Blood Red City

by Rod Reynolds

  Lydia smiled, shaking her head and locking her eyes on the screen.

  ‘Oh my god, it is. Lydia!’

  She blushed, waving her off, breaking into a goofy smile. ‘Piss off.’

  Chloe waggled her fingers, still chuckling. ‘Night.’

  Lydia closed the browser window full of Audis. She thought back to the day before, remembered using her laptop in the afternoon before she went to Tesco. When she came back it was open, but she could’ve sworn she’d left it shut. She normally did.

  Her phone buzzed again and she looked over at it and snatched it up.

  The top message was a text from Sam Waterhouse: Call me. But it was the notification underneath that had her staring at it without moving:

  Paulina Dobriska has accepted your friend request.

  CHAPTER 20

  It was past ten when Stringer parked the car a street away from Highgate Tube. The roads were quiet and dark walking back towards the station, the tall streetlights fitted with dim bulbs to appease the residents in the big houses.

  The entrance was on Archway Road, but it was just a sign saying Highgate Station above a flight of concrete steps down a steep embankment through the woods. He could see the tracks at the bottom, glimpses of orange light coming through the trees from the entrance proper.

  He waited four minutes for a train, checking his watch again when he got on: about the same time as Tan would’ve made the journey. Highgate was the last stop underground going north, seven above ground after it – and only five that mattered if he discounted High Barnet and the spur line to Mill Hill East. Tan had taken the tube back to High Barnet most nights when he was tailing him, and then either driven or caught a cab to Arkley from there, so logic dictated they’d got to him somewhere between those points.

  The train thundered into the tunnel heading north, his face reflected in the window opposite. He tried to picture it, seeing through Jamie Tan’s eyes: another commute home, nothing more routine, paying no attention to what was around him. A Friday night, a few beers in, dampening the senses further. Tan couldn’t have been expecting what was coming; Stringer had seen him take Ubers home from town before; surely that would’ve been the minimum precaution to employ if he’d sensed a threat.

  The train popped out of the tunnel, the sudden dip in noise level like plunging underwater. Stringer sat forward, alert now. It pulled into the platform at East Finchley seconds later, and straight away he knew he could discount it. The train had been outside at the start of the video and the attack went on for longer than it’d taken to go from tunnel to platform. Four stops left in contention.

  The doors closed and the train moved off, noticeably less busy now. See it through different eyes: the killers. They’re waiting for it to thin out, for their opportunity. They know Tan’s staying on all the way to the end, they’ve got a bit of time. Assuming they were on the train already; surely the only way to go about it, which would confirm his assumption – bolstered by what Alicia had said at the flat – that they were unknown to Tan.

  The line ran at street level now, passing houses and commercial units on the way to Finchley Central, the rainbow bundles of cabling that ran alongside the tracks like veins holding the network together. They pulled into the station and he got up to stick his head out the doors.

  Another easy no: the northbound platform was a wide island, the only way out via a footbridge accessed by stairs or a lift. He sat back down in his seat, his elbows propped on his knees. A man with white earphones in looked over from the next bank of seats. Stringer met his stare, and the man went back to his phone.

  The train juddered forward again, pulling out slowly before it accelerated. The line was surrounded by embankments on both sides now, heavily wooded. There were three people in the carriage, including himself. He got up again to look through the emergency doors into the next one, saw another three passengers there. He turned around, picturing the killers making the same calculations, the window of opportunity opening at this stage.

  They pulled into West Finchley and that window widened further. He looked along the dark platform, lined with a low wire fence backed with bushes and trees. He stepped off the train and walked along, examining it. No holes, no sign it’d been cut. Besides that, he couldn’t see a path through the foliage behind it. He carried on to the station building and went out through the ticket gates – another strike against this one – and found himself in a narrow alleyway that ran maybe twenty metres to the main road. He walked through the caustic glare of a security light, looking back to see a CCTV camera pointed right at him.

  The top of the alleyway came out on the main road, a narrow single lane in each direction. To his left there was a small parade of shops, only the mini-supermarket showing signs of life at that time of night.

  He retraced his path back down the alley and onto the platform, another train arriving just as he got there. He stepped on, making the same observations – only one other person on the carriage this time, the one next to it empty, the last one before the driver’s cab. He stayed by the emergency door and turned around to look back, seeing it through different eyes again: the witness filming the video.

  The line was raised above the ground now, a sea of red roofs on either side, the 1930s terraces that once represented an aspirational suburbia on the edge of the city. The next station was Woodside Park and he’d all but discounted it as they pulled in, given the elevation of the track – no easy access there. But when the train came to a stop, right in front of him was a street-level gate to the outside. Wide open.

  He jumped up and got off the train, looking around and seeing he was the only person who did. There was no staff along the platform. There was an Oyster touchpad next to the exit, but no barriers. He waited until the train pulled out; no one on the southbound platform either, neither staff nor passengers.

  He went through the gate and came out in a bleak turnaround, the small roundabout at its centre just big enough to hold a dead shrub. Nothing more than a drop-off point. There was a small car park chained off next to it, signs saying it was for staff parking or mini cabs only, but currently standing empty. Behind him was a cab office, its lights off. A modern block of flats rose beyond that, only two or three of them with a sightline to where he stood, all of them with curtains over the windows as he looked.

  The road into the turnaround led back to the street, no more than thirty metres distant. He took out his phone and snapped a dozen pictures. He looked back at the gate, saw a solitary CCTV camera. It was positioned at ninety degrees to the exit, so anyone coming out of the station would only fleetingly cross its field of vision. He took a shot of that too.

  Off the train and into a car in fifteen paces. Jackpot bells going off in his head so fucking loud he could hardly hear.

  CHAPTER 21

  Lydia woke up on top of her covers with her phone in her hand. She brought it to her face even before she knew what she was doing, still half in the grip of sleep.

  Her eyes wouldn’t focus. Her bedside lamp was on and it was light outside. She blinked and looked at the screen again – 8.10 a.m. It was gone two the last time she could remember checking the clock, fighting off sleep as long as she could, waiting for a reply from Paulina Dobriska.

  She unlocked the phone and opened Facebook Messenger. She bolted upright.

  A reply had arrived: I don’t want to talk.

  The words seemed to fill the screen. If a Facebook message could shout, this one did.

  She looked at the time stamp – sent twenty minutes ago. She rubbed her eyes and gripped her phone in both hands.

  I want to help…

  Her thumb hovered over the send button. Maybe only one shot to get the right words. She deleted it and typed again: I can help you.

  The message went and she sat on the edge of the bed. There was a green dot on Paulina’s profile picture, indicating she was still online.

  Lydia put the phone on her desk and paced to the window. She split the blinds, came back, c
hecked it again. She stood, patting her hands together gently.

  Her phone buzzed: I don’t want help.

  She grabbed it: I’m concerned for your safety. I saw your video. Can we talk?

  Nothing. She read her own words back over and over, doubting each one.

  What did you do with it?

  Lydia didn’t understand. The video?

  Yh.

  Nothing yet. Been waiting to speak to you.

  It was a mistake.

  She tapped her reply: Mistake how?

  Traffic was queuing on the street outside and she could hear the low hum of idling engines. She stared at the phone, seconds dragging. The lights at the end of the road must’ve changed because she heard everything kick into motion again. Her patience cracked. Paulina?

  Another few seconds ticked by. Then: Shouldn’t have put on FB.

  But it’s real?

  Paulina’s reply was instant. What u think?

  Lydia frowned. Where are you? Can we talk – phone or face to face?

  A bus sounded its horn right outside the window, so loud it boomed around the room.

  No response. Again impatience overtook her. Please, if you’re afraid, I can help. Publicity the best defence. Big media company behind me, can have your back too.

  She watched the screen, bouncing on the balls of her feet. ‘Come on, come on, come on…’

  The green dot disappeared.

  She let her hands fall to her side. Then another thought revived her. The telephone icon was next to Paulina’s name; she pressed it and put the phone to her ear, the dial tone sounding like it was underwater. It rang for thirty seconds. Then it cut out.

  ‘Fuck it.’ She tossed the phone on the bed.

  Lydia waited for Sam Waterhouse outside Hampstead Heath Overground. It’d been her suggestion to meet there, and Lydia agreed to it even though it wasn’t the easiest place to get to from Tottenham Hale. The bill she was racking up with Sam was on her mind, no need to inflate it further with extra hours for travel time. The fact that Stephen had given her the contact in the first place she took as implicit agreement that he’d sign off the expense – but she was conscious of not taking the piss. His words played on her mind now – “think about how you’re perceived”. Nagging doubts about his doublespeak – was he saying that for management, or himself? Where was the line between the two?

  The idea Tammy had turned into some kind of conspiracy nut towards the end was rubbish – and yet if you brought up her name around the office, that was the narrative that survived her. It was a smear that cut Tammy deep, in her own words “tainting a lifetime’s work”. She’d opened up to Lydia about it at the time, just after they’d let her go, Tammy certain it was a characterisation put about by one of the bosses to help justify pushing her out the door. Lydia had never voiced her own suspicion – that Tammy’s support for continuing the Goddard investigation, no secret at the time, had given it credibility. The final nail.

  She tried calling her again, a follow-up to two earlier attempts and the text she’d sent: Paulina Dobriska made contact, ring me. Her phone was still trying to connect when Sam Waterhouse appeared at the top of the stairs leading up from the platform. Lydia cut the call.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind walking,’ Sam said as a greeting, already moving off. ‘I get sick of being at my desk so I take the chance when I can.’ She led them across the road and started up the path towards the ponds the heath was famous for. ‘Okay, first things first: Paulina Dobriska, of the address you gave me, has not been reported missing. In fact, that name didn’t bring up any flags anywhere, so far as my contacts say.’

  ‘Does that mean she’s not known to police at all?’

  ‘Probably. Look, there’s always the chance of a misspelling, particularly a name like that, or a file not matching up, or some paperwork getting waylaid. But she’s not on missing persons or the main database, so it looks that way.’

  ‘Would it be classified if they had her in protective custody?’

  Sam screwed her mouth up. ‘Very unlikely. I mean it’s unlikely enough that they’d even have her in protective custody. I only mentioned that last time as an outside chance. But even if she was, she’d have to be involved in something incredibly serious to warrant that. So I can’t say there’s zero chance, but let’s be realistic. She saw something on the Tube, she’s not a supergrass.’

  Lydia almost blurted out that Paulina had made contact.

  The path became a narrow causeway between two of the ponds, both covered in thick green algae. The sky was overcast, trapping the heat under the clouds, the air thick with pollen.

  ‘Secondly, the number plate you texted me about,’ Sam said.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘For a car used by some blokes supposedly watching Dobriska’s place?’

  ‘According to the neighbour over the road.’

  ‘Who might be jumping to conclusions?’

  ‘He was a neighbourhood-watch type.’

  ‘Some of them have overactive imaginations. People have good reasons to sit in cars, regardless of what next door thinks.’

  ‘I’m not saying it has to be something dodgy. I was thinking it could be family or friends. Someone saying he was her brother called in sick for her.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced. Have you got hold of him?’

  Lydia shook her head. ‘The number’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Straight to voicemail every time.’

  ‘Phones do run out of battery. They get switched off…’

  ‘I know, but—’

  Sam held up her hands. ‘I know. If it seems like I’m playing devil’s advocate all the time, it’s because the simplest explanation is usually the right one. I’m speaking from experience.’

  ‘Can you trace it? The phone number?’

  Sam blew out a breath, the path getting steeper as they came to the top of Parliament Hill. ‘This is getting more involved than I’m comfortable with. Look, the number plate is registered to an address in Surrey. I’m not turning cartwheels about handing it over to you, because if there is something here, the police are the ones who should be investigating it. And if there’s not, then these people don’t need you mucking around in their lives.’

  Lydia took out her phone and opened up Paulina’s messages. She handed it to Sam just as they reached the top of the hill.

  ‘What’s this?’ Sam took a pair of reading glasses out of her bag and put them on. When she was finished, she gave the phone back, staring at the floor as if lost in thought. ‘Okay, that’s all very cryptic. Did you speak to her in the end?’

  ‘No. But does that sound right to you?’

  Sam looked out at the view that stretched to the city and beyond, all the way to the Surrey Hills, the reward for making it up the incline to get there. The neon display that wrapped around the top of the BT Tower was flashing and blinking like a warning light. ‘It sounds like someone who wants to be left alone.’

  ‘She’s the key to this. I called the transport police this morning for an update and they aren’t telling me anything…’

  ‘I made some enquiries for you on that front. From what I can gather, they are investigating, but they’ve got very little to go on apart from your video. They haven’t identified the victim or the crime scene, and they’re still reviewing CCTV.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Depends. But they’re pressed for officers like everyone else, so it’s whenever they can spare someone to sit in a room and sift through it all – but without knowing when and where, there’s hundreds of hours’ worth to get through. I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

  ‘This isn’t a priority for them?’

  ‘To an extent, of course. But so is everything else. They’re understaffed, you can’t blame them.’

  ‘I don’t.’ She looked over, squinting in the light. ‘But that’s why I need her.’

  Sam took her reading glasses off and put them back in their case. ‘
Look, I admire your persistence. Not to discount what I said earlier, but it does feel like there’s something that’s a bit off.’

  ‘What would you have made of this? If this was a case that landed on your desk back in the day?’

  Sam scratched the back of her neck. ‘I’m struggling with why you don’t have a victim. I find it hard to believe the man in that video, if it was real, walked away from that. And even if he did, he’d likely need hospital treatment – and anyone presenting in that state, the police would be informed, even if he hadn’t done so himself.’ The warm breeze tugged at her hair and she ran her hand through it to push it back. ‘So let’s assume he died. If they left him on the train, there’d be a report, and it’d be in the papers. Right?’

  ‘It would make the news, definitely.’

  ‘That means they took him away – so where is he? Even if they did get him off the train, they can’t have got far with him on foot, unless…’

  ‘Unless they had outside help?’

  Sam nodded, shrugging. ‘Then you’re talking about something that was planned, not a random attack.’

  ‘Like a hit.’ Tammy’s word, when they’d first spoken about it.

  ‘I’m just thinking aloud; let’s not get carried away.’

  ‘Then who the hell is he to warrant that?’

  ‘My thought too.’

  Lydia started walking again. ‘Maybe that’s the way in. Someone must be missing him.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s worth considering. But you’re looking for a needle in a haystack – there’s a quarter of a million reported missing every year. Hundreds a day. Without some way of identifying him, it’s just a name on a list.’

  She looked along the path sloping down to the boating pond, Highgate rising beyond it, a muddle of spires and houses catching the sunlight. ‘There’s another way to do it.’

  CHAPTER 22

  An unplanned trip to lean on Assembly Member Nigel Carlton was the last thing Stringer needed.