Blood Red City

by Rod Reynolds

  He darted across one lane of Oxford Street to the narrow safety island that ran down the middle of the road. He had to shout over the traffic noise. ‘Alright. But remember the deal – you find yourself with company, call me. Anything more serious, dial 999—’

  ‘Yep, yep. I gotta go, she’s gone into the Tube.’ She hung up.

  Stringer walked against the flow of buses until he could slip between two double-deckers to get to the other pavement. He took the next turn off the main road and darted along the back streets to where he was parked. He jumped in and set the satnav for Surrey.

  The Molesey address the stolen Honda was registered to was on a wide avenue lined with trees spaced at regular intervals. Stringer parked right outside the house, looking it over from behind glass before he got out. There were no signs of life from inside.

  He climbed out and walked a few paces to stand at the gate across the driveway. It was one of two, the pair joined by a wide semi-circle of gravel in front of the house. He followed the hedgerow to the other gate, looking up at the railings that stood ten feet high. He came to a stop and looked through them to the house. Straightaway he spotted a camera – a small unit on a plinth extending from the far right-hand side of the property. It was positioned to cover a wide area, and prominent enough to be a deterrent.

  A gated drive, a CCTV camera no one could miss. The men who killed Jamie Tan had crossed the whole of London to steal a car for their getaway – and then picked the most secure place they could find to do so. He went back into his emails and checked the DVLA report Milos had sent him, thinking he’d read it wrong, but the address was there in black and white.

  He went back to the first gate and put his finger on the intercom system built into the wall. The bottom floor of the house was open plan, fronted almost exclusively with glass; he could see there was no one inside. The back was mostly glass too, and it opened out onto a large garden bathed in sunlight, the Thames running across the bottom of it.

  He pressed the intercom anyway, waiting while it rang in muted tones. Touching the brass plaque above it, he traced his finger over the engraving of the property’s name.

  Withshaw.

  CHAPTER 37

  Lydia took the Tube direct from Soho to Whetstone, forty minutes apart but different worlds.

  She jogged to Paulina Dobriska’s flat, leaving her covered in sweat by the time she got there. She looked around, trying to orient herself. She remembered the man’s name – Henry Siddons – but didn’t know which number he lived at. He’d approached her in the street the last time she’d been there. She looked from house to house, hoping for a giveaway.

  There – across the road, two doors down, a big neighbourhood-watch sticker in the front window. She crossed over and Siddons appeared at his front door before she’d even started up the path.

  ‘Hello, back again?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Siddons.’

  ‘Still haven’t seen her, you know.’

  ‘Who? Paulina?’

  ‘Yes, the lass over the road. I knocked, too, but I don’t think she’s been back at all.’

  The words only stoked her adrenaline rush. ‘I wanted to show you something, if you don’t mind?’

  She could sense him puffing up. ‘Oh?’

  She raised her phone, the image Michael had sent her on the screen. ‘Do you recognise this man from anywhere?’

  He had a pair of glasses dangling on a chain around his neck, and he squinted, fitting them over his eyes. ‘Right, let’s have a look.’ He took hold of her wrist, jerking her hand closer to his face, shocking Lydia enough that she almost snatched it away. ‘That’s one of them. The lads in the car.’

  ‘The ones watching the place over the road?’

  ‘Yes. The same.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  He let go of her wrist. ‘Definitely. He was sitting right there.’ He pointed somewhere across the street. ‘Where did you get that from?’

  Lydia lowered her hand slowly, hearing the distant sound of a ball being kicked against a wall, a child laughing.

  Siddons reached out to touch her forearm. ‘Everything alright, love?’

  Nowhere felt safe anymore, so Lydia went to the only place she could think to hole up – the office.

  She sat at her desk with a two-sugar coffee and traced it out on a piece of paper.

  Henry Siddons sees two men watching Paulina Dobriska’s place last Saturday – the day after Dobriska took the footage of the attack on Jamie Tan. Dobriska hasn’t been seen at home or work since – a phone call to Premier Dental confirming the latter. And now one of the men is photographed in her own flat the same weekend.

  She drew another line on the paper, to a box marked Withshaw – the empty mansion on the Thames their car was registered to, according to Sam Waterhouse. From there, two more lines – to a box for the tax lawyer, Simon Shelby, and one for Arpeggio Holdings – the two appointed directors of the limited company that owned Withshaw.

  She drew one more line, connecting it to a box holding Tammy’s name. She started to trace a question mark, but kept staring at the name Jamie Tan – the one thing that connected all of it.

  She pressed her hands into her eyes, trying to slow everything down. It felt like the recurring dream she had where she’d tripped and was falling; bad enough to know it was happening, worse to realise it was too late to do anything about it. They’d been there, in her own home. Lying in wait. When that went wrong, they’d lured her to Brent Cross. And killed Tammy.

  She uncovered her eyes, reaching for her phone. She opened Facebook Messenger and clicked on the chat with the woman posing as Dobriska, the last message in all capitals making her heart race with raw adrenaline. She scrolled past it, finding Dobriska’s first message to her. Sent at 8.00 on the Tuesday morning – but then she remembered her friend request had been accepted the night before. Twenty-four hours after they’d invaded her flat.

  And he’d been there both times – Michael. Maybe saved her life twice. Fuelling the sense that she owed him, the gratitude maybe not so misplaced. Or was that being naive?

  She felt cold, a sensation she couldn’t remember experiencing before in the airless office, let alone in summer. It seemed to come from inside of her, spreading with each heartbeat. She closed Facebook and called Chloe, clamping her teeth around the pen lid as the phone rang.

  ‘Hey, Lyds.’

  ‘Chlo, hey. Are you at the flat?’

  ‘No, I’m at Nathan’s. What’s up?’

  She dropped the pen on her pad. ‘I think … I think someone broke into our place last weekend.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. This is gonna sound crazy, but I think they were looking for me.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I know. It’s this story I’m working. Look, I don’t want to scare you but can you hang out at Nathan’s for a few days?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Lyds, what’s happened? Did you go to the police?’

  ‘Yes. Yes and no. I’ll explain properly when I see you but…’ She let out a breath. ‘I know I sound like a nutter but things have just got a bit out of control. Please, please, don’t go back there for now.’

  ‘You’re freaking me out.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m freaking myself out. I’m really sorry. Please, just give me a couple of days, okay?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at work. I’m fine.’

  ‘So where are you going to stay?’

  She felt the first traces of calm coming back to her voice. ‘I’ll figure something out.’

  Stringer threw the door open and jumped out of the car. He had his phone to his ear, waiting for Angie to pick up again. He looked up, not even certain from down there which window belonged to his flat, the Finsbury Park block as bland and uniform as a council office.

  ‘Alright?’

  ‘Shoot,’ he said.

  ‘I’m by her work in London Bridge – she went inside a couple of hours ago and
I haven’t seen her since.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘It’s dead round here so I can’t see how I’d have missed her. I don’t like hanging round this way again, Mike.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘After the other night.’

  ‘No one could connect you to that.’

  ‘Nah, it ain’t that. It’s just – dunno, feels like bad karma and shit.’

  He stopped with the car fob held out to press. ‘You know how the world works; don’t tell me you believe in that rubbish. What happened when she left me?’

  ‘We went on a daytrip to the country. Totteridge and Whetstone, it’s at the end of the Northern.’

  He had the Tube map in his mind – past Finchley, one stop before High Barnet. Bells ringing. ‘What for?’

  ‘I’d say she went to visit her grandad, but I don’t think he was. She looked like she knew where she was going until we got there, then she looked lost. It was really weird. Then she goes up to this old boy’s door, and it’s like he knows she’s coming. She showed him something on her phone, they both looked like they had a little moment, and then we was off again, back to the Tube. I walked for miles.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  ‘All of it. She came straight back here.’

  He leaned on the car roof. ‘You get the address?’

  ‘Yeah. You want me to message you?’

  ‘Just keep hold of it.’ He looked up again, columns and columns of windows stretching into the sky. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  He went inside and up the stairs. The corridor lights flickered on and for a second he saw everything in strobe lighting; an instant captured and lost. He knocked on the door to 307, listening for Alicia Tan’s approach on the other side.

  There was no sound.

  He knocked again, harder, stepping closer to listen.

  He waited a few seconds and tried the handle. It was locked. He took his keys out and put them in the lock, knocking again as he did. ‘Alicia?’

  He unlocked the door and wrenched the handle. ‘Hello?’ The air inside was musty, as if it’d been closed up for a while. He went down the hallway, calling out as he did, tremors hitting him as he got flashbacks from Tammy Hodgson’s place. Trying to reassure himself: No one knew she was here…

  He glanced around the sitting room, then ducked his head into the kitchen.

  There was a mug on the draining rack. He picked it up and touched the inside – dry.

  He went back along the hallway and looked inside the bedroom. The bed was made but there was no sign of her. He pulled his phone out to look for the message where she’d sent herself the video. He copied the number and dialled it. It was dead.

  There was drizzle in the air when Stringer pulled up outside the house in Arkley, the first break in the weather in weeks.

  Alicia Tan’s Lexus was there on the driveway, its front wheels still at an angle, indicating it hadn’t been moved. He tried the gates, knowing they wouldn’t budge. He followed the railings to where they met the boundary fence, stepped up onto the low wall at their base and hauled himself over them.

  He landed crouched low on the gravel. He held still a moment, checking for any sign he’d drawn attention on the street. When nothing moved, no faces appeared in neighbouring windows, he crossed to the front door and knocked.

  The house was silent, the sound of birds chirping in the trees all around him. He thought of Angie, tailing Lydia Wright around – in hindsight, maybe detailed to the wrong woman. Another mistake. He went around the side of the house, looking for access to the back. There’d been no evidence of a struggle at the Finsbury Park flat – a glimmer of hope he was clinging to. But then they’d killed her husband on a Tube train and left almost no trace, so maybe it was naive to take heart from that.

  He followed a passage to the back garden. There was a wide patio area kitted out with rattan sofas and chairs, and a large canvas sunshade; beyond that, a manicured lawn stretched thirty feet or more, edged by carefully tended borders filled with yellow and red flowers in bloom. He skirted the wall of the house, moving slowly towards the folding doors to look inside. A soft breeze blew across him, like a blade traced across his neck.

  He craned his head to look through the glass, making sure not to touch it.

  Empty. A large open-plan room that took in the lounge and the kitchen, three stools tucked neatly under the breakfast bar that divided the two. No sign she’d been there. He covered his knuckles with his sleeve and knocked on the folding doors.

  No response.

  He stepped back from the house to give himself an angle and looked up. It was twenty-five degrees outside and there wasn’t a window or door open in the place. She could be upstairs, left in her bed like Tammy Hodgson. But would she have risked coming back here? He looked again through the glass and realised he could make out the alarm panel on the opposite wall – armed and activated.

  He surrendered to the reality of the situation: alive or dead, she wasn’t there, and he had no fucking clue where she was.

  His phone beeped. The alert jerked him out of his spiral – but only for a second.

  Dalton. The message on screen: You will be collected from home at 10.00 a.m.

  CHAPTER 38

  Lydia slept in one of the meeting rooms. It was a corner nook, too small for its purpose, normally only in use when someone needed a private space to make a call during the day – and never at night. She rested her head on her forearms and dozed on and off for a few hours, stiffness in her back and neck eventually forcing her to abandon her efforts.

  She took a shower in the basement bathroom, feeling grim when she had to put the same clothes back on.

  At her desk she tried to regroup. When she unlocked her screen, it was open on the database the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists had set up to facilitate searches of the Panama Papers. She’d run a search looking for Arpeggio Holdings, but it was a more common name than she’d imagined and the list of results ran to three pages – different variations, but with nothing to indicate any of them were the shell company she was looking for. She tried Simon Shelby, the other Withshaw director, and even Withshaw itself, but each search came up empty.

  She typed an email to Dietmar Stettler, a journalist with the German team who’d first received the cache of papers along with Tammy, and who she’d corresponded with over an aspect of the Goddard story. A disclaimer on the website stated there was material that hadn’t been uploaded to the database, for legal and other reasons, and just as important, Stettler was more familiar with navigating the huge volume of information that was there. She sent him the list of search terms and asked if he could turn anything up.

  The lift chimed behind her, causing her to whip around. The doors opened and Stephen came out looking over at her. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt, the unfamiliar casual look somehow ageing him.

  He walked over to the edge of her desk, the morning sun coming through the windows lighting him up as if he was under spotlights. ‘You’re still working?’

  She glanced at the clock on her screen, not realising it was already gone nine. ‘Just trying to distract myself. What’re you doing here on a Sunday?’

  ‘Looking for you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’m worried about you. Can we talk?’ He glanced in the direction of his office.

  She locked her computer and pushed her chair back to get up. She reached for a pen and pad but he put his hand over it. ‘You don’t need that.’

  They walked in silence, Stephen in the lead, never once looking back at her. The empty newsroom hummed, a low buzz that made it feel like the air was being sucked out. A cleaner was wiping the glass of the office adjoining Stephen’s and she looked up in surprise when they came down the corridor towards her. She smiled and said good morning with a Spanish accent and vanished around the corner.

  She followed him in. He stopped immediately and leaned against the wall. ‘How you holding up?’ He reach
ed out a hand to take hers.

  She went to say something but she felt tears well up in her eyes. She looked away, trying not to break in front of him.

  He leaned closer, looking at the bruises on her neck. She jerked back and he held his hands up to show he wasn’t going to touch. ‘What happened to you?’

  She was shaking now, inside. If she spoke her voice would falter.

  He wrapped his arms around her and she buried her face in his shoulder. He whispered something she didn’t catch, his face in her hair. Then he broke off.

  ‘What happened to your neck?’

  ‘I just … It’s nothing.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now but I promise you I only want to help. Talk to me, please.’

  She dipped her forehead against his chest. ‘I don’t know what’s happening.’

  He cradled the back of her head – a gesture that was enough to tip her over the edge.

  ‘They killed her. It could’ve been me.’

  After that it came out in a rush. The attack at Brent Cross, the police, arriving at Tammy’s place. She jumped around the timeline, telling things as they came to her because she didn’t want to leave a pause for him to ask questions. She spoke the name Jamie Tan and it felt like catharsis.

  When she was finished, Stephen was silent at first. He looked ashen, stepping backward slowly to perch against his desk. His first words: ‘You’ve told the police all this?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re looking into it.’

  ‘Okay, good. That’s a start. What about protection?’

  ‘They’ve asked the local bobbies to keep an eye on my place. Told me to dial 999 at the first sign of—’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘What else can they do?’

  He breathed out through his nose. ‘I’ve spoken to Evan; he’s briefed the rest of the senior team, and legal are involved as well. They’ll need to speak to you – obviously they want to restrict your involvement as much as possible going forward.’