by Rod Reynolds
The form wanted her National Insurance number and she didn’t have it to hand. She got up from her desk and lay on the bed, holding her phone above her face, staring at her last message to Tammy, the words blurring. She tapped out a new one: What happened to you last night?
She let her hand drop to her side and stared at the ceiling, following the line of a thin crack in the plasterwork. A dozen years since she’d graduated. Starting out on trade magazines: Design Week, Marketing Week, the jobs as dull as they were badly timed – just as the Internet pulled the plug on the classified ad revenue that kept the magazines afloat. From there, catching on in local papers – but having to abandon London for Kent to do so. Years spent working local beats, all the time trying – and failing – to find the discipline to write her novel. Distracted by a series of relationships, none of which went anywhere, and nights in the pub trying to play office politics. Then, six years ago, her big break at last: the job with the Examiner. A move back to London, a redemptive comeback that quelled restless thoughts she’d wasted her twenties, even as she realised how many of her friends she’d lost touch with.
So what did it mean if she turned her back on all that? That she’d been right in the first place?
Lydia brought up Facebook Messenger and opened her chat with Paulina Dobriska. She typed: Talk to me. Please talk to me.
CHAPTER 26
Stringer sat at the same table as before in the Costa. There were others with a more direct view of Lydia Wright’s flat, but he’d made peace with his compulsive tendencies years ago. He had a coffee in front of him, a half-eaten sandwich that doubled as breakfast and lunch, and a napkin he’d torn in half.
He scribbled a list on the back of his receipt – open leads: first, Milos, for the CCTV footage. He’d come back with a quote of three and half thousand, plus five hundred for himself. It was brazen and it pissed him off because he was certain the grasping fucker was taking a cut of the principal too. Second, Jamie Tan’s business. The fragments he knew about international equity trading did nothing to help him penetrate Tan’s world. Alicia was his best point of entry, but every visit to her put both of them at risk – and made him feel worse about his lies. Third, Premier Dental, the clinic in Finchley Lydia Wright had visited. He still couldn’t find a connection, and it had him worried that he was missing something obvious. The situation with Nigel Carlton compounded the feeling. He’d misread the man badly after the first approach, underestimating him. His judgement was the foundation of everything and if it was slipping, it left him exposed – especially with predators like Suslov circling.
His phone sounded. A new email. He opened it to look; it was a discount offer from Azure, the boutique hotel where they’d stayed when they visited the Florida Keys ten years before. He was ruthless at keeping his inbox free from marketing junk, but he could never bring himself to unsubscribe from this mailing list.
The email was touting a late summer sale on room rates, but it wasn’t the words that captured his interest, only the images. It showed the hotel, right by the water, separated from Florida Bay by a private beach no more than ten feet wide. A pier stretched out from the shore, doubling as a boat dock. He remembered sitting on it the evening they’d arrived, fetching two loungers off the sand and up onto the jetty, the feel of the wood, dry and weathered, on his bare feet. They’d shared a bottle of wine with the sun dissolving on the horizon, in a breeze as warm as a steam bath.
It was the holiday of a lifetime, and the one that was supposed to save a marriage that was petering out after eighteen months. His work was the main point of contention, but not the only one – money, stress, family all had a stake. Against the odds, the plan succeeded – but not how they’d expected. In the months that followed, he’d romanticised that first night as being the one they conceived, even though there was no way to be sure. It was unplanned but not unwanted; the result of a pill that’d been forgotten, or straight up didn’t work – who could say. They came to joke about it as their miracle baby.
At twenty-one weeks they lost it. He’d moved out a month later – her choice, but a relief for both of them once it was agreed. The baby had been a sticking plaster that might have been strong enough to let the wound underneath heal; but ripping it away made them weaker than they had been at the start, and it was more than they could overcome. He hadn’t seen her, hadn’t spoken to her in eight years. He heard from Abi she’d remarried and had a family with someone else.
He didn’t let himself dwell on it much anymore, save the times in the dead of night when he’d find himself trying to picture what their child might’ve looked like.
He lifted his eyes just as a man approached Lydia Wright’s door. He had a suit on and salt-and-pepper hair, and a watch on his wrist that was big enough to see from across the street. He recognised him from somewhere, but couldn’t isolate the memory. He got up to go outside and get a better look. He stood on the kerb, squeezing his car keys in his pocket like a stress ball.
He watched as the man pressed the bell, then stepped back from the doorway to wait, looking up. A few seconds later, Lydia Wright answered the door looking woozy.
Lydia opened her eyes with a start, still half in a dream. She was alone in a Tube carriage, speeding through a tunnel, when the tracks fell away, dragging her down into blackness. The echo of the sound was still in her mind, screams drowned out by the sound of rushing air. She rubbed her eyes, trying to shake it off. The doorbell rang again and she lurched off the bed to go to the window.
Stephen was on the street below. He looked up when she cracked the blinds, because he never missed a single bloody thing.
She went along the landing and ducked her head into the kitchen to check the time on the oven. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, but she’d been out for four hours. She jogged down the stairs, only remembering the application form spread across her desk as she got to the bottom. She could see his shadow through the frosted glass in the door.
‘Hi.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Can we talk inside?’
She glanced back down the hallway. ‘I’m not ready for another dressing-down.’
‘That’s not what I came for.’
She thought about it, gently tugging at the hem of her top. ‘Come up.’
She led him along the hallway and climbed the stairs, ending up in the kitchen. She flicked the kettle on, suddenly conscious of the wine on her breath, thankful she hadn’t left the bottle on display. ‘Make you a tea?’
‘Just a water. Please.’
She filled a glass and gave it to him. ‘I thought you’d be chained to your desk.’
He drained half. ‘I felt bad about the way we left things.’
‘Same.’
He put his drink down and pulled open his suit coat to reach for the inside pocket. ‘Here.’ He produced a wad of neatly folded money.
‘What’s this?’
‘Take care of the police woman’s fees. Just make sure no paperwork comes into the business.’
She stared at his outstretched hand.
‘There’s a thousand there, in case it was more than your estimate.’
‘Is this … Where’s this from?’
‘Doesn’t matter. You were right, I should’ve been explicit.’
‘Is this your money? I can’t take it.’
He put it down on the counter, the top note unfurling. ‘It all gets squared in the end.’
She wrapped both hands around her mug and held it by her mouth. ‘I swear to god I wasn’t trying to take advantage.’
‘I know. It just felt like it earlier.’
‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’
They stared at each other, some kind of unspoken truce settling between them. His eyes were a watery blue, the first thing she could remember noticing about him.
Stephen took half a step towards her. ‘Look, I came over because I’m worried about you. I had Sasha in my office before lunch complaining about your work.’
The other Botox Twin. ‘Saying what?’
‘That it’s been choppy lately. The quality’s uneven.’
She put her mug down and stood up straight. ‘Cheeky cow. What do they expect me to do with the crap they give me?’
‘The subject matter isn’t the issue. She was saying that your stuff seems rushed. Sloppy.’
‘Rubbish. That’s absolute—’
‘I’m not saying I agree.’
He toyed with his water glass, dragging it back and forth across the counter. ‘Tell me one thing – you’re not trying to get yourself sacked, are you?’
‘Sacked? No.’
‘I know how unhappy you are, but that wouldn’t be the answer.’
‘That’s not what I’m doing. The opposite, in fact.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘What it sounds like. Show people what I’m capable of.’
‘You don’t have anything to prove. It was never about that.’
‘What then? What happened with Goddard?’ She regretted it as soon as she said it, a breach in the Chinese wall they’d constructed around the subject. A silence followed, proof he’d recognised it too.
He picked up his glass and set it down again, very gently. ‘The story wasn’t there.’
She closed her eyes and turned away.
‘There was good reporting in what you did; it didn’t go unnoticed. But you took a shortcut.’
‘And I’ve been kicking myself for it ever since. That doesn’t mean there was nothing to it.’
‘Maybe there was, maybe not – but the story was nowhere near ready to publish, and certainly not ready for you to go after him. I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘Then you saw the evidence. Everyone from Goddard down stood to profit directly or otherwise. They were taking bribes, it’s the only explanation. They were in bed with the developers and now he’s special adviser to a soon-to-be MP with well-known leadership ambitions, and no one gives a fuck.’
‘That’s an inference from what you had. The proof was missing. You have to be watertight with these people, they eat us alive otherwise.’
‘So why pull the plug? You could’ve given me a slap on the wrist and put me back on the case.’
‘You’re talking as if it was my decision alone. Evan, Meredith, Gavin, they’re all involved in these conversations…’
‘That’s what I meant. Management.’
He drew a breath. ‘There was a thought it might teach patience.’ He stepped closer again, his hand on the counter to tap the pile of cash. ‘That’s why this bothered me so much. Today felt like another shortcut.’
‘So that one mistake defines my whole career? How am I supposed to prove anything to anyone when I’m producing filler for the white space around the bloody pictures?’
‘You’re still not getting it. Professionalism, maturity. Patience. That’s what the business looks for. Not some blockbuster exclusive.’
‘That’s not how it works anymore. People are on Twitter all day for news – look at the Guardian lot, they tweet every bloody thought that comes into their heads. People want to follow a story as it develops, not just see the end piece.’
‘We’re talking about two different things, and you know it.’
‘I spent six years being patient.’
‘There’s a vote of confidence in what happened. They might have binned anyone else altogether.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do they ask you to keep reminding me that?’
He rubbed his mouth, about to say something, when she put her hands up. ‘Sorry.’ She took his hand on the counter and kissed him. ‘Sorry.’
‘Forget it.’
‘I’m grateful for this. Really.’
‘I know.’ His eyes slipped to his watch. ‘This thing with Tammy – how far have you got with it?’
‘It’s coming along.’
‘Truthfully.’
‘I’ve got a few things live. I found the woman who took the video, I’m trying to convince her to speak to me. Tammy’s got a lead on who the victim was. Her whistleblower.’
‘She doesn’t know who he was?’
‘They only met once. He wouldn’t tell her.’
Stephen was shaking his head as she said it.
Lydia leaned against the counter. ‘She was trying to get him to trust her.’
‘She was sloppy. Is she sure it’s the same guy? The video’s not exactly clear.’
‘She says so.’
‘She would, she lives for that kind of thing.’
‘Not this again…’
‘Do you trust her?’
‘That’s a leading question.’ Lydia cocked her head. ‘Why?’
He looked away as if it was nothing.
‘No, go on.’
‘I was just surprised she came to you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you were still friendly.’
‘We’ve always been mates. That didn’t stop when she got let go.’
‘No, not you. Her.’
She stared at him. ‘I don’t follow.’
He checked his watch again, but it didn’t seem to register. He ran his fingers over his chin, as if deciding whether to say something. ‘Look, you can’t ever repeat this.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘When the Goddard thing blew up – the first time – Tammy was lobbying to take over the story. She wanted us to pull rank on you for her.’
Lydia splayed her hand on the countertop. ‘She fucking what?’
‘She wanted you off it. It was part of the reason Gavin told you to leave it alone – Tammy was driving him and Meredith mad about it. So you can understand why I was surprised when her name came up.’
‘Why didn’t you say something?’
He shot her a look that said be reasonable. ‘I shouldn’t be saying anything now.’
She looked away, nodding an acceptance at his explanation. It felt like she’d been tricked.
‘Anyway. I just thought you should know before you take anything on trust from Tammy.’ A final glance at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’
When he was gone, she went back to her room and gathered the application papers into a slapdash pile, leaving the pen on top as proof to herself she’d go back to it. She simmered doing it, feeling betrayed, lied to, undermined, a dozen questions burning in her mind. She thought about calling Tammy to have it out with her right then, but she stopped herself, just enough self-control left to realise she’d be betraying Stephen’s confidence in doing so.
She picked up the wine bottle and glass, and an empty mug, and ferried them all to the kitchen, then went back to her room and plugged in her phone. The screen lit up as the charger connected, and there was a notification showing – a missed call via Facebook from Paulina Dobriska.
She jumped up and hit the button to call her back, yanking the charger cable out so she could pace to the window with the phone to her ear.
It made the warped ringing sound and then she answered. ‘You saw my call?’
‘Yes, Paulina, hi. I’m so glad you got in touch.’
‘You can help me?’
‘Yes. Yes, I hope so. Where are you?’
The line went quiet, background noises on the other end that sounded like rushing water, but might just have been the connection. ‘I need to get some money.’
‘What for?’
‘A plane ticket. I have to leave.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I just have to leave. I don’t feel safe here anymore.’
‘Paulina, has someone threatened you? Because of what you saw? Your video, did you know any of the men?’ It was too many questions all at once, eagerness getting the better of her.
‘Can you get me money or no?’
She stared at Stephen’s pile of fifties, sitting on the desk. ‘Maybe some. Look, before anything else, can you say a bit about yourself?’
‘What? Why?’
‘So I know for sure who I’m talking to.’
�
�What you want me to say?’
‘Well, can you confirm your address?’
‘No. No way I’m saying that to you. I don’t live there no more anyway.’
She realised then why the question spooked her. ‘I already know where you live, you don’t have to tell me the whole thing, what about just the flat number?’
‘65b. How do you know…?’
‘What about the nearest Tube to your work?’
‘Finchley Central. Why you wasting my time? You want to know who I am? I the one saw a man get killed right in front of my fucking eyes. If you seen the video, how much more you want to hear?’
She stood on her tiptoes, afraid to move. ‘Okay that’s fine, thank you. Last thing: did you speak to my colleague, Tammy?’
‘She’s working with you?’
‘Yes, sort of. She’s a friend.’
‘No. She message me but when I called her she didn’t answer. So I call you.’
‘Look, why don’t we meet? How about—’
‘If you bring the money I see you tonight. Five hundred pounds.’
‘Okay. Where?’
‘Ten o’clock. You know Brent Cross station?’
Patience. Professionalism. ‘Yes.’
A link from Milos arrived via WhatsApp while the man was inside Wright’s flat. The accompanying message told Stringer he’d need to use the Tor browser to access the website, which would slow the download speed because of the huge size of the CCTV files, and the server-jumping involved. On its heels came a second message, containing an address in Kentish Town.
This is where that email came from. Woman called Tammy Hodgson lives there. Tell her ain’t no point using a fake email account if she’s gonna do it from her home IP address.