Blood Red City

by Rod Reynolds

  She went about it the other way, going after the man who’d supplied the name – and it took no time to identify him. His twitter handle was generic – Adam0048512 – but he’d tweeted a picture the previous year and a reverse image search linked it back to a Facebook account belonging to an Adam Finch, a trader at HFB. A quick skim of his friends list turned up one Jamie Tan – who was a vice president at the same bank. She jumped onto Tan’s page and was confronted with a photo of the man she’d watched being strangled.

  At last, a name to the face. It was jarring to see him that way – a posed shot, the kind used for a corporate profile. It showed Tan suited and smiling, not quite looking at the camera, handsome in a clean-cut kind of way. It seemed impossible to marry it with the grainy image she’d seen so many times – a banker without a hair out of place, not the usual type to be murdered on the Tube.

  His Facebook wall was sparse, just a selection of profile-picture updates, including an older one that showed him with his arms around a laughing blonde woman. Lydia clicked on it, hoping the woman was named or tagged, but all that came up was the date.

  She Googled Tan’s name in conjunction with the bank and found his LinkedIn page. It showed a limited CV; he’d started as an equities trader at HFB in 2004, preceded by two eighteen-month spells at smaller investment banks. The entry for his current role was several paragraphs long, but not that revealing; he’d worked in various sectors, concentrating on European and emerging-market stocks. He’d been promoted quickly and ended up running the London trading desk. He’d won various internal awards that seemed to mark him out as a rising man in the bank.

  She went back to the Google results and tried the images tab again, now she knew what she was looking for. But nothing new came up; she couldn’t find any mention of him outside of his work.

  Two hours’ research that’d all led back to this building. She walked down to the traffic lights and crossed, then doubled back into the bank’s reception. It was a cavernous space, the receptionists stationed at the far end behind a long row of individual marble blocks that served as desks. Light poured in through the glass walls, stretching her shadow across the floor. She went to the only free desk, gave her name and asked for Adam Finch. The man in the suit asked if he was expecting her and she smiled and nodded.

  She waited at a bank of seats around an oversized glass coffee table. She crossed her legs and had to make a conscious effort to stop the top one twitching. She opened Twitter and debated replying to Finch to tell him she was waiting, in case he needed a nudge. She thought about why he’d contacted her and what it said about him, and she kept coming back to the same conclusion – he had something he wanted to get off his chest.

  A minute later, he stepped out of one of the lifts. He spotted her straightaway, coming to a stop as he did. He eyed her a second, glancing towards the receptionists, then came over.

  ‘Lydia?’

  She stood up and offered a handshake. ‘Hello.’

  He shook it as if it was red hot, whipping his hand away. ‘What are you..?’

  ‘You sent me a message on Twitter.’

  He rubbed his face. ‘Shit…’

  ‘Can we talk?’

  He looked down at his watch. ‘Look, not here. There’s a pub inside the station, upstairs. I can meet you there in an hour?’ He was already stepping back from her.

  ‘Sure. I’ll be there.’

  Ninety minutes later, she was on her second lime and soda and there was still no sign of Finch. The pub was from that unique subset of watering holes only found in stations – the same sticky marble bartops and brass taps as its high-street cousin, but a clientele that had one eye on the departure boards at all times; everyone jumpy, ready to run at the flick of a dot matrix.

  She had her phone open, about to DM Finch, when he walked in. She got off her stool as he came over.

  ‘Sorry, I got held up.’ He pointed to her glass. ‘D’you want another drink?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  He went to the bar and came back with a large glass of red wine. He drank off half of it before he set it down, keeping his hand on the stem. ‘So what’s with the picture of Jamie?’ He stayed standing, shifting his weight from foot to foot every few seconds.

  She perched on her stool. ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  Interesting choice of words. ‘When was the last time you saw him, Mr Finch?’

  ‘Adam, yeah? Makes me feel like I’m at school otherwise.’

  ‘Okay, Adam.’

  ‘Last week.’ He put his glass down and picked it up again. ‘Haven’t seen him since last week. Your turn.’

  ‘About the photo?’

  ‘Yes. Any of it. What are we doing here?’

  She stirred her drink with the straw, deciding how much to give. ‘I was passed a video of a man who was the victim of an attack. I was trying to identify him.’

  He kept his eyes on hers as she said it, the first time he’d been still. ‘And now you have?’

  She looked down when she nodded.

  ‘Where is he?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is he alive?’

  She spread her hands in apology. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’

  ‘What do you mean? If you’ve got a picture of him…’

  ‘That’s all I have. I didn’t even know his name until you told me.’

  He had his mouth open to argue the point but he stopped himself when the logic of what she was saying hit home.

  ‘Can you think of anyone would have reason to hurt him, Adam?’

  He picked up his wine and drank the last of it. ‘I need another one.’ He turned and crossed back to the bar.

  She watched him go, calling out his order and waving his glass at the barman even before he got there. While he waited, he spread his hands on the bar and ducked his head, his suit jacket bunching between his shoulder blades.

  She placed her phone in the middle of the table, the voice recorder app open but not recording.

  He came back with another full glass, but put it down untouched this time. ‘He hasn’t been answering his phone. I’ve tried him a load of times.’ Before she could speak, he had his own phone out and was showing her the call log. ‘Look.’ It showed five unanswered call attempts.

  ‘Adam, do you mind if I record this conversation? It doesn’t mean it has to be on the record.’ Her finger hovered near the button on the screen.

  ‘No. No way.’ He pushed her phone across the tabletop towards her. ‘What happened to him? You said an attack?’

  ‘It appears he was strangled.’

  ‘A robbery or something?’ The question was a backtrack from his initial reaction.

  ‘I don’t know, but my feeling is not. I think he was targeted.’

  She left it hanging, for him to pick up the thread.

  But he looked away, his mouth twitching, then shook his head. ‘I don’t get it. I don’t…’

  ‘You’re friendly with Mr Tan?’

  ‘He’s my boss.’

  ‘Outside of work I mean.’

  He shrugged, nodding his head. ‘We go for beers and that.’

  ‘Do you know if there’s someone I can contact? A wife, parents?’

  ‘His wife’s name’s Alicia. I’ve met her but I don’t know her. She must be doing her nut. Wait, where are the police in all this?’

  ‘I don’t know. They haven’t been in touch with your firm?’

  ‘No one’s spoken to me.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone think it unusual that Mr Tan hadn’t shown up for work?’

  ‘I asked. The answer came back he was sick.’

  She inched closer. ‘And that made you suspicious?’

  His eyes bored into hers. ‘No. Personal matter, isn’t it.’

  He was in full retreat now so she changed tack. ‘Why did you contact me, Adam?’

  He shrugged again, his face starting to flush fr
om the wine.

  ‘Usually people talk to journalists because they want to tell their side of the story.’

  He stepped back from the table. ‘What’s that supposed…? This is nothing to do with me.’

  She threw her palms up. ‘That’s not what I meant. But if you were concerned for him or think you might know why this happened…’

  He brought his glass to his mouth and watched her over the rim as he drank. When he was finished, his top lip was slick with red. ‘I just wanted to know where he was, that’s all. If you can’t tell me, then we’re done here.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked off.

  CHAPTER 32

  Stringer ran down a long corridor in the Royal Free Hospital. It took him past the pharmacy and an M&S concession that stank of grease, through to the lifts. The waiting area was packed so he doubled back across the corridor and ran up the stairs two at a time to the seventh floor.

  He came out panting in another corridor, signs pointing to three different wards, the one he wanted to his left. He pushed through the double doors and followed it around to the nurse’s station, the lone woman at the desk on the phone.

  There was a list of patients on a whiteboard behind her. He scanned it, waiting, not seeing his mum’s name. The woman finished her call and looked up at him.

  ‘Looking for Mrs Howton. I’m her son.’

  Before she could answer, he heard his sister’s voice behind him. ‘Mike.’

  He turned and saw Abi peering out of one of the rooms. She came out and met him as he approached, wrapping her arms around him. He held her, cradling the back of her head.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘They don’t know.’ She let go and stepped back to look at him, her hands on her cheeks. ‘They’re doing tests, the usual, but it could be … God, I don’t know.’

  He stared down the corridor, the words he needed refusing to come. ‘You told me she was doing better.’

  There was a note of accusation about it and she looked hurt. ‘Mike, she was. I’m not a doctor, I can’t…’

  ‘I didn’t mean it to come out like that.’ He reached out to take her hand. ‘It’s just…’

  ‘I know. A shock.’

  ‘When did you get here?’

  ‘Just after I called you. She’d already been sent up from A&E.’

  ‘Where’s Ellie?’

  ‘One of the other mums is picking her up from nursery for me. She’s okay at her place for a bit.’

  He stepped around her to go into the room, but she kept hold of his hand, pulling him back. ‘Mike…’

  He stopped still before she could say it. His mum was lying on the bed, an oxygen mask over her face, her eyes closed and her face pale and shrunken. She had a drip in the back of her left hand. On her other side, William Howton was sitting in a chair. His father.

  ‘Michael.’

  Abi came to stand next to him. He could feel her staring at the side of his face.

  He ignored the old man and went to his mum. He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, as gently as if it was a child’s. It was warmer than he expected, her skin slack. He could hear her breathing, weak and slow.

  ‘She’s unconscious,’ his dad said. ‘Talk to her. She’ll like hearing your voice.’

  Stringer glanced over, then around the room, his mother’s one of six beds. One was empty, two were hidden behind their curtains, and two were occupied – women about his mum’s age. He turned to his sister. ‘Can we get her in a private room?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll ask.’ She shuffled back towards the nurse’s station.

  Stringer traced the line of the drip up to a plastic bag that hung from a portable hook next to the bed, a silent monitor beside it showing numbers that didn’t mean anything to him. ‘What happened?’

  The old man hunched forward in his chair, the hiss of air being squeezed out of the cushion as he shifted his weight. ‘She was doing something upstairs. Heard something smash, and when I got up there she was on the floor.’

  ‘She been feeling ill?’

  His dad shook his head. ‘You know what she’s like. Wouldn’t say even if she was.’

  ‘Or you don’t want to hear it.’

  He frowned, looking away – water off a duck’s back. ‘It was a picture frame that broke. The sound. Reckon she knocked it when she collapsed. The one of you two she keeps on the dresser.’

  ‘Has she been taking her tablets?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But nothing. She forgets, it’s not her fault.’

  ‘You remind her?’

  ‘When I’m there.’

  ‘You fucking saint.’

  He caught one of the other patients flick her eyes onto him.

  ‘I’m not a nursemaid, Michael. Are you there when she wakes up crying in the middle of the night? When she doesn’t know where she is because she thinks she still lives in the house she grew up in?’

  Abi touched his forearm. ‘They can put her in her own room, but then she has to go private. It starts at five hundred a night.’

  ‘I’ll cover it.’

  ‘They’ve got no idea how long she’ll be here.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  She opened her mouth to say something more but then she rubbed his shoulder and slipped off again.

  ‘Generous gesture,’ the old man said.

  Stringer went to the end of the bed and reached for her chart. Her temperature was normal, her blood pressure high. It was at the best of times. ‘What happens now?’

  The old man curled his lip. ‘Wait and see what the doctor thinks. Doubt they’ll say much until she comes round.’

  ‘You don’t sound unduly worried.’

  ‘Worrying won’t help her, will it?’

  ‘Might make her think you care.’

  ‘She already knows that.’

  Abi swept in again, typing on her phone. Stringer looked at her, expectant. She lifted her head when she realised it. ‘Sorted. You’ll need to do the paperwork. They’ll move her as soon as it’s done and they can find a porter.’

  He dipped his eyes to her phone. ‘Everything alright? Ellie?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  He went back to the top end of the bed and knelt down to say something to his mum. He brought his mouth to her ear, searching for the words. There was a beeping sound coming from the corridor, the whisper of the oxygen flowing into her mask. He could feel his father’s eyes on him. Thirty years walking this line between love and hate; so much to say, and nothing that would help.

  He touched his lips against her cheek and stood up to go to the desk.

  The same woman was there and had a clipboard and pen waiting for him. ‘Mr Howton?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, but that’s for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you said you were her son? We have visitation rules…’

  ‘I am.’

  She looked at him for an explanation, but let it go and handed him the papers. He was fucked if he was going to explain to her why he’d taken his mother’s maiden name.

  He brought the paperwork over to a plastic chair and took his wallet out for his bank details, started scribbling everything down.

  The smell was the first warning – the same scent he’d always known. Face balm, the one he used after shaving, and peppermint. He was almost next to him when he looked up.

  ‘You leaving?’ the old man said.

  ‘I’ll be back.’

  ‘A flying visit then.’

  Stringer concentrated on the form.

  The old man put his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s easy to turn up and lob a few verbals around, isn’t it? Point the finger and disappear.’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Still, shown your face, that’s what counts. Appearances.’

  He pressed harder as he wrote, the ballpoint digging into the clipboard.

  ‘You’ll be there at the funeral. Make sure a load of stran
gers can see how much you cared.’

  ‘Don’t wish her into the grave.’

  The old man stood over him. ‘Don’t put words in my mouth, you little shit.’

  Stringer got to his feet. He had maybe three inches on him now, time whittling away at the man he used to stand eye to eye with. ‘I can’t hear you. Nothing you say registers.’

  ‘That’s always been your problem.’

  ‘No, I learned your lessons.’

  ‘Here we go again.’

  ‘Hard to forget, isn’t it?’ He brought his arm up between them, running his hand up and down it.

  ‘It was an accident. I’ve apologised enough.’

  ‘Takes a special kind of cunt to believe his own lies.’

  His father looked at the floor. He stepped back, shaking his head. ‘I’ve never understood where we went wrong with you. You look at your sister, and then at you…’

  ‘Don’t bring her into this. She’s the only good thing you ever did.’

  ‘We agree on something, then.’

  Stringer picked up the clipboard and signed his name on the form. Then he pressed it into the old man’s chest to take. ‘You better hope Mum makes it through this.’ He pointed down the corridor towards her bed. ‘Because the day she goes is the day you do.’

  Lydia had just dropped her bag in her room when the police showed up. They introduced themselves on the doorstep – Detectives Wheldon and Singh. She invited them in and led them up to the kitchen. ‘Sorry, this doubles as the sitting room. Can I get you a tea?’

  Singh seemed to be the senior, declining for both of them. ‘Just water, thanks.’

  She turned to the tap and filled two glasses, concentrating on not coming across as nervous.

  ‘Miss Wright, I’m sorry to hear about what happened to you.’ She put the glasses down in front of them. ‘I know it might be uncomfortable to talk about but can you walk us through what happened? You can take your time.’

  She gave them a partial outline, starting when she came out of the Tube at Brent Cross. She went back to explain about the Facebook messages from Paulina Dobriska’s account, mentioned the video, and finished with the man who’d come out of nowhere to help her.