by Evelyn Weiss
22Tuesday 8 August
It’s gone midnight as I walk up Stroud Green Road. A clammy mist has come down: that grayness that I first saw in Green Park has eaten up our summer.
I think of the other times I’ve been here, my home streets, in the dark. One: after Wycherley died, when my angel guided me. Two: when I was walking home, and Krasniqi phoned me. Three: when the Audi came and Johnson and sidekick took me away and killed Krasniqi. And now, after being released by the police, charged only with possession of a Class A drug.
I open the street door, walk upstairs, unlock the door of my flat. That’s odd: it’s dark inside. I put the light on, call out.
“Jazz!”
No reply. I call again. Only an hour ago, I phoned her from the police station, told her they were letting me go. She said she’d wait up for me. I feel a chill as I call her mobile. Someone answers.
“We thought you’d call.”
“Who – is – this?”
“We’ve met before, Holly. I told you that you and your friend were done for, if you spoke to the cops. And then, we saw you going away with them. We watched you, Holly, getting into a police car. So we knew, that she was left in the flat alone. We paid her a little visit.”
“What have you done with her?”
Click.
I know where I have to go. I call a taxi, and it seem a lifetime, waiting the five minutes for it to arrive. At last, it’s here. Camden Road, Regent’s Park, Westway, Shepherd’s Bush, Hammersmith, Barnes. Once past Camden, there’s almost no traffic, but the suburbs are like a telescope opening out and out, going on and on forever. At last: the cab slows in the driveway of the Soames, I’m thrusting a wad of money at the driver, opening the door, stepping out.
I see Cheriton at the door of the Soames.
“Where is she, Giles?”
He looks genuinely surprised.
“Where’s Jazz, you shit? You came to our flat, you stole our stuff, you bastard. Now what have you done?”
He steps back into the hotel lobby. “I thought you were in police custody.” I follow him over the threshold.
“Wrong. They let me go. You got Ruby to plant coke on me, didn’t you? Like so much of your dirty work, you get her to do it.”
I hear another car, gravel scattering in the driveway.
“You’re hardly the one to go round accusing me, Holly.” I can see him, eyeing the other doorways off the lobby. He wants to run away from me.
The car engine stops. Movement behind me: a shadow falls across my back. A moment later, my upper arms are gripped, so hard I catch my breath. I kick behind me. Bad move. I’m pushed to the floor, my face in the carpet. The back of my head is held, pushing me down, crushing my nose sideways into the floor. I cry out in pain.
“Shall I kill her?”
“Yes.”
Moments pass by. Out of the corner of one eye, I can see the floor stretch away from me, the pattern in the carpet. Cheriton’s office door must be open: I can hear his clock ticking.
“Don’t”. Cheriton’s voice.
“I’ll phone them. I’ll ask what we do now.” Johnson’s voice. So it must be his sidekick, McKay the cops said he was called, holding me down. I could never believe anyone could be so strong; just his grip on my arms is like burning. How can he shoot me, down here on the floor? Maybe he’ll knife me. I saw what he did to Wycherley: in a few seconds, I’ll look like that too. We’re all just meat, I think.
“Is she injured?” That’s Johnson.
“No.” I have long sleeves on; God knows what this guy’s grip on me would feel like on bare arms.
“OK.”
An age passes by while I wonder what that “OK” means. I can hear Johnson saying “Yes... Yes... OK.” into his phone. Someone is giving him instructions. Cheriton’s shoes hove into my limited view. Why is he just standing there? I wrench my head, and manage to look up. I see Cheriton’s white face, like chalk. He’s looking down the barrel of the gun held by Johnson. Then my face is pushed back down again.
“You. Mister Hotel Manager. You listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Do you backup to the cloud?”
“Of course not. I’ve been destroying records. The police, they’ve been here. But I was ahead of them, they didn’t get our records. They’ll never recover anything now.”
“Anything you’ve not destroyed?”
“No. We’re clear. The police...”
“I don’t fucking care about the police. Nothing happened here, you didn’t see us, right?”
“It’s a deal.”
There’s a noise, one I’ve never heard before. I see Cheriton’s legs crumple, and then his jacket, his torso, his flailing arms come into view as he falls. I can hear whimpering, then Johnson’s voice.
“Deal. Don’t fucking talk about deals. You do what we say, and be glad to be alive.”
I wrest my head round. Johnson’s rubbing the knuckles on the hand holding the gun, and I realise he’s hit Cheriton across the face with the gun. I look back to Cheriton. One cheek is a mess of blood.
“Do – you – fucking – understand?”
More whimpering. “Yes”. Crying to himself.
“OK, get her up.” I can see that the gun’s pointed at me, now. The grip eases, and I can stand.
“You come with us.”
The gun’s against my neck. Despite that, I’m not gripped or pushed now. My arms are sore, my nose hurts from the floor, but I’m unhurt, I think.
“What are you going to do with me?”
Johnson doesn’t bother to talk to me. The gun does the talking: moving me towards the car, into the back seat this time. I can still hear Cheriton, crying properly now that the danger has receded. Johnson gets in beside me, and Cheriton’s noise is suddenly shut off by the car door. The gun muzzle is under my chin now; if the trigger goes, so does my face. Would I still be alive, I wonder, if the bullet didn’t go into my skull, my brain? If instead, it just blew my mouth and chin off? Would it hurt, or would I be unconscious?
The car’s moving. McKay is driving us towards the city.
I hear an odd banging noise. I daren’t move, not even angle my head. I listen intently.
Someone’s in the car boot.
“Who is it? Who have you got there?”
“Just a woman.”
She’s still alive.
Would he shoot me right here in the car, for talking? No.
“Jazz, Jazz.”
Johnson looks straight ahead; I can feel his grip on the gun tighten, but no, it’s not worth it to kill me right now. If they shot me, the car would have to stop, they’d have to deal with Jazz too. They’re driving along side roads where they can, but there’s CCTV everywhere in London. They need to take me, without any incidents, to where they’re going.
“JAZZ!”
“Shut up, you silly bitch. Her mouth is taped. So are her wrists and ankles. So you two can’t chat to each other.”
And you’re taking us to somewhere – to kill us both together.”
“No.” He seems weary suddenly, as if he might as well tell me something. “We will deal with you. I’d be happy to blow your head off, I’d enjoy it. But that may not happen. You have an option.”
“What?”
“You’ll see. Then, once we have dealt with you, if you do what we say, then – she knows nothing. We may let her go. If you don’t do what we say – we’ll fucking burn this car, with her in it.”
I can sense a lie in his voice; they don’t really plan to let Jazz go, whether I do what they want or not. But I have to go along with this. I have to see what the next situation might bring, what chance it might throw up.
A huge black thing, like a giant tin can, looms up in the sky. It’s a gasometer. Then Battersea Power Station slides into view from behind it. The four chimneys stand up against the sky like dead fingers. All the time I can feel the barrel of the gun on my neck. But it feels almost gentle, it doesn’t pres
s my skin. Like he doesn’t want it to leave a mark. I wonder what’s coming. I see Millbank Tower, Lambeth Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, and below them all, the river.
We’re crossing Westminster Bridge, I see the glitter of lights reflected in the water, Big Ben rising up ahead of us. I think of Jack Downes. McKay turns the wheel, we curve right onto the Embankment. Cleopatra’s Needle goes past my window. The car pulls over. We’re under Waterloo Bridge.
The gun’s still at my neck. “Get out.” I open the door, step out, and all the time I can feel the muzzle on my skin. No chance to escape, even here at the very centre of the capital. It must be about 3am, there’s no-one about. I glance around for CCTV, but I can see none. Gun to the back of my head, I walk away from the car, away from the helpless struggling I can still hear coming from the boot. We’re in deep shadow where the road goes under the arch of the bridge. I know this place.
“Fucking move along.” They’re both out of the car now, shepherding me over towards the platform I saw before, where the tramps sleep. But we don’t go up the steps. To the left of the platform, in the deepest shadow, is the stone wall, and below it, I know that there’s that funny concrete alcove, the slime-covered step next to the water.
Gun still pointed at my head, I’m doing what they want me to do: I’m climbing over the wall, dropping down to the little platform, into blackness. As I drop I memorise the feel of the wall: a little ledge, maybe a centimetre wide, about five feet below the parapet. As my feet touch the floor they slide: it’s every bit as slippery as it looked when I saw it with Rainbow. But now it’s utterly dark, I can’t see my surroundings at all, it’s like I’ve got my eyes tight shut. I try to stand. I kick my shoes off: stockings give better grip. The water is higher than the other day: it laps the edge of the step. The soles of my feet are wet.
Johnson’s been clever. Although they can’t keep the gun trained on me, down in this square recess with its blank walls, I can’t escape from them as they both half-slide, half-jump down the walls. The three of us are together in the concrete alcove now. The only light is out over the river: here and there an oily glisten on the sleek black water.
“Lots of suicides here.”
I’m silent.
“You’re going to be one too, Holly Harlow. Another body in the river. The cops already think you’re in on those murders. So when they find your body, they’ll guess that you chose to do this rather than face the trial. They can close their files on all this. Or, we can shoot you and push you in anyway.”
I don’t answer: I’m thinking.
“You see, this river is not that fast or deep. You have a chance to survive, if you can keep your head above water for a few hours. A very small chance. But better than a bullet.”
I realise that they can see me, silhouetted against light from across the river, but I can’t see them: they are standing against the wall in the blackness. All I can see of them is a dim sheen on the gun barrel, gesturing me towards the edge.
I realise: they won’t shoot me. Because they can easily push me in, and this place is so slippery...
I dive flat onto the wet concrete between them. I feel for, and grab, one of their legs in each hand, and my body, flattened out, gives just enough grip in this treacherous, slithering place for me to pull hard: pull them both over. One of them punches for me but he hits the other one, who’s fallen in front of him.
In front of me is the blank concrete wall, but I know that there, in the dark, is that tiny ledge: I feel for it, get my fingers on it, pull up. Stockinged feet give a good grip; better than their boot soles. My toes press into the stonework. I feel hands grabbing for me, but it’s pitch-black, they can’t see me, and their feet are slipping on the slime; they flail and miss me. I push my feet right into the wall, pull myself up, the effort feels like my guts will bust, but I’ve got a hand to the parapet. I pull, pull and as the thugs scrabble to their feet, I’m over the wall.
I run towards the car. This is it: my chance to open the boot. Maybe they’ve even left the car keys in: but no, the keys are gone and the boot’s locked. Back door, get the back seats down? But then I hear the footsteps, I see them running back to the car.
“Forgive me” I breathe, as I take my one chance. I run for the shadows beyond the car, where the road runs back towards Westminster. There’s a pavement, and dark beyond it: iron railings. Maybe four feet high. I’m over them in a moment. I’m in a little park. It must be the park near that café where I waited for Rainbow: the Embankment Gardens. Lots of bushes. I can already see Johnson and McKay, silhouetted at the railings, as I scrabble off into the undergrowth, away from the path that runs through the gardens.
I keep absolutely still and hold my breath. I can hear my thumping heart: it’s a mad thought, but I’m scared they’ll hear it too. I can hear then talking to each other.
I crane my head back. Behind me, the other side of the path that I’ve just come from, is a lighter shape, perhaps a gap in the trees, a way out? No, it’s a human form: a statue. My eyes are adjusting to the light and I can now see, it’s a memorial to some old bloke with a half-naked woman throwing herself in front of him. Even in this situation, I find myself thinking: same as it ever was – rich old guys, pretty women.
I can’t move or make a sound. Fuck, they’ve got a torch. They shine it on the shrubs that hide me, the light nearly touches me. But when you shine a torch, you miss everything that it’s not shining on. I’m only a few feet back in the bushes, and the beam misses me. Then the beam sweeps again, closer, but then further away. As it carries on swishing across the bushes, I think, for the hundredth time: why, of all the escorts in London, did Wycherley pick me?
My breathing’s far too loud. Plus, I hear my question about Wycherley in my head, like a real voice is saying it out loud. Why did he pick me? As if I’m hearing the question spoken for very the first time.
And it’s like I’m hearing my own voice, answering the question. Yes, yes. I can explain it all.
Wycherley said “May I ask you a personal question?” I now know what that question would have been. I know what happened to Agnieszka, Klaudija and Lucy, I know how and why Wycherley was killed, why Cheriton got so scared of me, why Krasniqi was killed, and why Rainbow got so unsettled in that last interview. And I know what was said in Johnson’s phone call at the Soames, and why these bastards were trying to kill me the way that they did, in the river.
I almost laugh out loud at the thought that I’ve finally put all the jigsaw pieces together, and they all fit, but no-one else will ever know, because I’ll be dead.
The torch beam slides round, away from me: they’re now searching through the bushes on the far side of the park, next to the statue. This is my chance. I shimmy one arm forward, checking that it makes no sound. Then the other arm, then one knee. I’m hugging the ground, covered in mud, but I’m moving. I glance back. They’re still near the statue. I crawl a little further. Now I can see their outlines get bigger, they’re crossing to this side of the path, back toward these bushes that hide me. The torch beam starts swishing about again. I crawl a little further, branches and roots jutting into my face, my boobs, my knees. Glance back again: they’ve not spotted me. The ground slopes upwards and I creep up it like a snake. Over the top of a muddy lip of ground. There are less bushes, less cover here, but the other side slopes down steeply to more railings, and I realise, the top of those railings is below me. Therefore, it’s below their line of sight. I drop to the railings, swing over them.
Suddenly, I can see light; a lot of light. A huge, curving canopy of lights: glittering glass, brass, mahogany. Marble walls, maybe. I read huge letters: SAVOY.
It’s the back door of the hotel: it’s locked. I hammer on the glass, then I notice a bell, press it hard. Glancing back, the two guys are clambering over the railings, they’re on the pavement now. Johnson is in front, he holds the gun out in front of him with both hands. I move from side to side: all I can do now is make it harder for him to aim. H
e’s thirty, twenty feet from me now, getting closer. I hear a click; the muzzle points at my head. I look directly down the barrel.
“Holly?”
A man’s voice behind me. A familiar voice. The door is unlocked: keeping my eyes on the gun, I step backwards through it. I look out at the two black shapes on the pavement, then I turn away, into the hotel. I feel something that’s beyond any description: I’m going to live.
“Martin. God I’m glad to see you. But sorry, there’s no time to explain. I need to make a call.”
“Those guys – was that a gun? Shall I call 999?”
“No. Have you got your mobile on you?” I call Rainbow’s number. It’s the first time in my life that I’m glad to hear Rainbow’s voice.
The police car is, I’m surprised to see, driven by Pawan. Rainbow’s in the back seat, with another cop in uniform. Pawan beckons me to the front passenger door, I get in, look at her. Her seat’s moved right forward so she can reach the pedals.
“Police Emergency Response Driver course. Top of class.” She smiles and me, and I smile back. “And you’ve got a job, Holly, you’re co-pilot. Chris has to be back seat driver today, because I need you in the front for the detailed directions when we get there.”
“Mrs Pawan – ”
“Geeta.”
“You understand what I said on the phone, didn’t you? Like I said then, I know exactly who is behind all this, and why they did it.”
“You did indeed say that. I believe you: I don’t yet understand you.”
I tell her a bit more detail, enough to show that yes, there’s only one possible explanation for all that’s happened. While she breaks every speed limit she listens, occasionally nodding: we weave through Soho, Marylebone, then past the Central Mosque, Swiss Cottage, Hampstead, Brent Cross, onto the North Circular and the M1. I hear Rainbow’s voice constantly on his mobile, talking to others, directing, co-ordinating. Orange glow through the murk: a slow, misty dawn is coming up behind us as we leave London behind. I feel a hand touch my shoulder, turn round. Rainbow looks into my eyes, he’s about to say something.
His phone rings. He answers it, and puts the call onto the car speaker. We hear a voice coming through from another unit.
“Raid on Home Croft in progress. Records and information being collected, two suspects arrested. Chief suspect is not on the premises, believed to be absconded.”
It seems only five minutes, and we’re at the village that I remember. The ducks. And yes, I’m needed. The police satnav doesn’t show the right way, and I point out the little lane between the two thatched cottages. “We go up there. Then, keep right at a fork. About half a mile into the woods, we reach the top of the hill, and there’s an iron gate there leading into the Home Croft grounds.”
The woods, the fork in the road. Shreds of mist, like smoke, cling to the trees. We follow the road as it curves to the right, uphill, fast. My tummy feels like I’m on a fairground ride. And suddenly Pawan slams on the brakes, hard but not quite fast enough. A man appears from nowhere, from the undergrowth, straight in front of us. He’s running downhill through the woods, across the line of the road, not looking where he’s going. He catches the wing of the car. The braking’s so strong that the impact is not hard: he falls back, he looks winded but not hurt. We all open the car doors. Rainbow gets out, takes a step forward.
“Mr Evans. I’m arresting you for the suspected murder of Klaudija Butkienė. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence…”
I look at him, try to recognise the man I met. I see only a middle-aged, gray-haired man, sweating, speechless, overdressed in pinstripe. Something’s gone from his face, his manner. Whatever it was, that thing about him that gave me the creeps, has disappeared. We’re all out of the car, but Rainbow and the uniformed cop are handling Evans, they’re completely in command. Geeta and I stand back. But I have a question.
“Where was Evans running to?”
I look downhill. Geeta understands what I’m thinking.
“The other fork. I’ll reverse the car.”
She gets back into the car: I leave it to her. I’ll use my feet instead. I’ve still got no shoes on, which is good: torn stockings give a good grip on the earth, the weeds and grass under the trees as I run and slide down the bank towards the lower road. In thirty seconds, I can see it below me. A black Audi A6 saloon. The boot is up.
I stop for a moment, heart-in-mouth. My eyes scan the car’s driver and passenger seats. It’s empty. Are they here, nearby? Then I hear the police car coming along the road, slowing to a stop, blocking the Audi’s escape. Another car follows it, four uniformed cops in it. I can see Geeta getting out of the first cop car. She’s looking hard at something… someone?
I step down the last bit of the slope onto the road, and then I see her, standing a few yards from the Audi.
“Jazz.”
Her eyes are hunted, hollow as she looks at me.
“Holly.”
“Jazz, the same thing has happened to us both. I never got the chance to tell you, but I had a phone call the other day, from a guy who told me he was just a punter, he just wanted a booking. But he lied. He’s actually a murderer, and he’s called Mark Johnson.
It happened to you, too. You had a phone call, too, didn’t you? From a guy who told you he was just a punter, but like my guy, he was lying. Because he was interested in something else. He’d looked at a profile on GirlsDirect, but he wasn’t really after sex. He was interested in you. Difficult.
But the difference between my fake punter and yours is that when yours rang, and asked for a booking, he didn’t come up on your phone as an unknown number. He came up on your phone as a Contact – called, I guess, something like ‘Lucy’s Dad’. A contact from the time when you let a friend use your phone, to call her father.
And because you knew your caller’s real name, you lied to him about your own real name. You told him you were called Holly. ‘I’m the Girl Next Door, you said, thanks for reading my profile, hope you like what you see, honey. All you need to do now is make a booking with me. Go to my profile on the website, click on Book Now, fill in the details. Later on, you can add the outcall location you want me to come to, as soon as you know it, and I’ll see you there. Can’t wait to meet you, touch you, babe.’
And of course he believed you, because your phone number, the one he’d called, is listed along with mine on my GirlsDirect profile.”
Her eyes don’t change, as if she knew all along we would meet like this, that I would say these things to her.
I call over my shoulder. “Geeta, go over to the car. Our victim is still in the boot.”
I hold Jazz’s empty gaze. Geeta’s at the Audi now.
“Hell, you’re right, Holly. She seems OK, she’s struggling to get free. Just tape on her wrists, mouth and ankles. I’m taking the tape off now. I don’t think she’s been hurt, and she’s still fully clothed.”
“Fully clothed. That’s quite funny. Because that girl in the boot, she used to call herself PantiesOff.”