography.

  ‘Gonna take ages,’ Anna muttered to herself as she thumbed her way through the first packet – university parties – and placed them on the floor behind her.

  The Greenham Common photographs were lumped in with some from a family holiday when she’d been sixteen. Shy teenage poses in her one-piece swimming costume gave way to a wire fence and piles of blankets.

  ‘Gotcha!’

  Two more packets also looked promising and she settled herself more comfortably on the hard boards to have a closer look.

  Simply handling the photographs was an act of nostalgia, a form of archaeology. She was used to quickly flicking through images on the screen of her phone or on her iPad. Handling the slippery card forced her to slow down; to look more closely.

  The first images from Greenham looked like she’d been in an arty, experimental phase. Blurry shots through the artificial border of the diamonds of the wire fence focusing on one guard or a single stalk of grass. Then there were group shots. Women in makeshift shelters, women in circles, women in pain. It had felt natural at the time, being in an all-female society, but the photographs highlighted how unusual the camp had been. Some of the pictures were well composed – one or two children of indeterminate age and gender huddled against the fence while a policeman towered over them was shocking – others were little more than snapshots. As she scoured the faces Anna remembered a few names. There was Eleanor, one of the earliest protesters who seemed to do a lot of the cooking. She saw Sarah, her first serious crush, then two small boys who were obviously twins. One of them had been called Riley but she couldn’t remember the name of the other one – Titch?

  Half an hour later she was no closer to discovering the identity of her mystery correspondent and desperate for another glass of wine. With the nostalgia had come a nagging feeling that her life hadn’t turned out as she’d intended and that Taz wouldn’t have been especially impressed by the woman she’d become. Would Titch still see her as a hero? Or a failure, a sell-out?

  ‘One way to find out,’ Anna murmured to herself as she dropped one leg over the edge of the loft hatch and felt for the first rung of the ladder. A glass of wine for Dutch courage and then she’d respond to the message and arrange a meeting to see what sort of person Titch had grown into.

  1983

  Dad wasn’t happy that Mum wanted to bring me here just for the weekend. He says it’s too far to go for one night and I think he might be right. It took ages to get here yesterday because we have to come by train and bus now that there are no more van pickups, and when we arrived there was nobody here that I knew. A lot of the women were away at another site. I think that’s why we had to come, to keep up the numbers. But Mum says some of them have given up the fight and gone back to their husbands and their careers. Her face scrunches up when she says stuff like that as though those women taste sour in her mouth, like a lemon.

  Winter’s back at the camp like an unwanted visitor that the women have to accept even though they don’t like the way he makes them feel. I can see him in their eyes and the way they move as if they’re all old women, shuffling and bowing down like they have no choice but to worship the cold. Mum says that they didn’t expect to be here for so long, that another winter isn’t what they planned for, but they can’t give up now – they have to see this through and make sure that the missiles are taken away.

  I don’t really understand that. I asked Mum but she just smiled – I don’t think she knows either, but she pretends that everything will work out for the best.

  Taz turned up this morning. She’s moved her bender – that’s what the funny shelters are called – further round the perimeter. Mum didn’t seem very happy to see her, but she gave her a hug even though her eyes were cold. It was better after Taz arrived. She took me to see where she’s been staying and it was really nice even though it’s on a windier part of the fence, high up with a view over the silos. It was Taz who taught me that word – it’s where the missiles are kept – it sounds sad, like they don’t want to be here. Sigh low.

  The police arrived on Sunday morning. Lots of them. One of the leaders of the police told us all to pack up and go home but the women stayed where they were, some padlocked themselves to the fence just to be certain that they couldn’t be dragged away, and then they all started keening. I don’t like the noise. It gets in my mind and makes me want to scream. Perhaps that’s what it does to the police as well because they eventually went away. Taz laughed and called them pigs. She says they like the power they have over us more than they care about the law. She says they’re not really bothered about the base, but they like to come and frighten us just for the sake of it.

  We had a bit of a panic when Sarah disappeared. One minute she was chatting to Mum and the next minute she’d gone – just as the police arrived. I wondered if they’d arrested her and taken her away, but she came back as soon as the police had gone. She didn’t say where she’d been, but me and Taz thought that she looked a bit more scared than usual.

  I hate the police.

  After they’d gone, I saw two women putting their things into bags and taking their tent down. Taz ran over and begged them to stay but they didn’t listen and then an old red van turned up and they got in with Taz shouting ‘traitors!’ at them. Traitors are people who let you down, who side with the enemy. That’s what Taz says. She says that, when she’s older, she’ll only ever help people who care about the future and the planet. She’s going to university next year to learn to help those people.

  24

  Checking his watch yet again, O’Connor was still trying to get his brain to accept the time. Driving just over 100 miles north made a surprising difference to the daylight at this time of year. His watch was telling him that it should be dark by now, but his senses were telling him something different, something he hadn’t planned for. It wouldn’t be so easy to follow the unmarked Houghtons’ lorry in daylight.

  He’d spent a few hours trying to piece together the routes taken by Sims’s ‘special’ fleet and was fairly convinced that he was safe enough to start the tail from a convenient lay-by about five miles west of Newcastle on the A69. The two lorries he’d tracked on CCTV and ANPR cameras had both taken that
route, but he lost them after Hexham which suggested that they’d probably turned off north or south on the A68 either heading for the Scottish border or deep into the Pennines.

  The ferry from Amsterdam docked at 8.30pm and the lorries had reached O’Connor’s current location by 9.30. He’d been in position for nearly an hour watching as the traffic flow increased, HGVs and motorhomes forming the bulk of the road users – holidaymakers from Europe heading to the Lakes and Ireland, goods heading the same way, out to the Cumbrian coast, Scotland and Northern Ireland. A good handful of cars with Dutch plates passed, sticking assiduously to the speed limit as they presumably adapted to driving on the left.

  And then he spotted it. A white seven-and-a-half-tonne lorry. He clocked the index number as it passed doing just under sixty miles an hour. It was one of Sims’s.

  ‘Gotcha!’ he hissed as he turned the ignition key and slipped his Volvo into gear.

  He kept two cars between himself and the lorry, dropping his speed where necessary, as the road curved gently to the north west, the setting sun temporarily blinding before another curve sent the dazzling rays further to O’Connor’s right. He groped around for his sunglasses and flipped the visor down, narrowing his eyes as the light hit the roof of a car on the opposite carriageway and leapt through his windscreen.

  The roundabout for the A68 south slowed progress and O’Connor watched closely as the lorry decelerated, anticipating a left turn but, instead, it continued straight ahead towards Hexham and Carlisle. At the next junction he was about 200 yards behind the lorry with only a single car between them allowing him a clear view as Sims’s vehicle turned off the A69 onto the A68, heading north.

  ‘Och aye,’ O’Connor muttered to himself as they joined the road to the Scottish border. His presumption was short-lived, however, as he saw the lorry indicate left again following signs for Hadrian’s Wall and Chollerford. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the sky was a deep blue as O’Connor continued his pursuit west and then north again deeper into Northumberland.