Blood Red City

by Rod Reynolds

  New posts to Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. He clicked the Twitter link. Right there on her timeline, a picture of Jamie Tan’s face, filling his screen, out there for the whole fucking world to see.

  Stringer found the pub at the top end of Caledonian Road, opposite Pentonville Prison. The outside was newly painted, a half-hearted attempt to make it look like a gastropub, but inside was another story. A dark room on a bright day, it was dominated by the elongated horseshoe bar. The furniture looked like it hadn’t changed since the eighties – flimsy wooden tables, stools covered with dark paisley patterns, now faded. Half a dozen were occupied, mostly by women; wives, girlfriends and mothers, on their way to or from visiting time across the road.

  Milos was at a table in the corner, playing with his phone, his eyes masked by the peak of a Golden State Warriors cap. He only looked up as Stringer pulled out a stool. ‘Sorry, man, didn’t see you come in.’

  Stringer sat down and waved a hand to indicate no offence taken. ‘You want a drink?’

  Milos pointed to his glass, a J2O bottle next to it. ‘Nah, I’m good. So what we doing?’

  ‘CCTV.’

  ‘That’s a new one.’

  ‘On the Underground.’

  Milos bulged his cheeks. ‘Not my ends. You talk to Freddie? He can—’

  ‘Not Freddie. I need this to go outside, can you find someone?’

  ‘Sure, but…’

  ‘It’ll cost.’

  ‘Yeah. And, uh…’

  ‘You can say the words “finders’ fee”.’

  Milos’ face relaxed. ‘Okay, cool. Don’t wanna piss you off but I gotta get mine, you know?’

  ‘I want my name kept out of this.’

  ‘Always. Not a problem.’

  ‘How much am I looking at?’

  ‘Depends what it involves.’

  ‘I want the footage from Woodside Park Station, last Friday night, eight p.m. till three a.m. All cameras, including the ones covering the car parks, and entrance and exit approaches.’

  Milos nodded along, typing a note on his phone. ‘Looking for something in particular?’

  ‘Just the raw footage.’

  ‘Cool.’ He finished typing and looked up. ‘Done. Let’s see what comes back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I posted it. Someone wants the gig, they’ll ping me.’

  Stringer looked around, the 1970s surroundings dissonant with a hacker advertising jobs on the dark web in real time. ‘How much?’

  ‘We’ll see. Guessing two, three grand?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Easy. More if it’s tricky.’

  ‘I thought you outsourced to kids in Latvian basements?’

  ‘Stakes are higher. Everything used to be wide open, but companies are more savvy to it now. Them Russians fucked it up for everyone. And there’s pride – now everyone’s watching, no one wants to be the wasteman gets caught. You don’t want them to know they been done, either, right?’

  ‘Who?’ Stringer said.

  ‘The Underground.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘So that’s more dollar. Anyone can get in and leave footprints. You want clean, it costs.’

  Stringer bowed his head. ‘Knock them down as much as you can. And I want something else thrown in.’

  ‘Thrown in?’

  ‘I need to know who’s behind this email address.’ He showed him the aplofel159@gmail.com handle that’d first sent the video to Lydia Wright. ‘A name and address would be ideal, a name the bare minimum.’ He got up to go.

  ‘Course, Rob. Whatever you need.’

  His tone of voice distracted Stringer as he got to his feet, enough that he toppled his stool by accident. It made a crack hitting the floor and the barman looked over. Stringer righted it and toed it back under the table. Milos was already reading his phone again, his face hidden by his cap.

  He walked to the door with the name-drop ringing in his ears – said with a sly wink, as if the fucker knew it was an alias. Every wall he’d built, turning transparent.

  CHAPTER 25

  Tammy’s first suggestion to meet had been a place in King’s Cross, but it was the wrong side of town for Lydia to get back to the office after, so she managed to get her to switch it to Southwark.

  She came out of the Tube dead on 8.00 p.m. She stood so she was partially hidden behind one side of the entrance, looking along The Cut towards the Young Vic and the bars and restaurants that lined the street around it. It was still light and hot, the outdoor tables at the pub next door all filled, the carefree atmosphere at odds with the sense of foreboding she’d carried in her chest ever since she left Withshaw. A summer evening under a black sun.

  She checked her phone and looked around again, no message, no sign of Tammy. She waited five minutes and checked again, this time sending her a WhatsApp message: Are you here?

  The single tick came up to indicate it had been sent, but not the two blues to say it had been read. The most likely explanation: still on the Tube.

  But ten minutes later, it wasn’t holding up. The tick was still a single and two phone calls had rung out before going to Tammy’s voicemail. She tried one more time, hitting the same wall, so she left a message saying she’d be at the office and to call her if she was still going to show up.

  The night was an exercise in distracting herself. Lydia got her work out of the way early; she churned out two articles in an hour on the same American singer and fired them off to the digital sub in the States. She wrote on autopilot, one eye on her phone for word from Tammy. Nothing came. She had dozens of emails that needed responses, but she ignored them and set about her own business.

  It was Internet grunt work, the kind she used to hate but now relished by comparison. Her mum’s voice in her ears stopping her feeling too sorry for herself: Be thankful you’ve got a job at all. She looked up Simon Shelby, the solicitor listed as director of Withshaw Ltd, but all she could find was that he was a tax lawyer – no surprises there. She wondered if he could be the ultimate owner of the Withshaw property – and therefore the Audi Q7 registered there and seen at Paulina Dobriska’s place. But she couldn’t come up with a scenario to explain why a tax lawyer would be interested in Paulina – let alone having her flat watched. She called his office number and left a message on his secretary’s phone, not expecting she’d get a call back.

  By 7.00 a.m. the sun was back above the horizon, making the skyline a silhouette, the skyscraper warning lights only dimly visible in the glare. Still no contact from Tammy, the churning feeling in her guts like alcohol hitting an empty stomach. She was checking her Twitter account when she saw Stephen Langham coming towards her desk. She flicked to a different tab too late, knowing he’d seen it and knowing she made herself look more guilty by doing so. ‘Morning. Early start.’

  He had his bag in his hand. ‘Can we have a word?’

  He started towards his office before she’d even got up.

  She grabbed a pen and notepad and followed in his wake. When she got there, he was holding the door open for her. He closed it as soon as she went inside.

  ‘Everything alright?’ she said.

  ‘This expense form you put in.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘A hundred and fifty quid for what?’

  The money she’d had to fork over to Anna at Premier Dental to get Paulina Dobriska’s address. ‘It was for a source.’

  He kept looking at her.

  ‘For information,’ she said.

  ‘Okay. Relating to what story?’

  ‘The one I told you about.’

  ‘The one you were going to work on in your own time?’

  ‘I was. It was my day off.’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse, Lydia.’

  ‘What’re you talking about? I told you what I was doing.’

  ‘You can’t incur expenses on a story you’re not supposed to be working.’

  ‘Since when? You gave me Sam Waterhouse’s details.’

/>   ‘Who?’

  ‘Bill Roundler’s ex-copper.’

  He leaned against his desk. ‘You wanted to check about a missing person or something? Bill said fifty quid, tops.’

  Her insides dipped.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘It opened up more avenues, so I asked her to check a couple of extra things.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He pushed off the desk and stood rigid. ‘Finger in the air?’

  She shook her head, mouth open. ‘Five hundred?’

  He threw his hands out by his sides.

  ‘Why is it a problem? You put me on to her.’

  ‘Fifty quid I can slide through as a couple of cab receipts. You’ve run up six-fifty in two days. It’s harder to make that vanish.’

  ‘You should’ve been clearer.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have to be.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ The unspoken end to his sentence: if you were more professional.

  ‘I’m not going to spell it out.’

  She clicked her pen over and over, words trapped in her chest.

  ‘Is this Goddard again?’ he said. ‘You swore to me it wasn’t…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Nothing to do with it.’

  He looked at the floor. ‘So that’s something at least. Is the story ready?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Is there even a story?’

  ‘They left my fucking purse on my doormat.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘I don’t know. Whoever nicked it.’

  ‘What the hell? Did you go to the police?’

  She looked at him and then away at the view to Docklands.

  He swore under his breath. ‘I want to see the video.’

  She hesitated, afraid of what he was going to make of it. Slowly, she took out her phone and put it in front of him, pressing play.

  Stephen watched the screen, recoiling slightly in his chair as it progressed. When it was finished, she looked at him, waiting for his verdict.

  He opened the top drawer of his desk. ‘Okay, this is dropped as of right now. Get rid of this copper – make sure she doesn’t lift another finger on this thing. And email me a copy of this, please.’ He pulled out a Moleskine daybook and a pen. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Evan.’

  ‘Wait, there’s something to this.’ She threw her hands up, steeling herself. ‘Tammy says this guy approached her about being a whistleblower.’ She pointed to her phone to indicate the victim, holding Stephen’s stare.

  ‘Tammy says this.’ He said it in a flat tone.

  ‘He told her he had information on serious money laundering. I know what you think of her, but…’

  ‘You’re taking the piss out of me, Lydia. I don’t appreciate it.’

  The lift beeped as it passed each floor on the way to the underground car park, the sound louder and more grating on two hours’ sleep.

  Stringer took his phone out of his pocket and found a WhatsApp message from Abi that must’ve arrived while he was in the shower. A new set of pictures – Ellie playing in a row of dancing fountains that he recognised as Granary Square, by the Regents’ Canal behind Kings Cross. In the first she was stretching her toe as far from the rest of her as she could get it, trying to touch the water. She became more adventurous as the series progressed until the last picture, where she was bent over double, hair and clothes soaked, letting the fountain hit her in the face.

  He typed love her and hit send, not seeing his phone had added the emoji with heart eyes after the word “love”. His sister would think he was cracking up.

  The lift opened and he walked towards the car. When he looked up from his phone, he saw Dalton leaning against the bonnet. ‘Andriy sent me to get an update.’

  Stringer stopped short. ‘Tell Suslov he can call me anytime.’

  ‘That’s not how it works when you’re worth a billion.’

  Stringer took out his key fob and blipped the car. The lights flashed, orange and white reflecting off the bare walls.

  ‘Have you made any headway?’ Dalton said.

  ‘I’d make more if you’d let me get on with it.’

  ‘So no, then.’

  He shrugged. ‘If that’s what you came to hear…’

  ‘I told Andriy I thought he’d made a mistake with you.’

  ‘I bet your opinion carries a lot of weight.’

  Dalton cracked a rictus grin. ‘He doesn’t think you can be trusted, but he’s wary of you. He seems to think you’re some kind of operator. I think you’re a cheap blackmail merchant.’

  ‘I’ve been called worse.’

  ‘It should worry you. What he thinks, I mean. He’s unpredictable, but if he thinks you’re any kind of threat…’

  ‘Then what? Another little boating accident?’

  Dalton came a few steps towards him. ‘Tan’s wife is missing. Did you know that?’

  Stringer stuck his bottom lip out, one of Angie’s mannerisms rubbing off on him. ‘Is it relevant?’

  ‘Whatever I think of you, you’re better than a question like that.’

  ‘Did you go to the house?’

  ‘Of course not. Not personally.’

  Stringer put his hands in his pockets. ‘What was Jamie Tan to Suslov?’

  Dalton shook his head slowly.

  ‘His value to Suslov explains his value to someone else,’ Stringer said. ‘It leads to motive.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Andriy’s a fucking black hole when it comes to information.’ Dalton scratched his cheek. ‘He told me to tell you the wife thing has him wondering if it was something personal.’

  Stringer squinted at him. ‘You haven’t seen the video, have you?’

  ‘No interest.’

  ‘The men who did this were serious.’

  ‘They got him in public. I can think of more professional ways to go about—’

  ‘That was necessity. Bold to go after him like that – shows confidence. They know they’re not getting caught. And no one’s found a body yet either.’

  ‘I have no opinion. I’m telling you what Andriy said.’

  ‘I’ve told you what I need to know. And money – I need cash.’

  ‘You agreed the terms of your compensation with Andriy.’

  ‘Not for me. A tip fund.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Suslov doesn’t want to know what I do. Deniability.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Ten grand. And when he says no to that, push him for eight.’

  ‘I’ll relay what you’ve said. But you’ve got to give me something.’ For the first time, a crack showed in his front, a flash of genuine discomfort at the prospect of going back to Suslov empty handed.

  Stringer looked off to the side, seeing the grain of the pillar next to him, the tiny air bubbles and imperfections in the concrete. ‘I know where it happened.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Get me the money.’

  Lydia marched out of Stephen’s office and straight across the newsroom, eyes dead ahead on the lift the whole way. She jammed the button and waited as the indicator showed it creeping up the shaft, the quiet on the floor behind her building in her head. They weren’t talking about her. Their eyes weren’t trained on her back. No one knew she’d been humiliated.

  The lift opened and only when she was inside and the doors closed did she finally let go. ‘Fucking twat.’

  She pulled out her phone and texted Sam Waterhouse. Sam – please stop all work on my behalf immediately. Problems this end. How much are your fees to date?

  She stared at it, tapping the screen with her thumbs. Wanting the immediate answer. Then she remembered the time – ten past seven in the morning. Ridiculous working hours, as if anyone needed 24/7 access to bullshit celebrity gossip. She’d seen the presentations from marketing about website traffic spikes at four and five in the morning UK time, fuelled by Americans on the east coast
reading their phones in bed. Didn’t make her feel any better about leading this twilight life, always out of time with the rest of the world.

  She opened Twitter and logged into the Examiner’s official account. Two million plus followers. She found her own post asking for the identity of the victim in the video and retweeted it, then dropped her phone in her bag before she could regret it.

  The lift doors opened and she beelined for the street. A decision becoming clear – she’d fill in the teacher-training pack when she got home, then write her resignation. She could freelance to cover the rent in the meantime, and write the Goddard book – from the story that should’ve fast-tracked her career, to becoming its full stop. She could cut her spending to nothing, live on porridge if she had to. Anything was better than this, even embracing that most tired cliché: the lost thirtysomething who thinks the classroom is the way out.

  At the back of her mind, barely acknowledged: amazement at the righteous anger she could muster to avoid confronting her own feelings of guilt.

  She had the bottle of Tesco Sauvignon open but hadn’t poured it when Sam Waterhouse replied.

  Sorry to hear that. So far £800 + VAT – should I speak to you or Bill Roundler for payment?

  Lydia brought her hands up, clasping them behind her head and squeezing. She took the bottle and poured a large glass, then grabbed it off the counter and carried both to her room.

  She set them down on her desk and opened the teacher-training pack. The ads used to say ‘Get £10k just to train’, an outdated slogan that’d stuck in her mind. It was more nuanced now; the leaflet talked about possible bursaries and scholarships, and tuition-fee loans. She filled out her name and date of birth. Stopped to take another sip, imagining the conversation with her mum when she told her about her career change: But you were always so keen…

  Her parents had helped put her through university to get her journalism degree. The cost then was nothing compared to nowadays, but their contribution still ran to thousands that they’d never asked for back. They’d support her in changing tack but Mum would have that tone that straddled concern and disappointment. Dad was an engineer all his working life, Mum an accountant – their only child was never supposed to go into words. They’d encouraged her anyway, never been less than supportive, and now it felt like she was throwing it in their faces.