Fragile Minds

THURSDAY 20TH JULY SILVER



Silver spent the day alternately fielding calls from his increasingly frantic family and Malloy, who was now so beside himself with frustration at Explosives’ refusal to commit to the cause of the blast that he’d taken it upon himself to bark down the phone at Silver’s team each time he was thwarted.

‘How’s the ID coming on?’

‘We’ve traced the beanie girl’s identity. The bad news is, she’s missing too. She’s a first-year student called Anita Stuart. According to her mother she was in early to have an extra-curricular class with a teacher because she had an audition to train alongside something called – let me just check.’ It sounded like a group of stroppy teenagers to Silver. ‘The Bolshoi?’

‘Which teacher?’

‘The nut-job one who is proving not to be who she said she was. Lethbridge who is not Lethbridge.’

‘Right. So find her. The girl Stuart.’

‘We’re trying, guv – if she’s still alive. I’m pretty sure she’s not though, or she’d have come forward by now. We have at least seven unidentified dead still and we’re sifting through DNA matches. Good news is,’ he tried desperately to talk it up, ‘we have tracked the courier. Polish lad called Lev Kowal. He was bringing a costume delivery from the Parliament Hill area, he says.’

‘Does it check out?’

‘He delivered it to a girl fitting Anita Stuart’s description. We’re checking the other end.’

‘Thank f*ck someone’s off the list. And burqa-girl? Please tell me you’re a bit f*cking nearer her? She’s got to be our number one, yeah?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Silver carefully. ‘This “Purity” claim could be more sinister than it first appeared. Kenton’s checking out something called the Purity Alliance now. They have links to an underground movement called Daughters of Light, who apparently believe we are corrupting the earth, and they’re certainly not benign. Well, obviously, or they’d not be making claims to mass murder. Radicalised hippies, it seems.’

‘I don’t care if they’re f*cking Hitler f*cking Youth,’ Malloy howled. ‘Just get me some hard f*cking evidence, Joe. I’m doing my pieces here.’

That much was obvious.

‘Yes, guv,’ Silver said quietly. ‘We are doing our best.’

‘Well your best, DCI Silver, your best at this precise moment,’ Malloy’s voice had gone dangerously quiet, ‘ain’t good enough.’





Kenton brought Silver an ice-cold diet Coke and a mass of clippings about various groups who were linked to the far-left organisation the Empathy Society and the more recently formed Purity Alliance. They’d been around since the early 1970s but had never got up to any more mischief than a few road-blocks outside various vivisection factories, a demonstration that had turned nasty on the Salisbury plains when developers had cut down a small wood to build a supermarket, and a homemade bomb of sorts set off on the Cornish shores to protest against trawlers ruining the seabed. Why they would suddenly blow fourteen people up in central London remained a moot point, but finally Explosives had come back with confirmation that it was a suicide bomb.

‘Can’t see it, can you, boss,’ Kenton shook her head as they sifted through the cuttings. ‘Not this little lot.’

Silver reached over for a cutting about a guy who had formed a splinter group. BENEVOLENT SOCIETY SPLITS: NICE GONE NASTY? read the headline. It talked of how the leaders of the Empathy Society had fallen out over ethics and one member, known as the Archangel, had led a small group of dissidents away from the main group to set up on their own. He was also linked to the splinter group Daughters of Light. The article about the Empathy Society, written in 1998, read:

‘Born in America, literature graduate and sometime sociology lecturer Michael Watson’s prime concerns included the growth of narcissistic individualism and the damage it was doing to today’s society as a whole.’

It also talked of a beautiful girlfriend who had left her aristocratic family to follow Watson to the ends of the earth, apparently.

‘To the despair of her family, heiress Rosalind Lamont acts as Watson’s number two, recruiting the youth of today: students, the disaffected and those with money to burn for the cause. As yet the group have done no particular harm, but ex-member Robert Norman recently spoke out against them. “They are zealots and they despise anyone who does not agree with their creed, although their creed is undoubtedly extremely confused. They are clever with their brain-washing techniques: they make you believe you are acting in the interest of the world, they persuade you your family is bad and keep you from seeing them. Thank God I realised in the end that they are simply power-crazed.”’

A small photo of Michael Watson showed him to be dark, dreadlocked and heavily bearded. There was a blurred photo of a teenage Lamont in a school lacrosse team, but it was so tiny her face was a mere smudge. It was not much to go on.

Silver tossed the cutting down again onto the pile they were assembling. ‘Never heard of them. Have you?’

Kenton shook her head. ‘Can’t say I have, guv. Classic disaffected middle-classes with too much time on their hands, if you ask me.’

Craven arrived as they were rifling through the rest.

‘F*cking stupid hippies,’ he spat, looking over Kenton’s shoulder. ‘Could all do with a good wash if you ask me. Now, I’ve got a proper result for you.’ He swung back on his heels, looking incredibly pleased with himself. ‘That teacher, Lethbridge.’

‘Yeah?’ Silver looked up at him now.

‘I’ve ID-ed her on the CCTV.’

‘What CCTV?’

‘There were another couple of cameras in the Embassy next to the Academy. One of the buggers was actually working.’

Silver absorbed this. ‘So, Lethbridge—?’

‘Yeah. It’s at 6.49 a.m., before the explosion. She exits the Academy, and makes a call at the top of the stairs. She checks her watch. Then she makes another call and goes back in.’

‘The famous tip-off that was ignored?’

‘Who knows? Later we see her exit the Academy behind Anita Stuart, a couple of minutes before the explosion.’

‘And then what?’ Silver was excited.

Craven looked deflated. ‘The camera range doesn’t extend down onto the pavement there unfortunately, guv.’

Silver stood now, paced to the other side of the room and back again. ‘Can you get me the tape? I want to see for myself.’

‘Right you are,’ Craven smirked at Kenton, who was starting her trawl through the cuttings again. ‘You can always rely on old Derek here to bring in the goods.’

‘Really.’ Kenton wasn’t rising to it and didn’t so much as look at him.

Craven was waiting. It pained Silver, but he prided himself on being fair. ‘Nice work, Derek. So the mysterious Lethbridge might be in some way connected to the explosion. Still, we’ve got to ID her properly, and tie up all the others too. Keep on it.’ Silver crossed the room again. ‘Run a check on this Watson character and the heiress girlfriend, can you, Lorraine? Find out their whereabouts today.’

‘And what are you going to be doing, boss?’ Craven was finding it hard to keep the sneer from his voice.

Silver thought of his lost wife. ‘I’m going to be across the whole damn lot, Derek.’





THURSDAY 20TH JULY CLAUDIE



The walls of the flat felt like they were starting to draw in, so I forced myself out and went to pick up milk, eggs and bread from Ahmed’s. Standing in line, automatically I looked down at the children’s comics, then looked away again.

Outside the flat, I fumbled around for my key. The sky was glowering and overcast, the street unnaturally dark and deserted, no one was around. The door key was caught in a hole in my jacket pocket; the harder I pulled, the more tangled it became and I just couldn’t seem to free it. My heart was beating ever faster until I realised I was actually frightened. The strange phone calls had rattled me more than I had realised and when a figure suddenly stepped out beside me from the dusk shadows, I jumped, dropping the eggs.

‘Bloody hell,’ I swore softly, stepping over the viscous splatter to open the door as quickly as possible. ‘You scared me.’

‘I know you like your eggs scrambled,’ Rafe joked, ‘but that’s taking it a bit far.’

‘Hilarious.’ I almost fell through the door as it finally opened. I tried to shut it quickly behind me before he followed me in.

‘Claudie—’ Rafe stopped it with his foot. ‘Wait. Please.’

‘Why are you here?’ I ducked under his arm and turned to face him now. He looked as handsome as ever, totally guileless, although he was no longer clean-shaven, his dark face almost bearded now with stubble, rings of tiredness beneath his eyes.

‘You know why I’m here. For you, darling. I couldn’t get away before, or I’d have been here earlier. It’s murder at the Commons.’ He rolled his eyes comically. ‘Almost literally. In-house war.’

‘You’d better get back there.’ I turned away again. He had all the patter. I was shocked at how raw I felt at the sight of him.

‘You’re hurt.’ He caught my arm. ‘I realise that.’

‘It’s fine. OK?’ I shook him off. ‘Just go home.’

‘I’ve been really worried.’

I smiled at his gall. I wasn’t prepared for this now. I wasn’t sure what to do, what to say.

‘See? We’re meant to be together.’ Rafe’s boyish face relaxed for a moment, his thick chestnut hair falling across his eyes. He opened his arms just a little, stepping towards me.

‘You don’t really believe that,’ I said quietly. Neither of us did.

‘I’m sorry,’ he cajoled. ‘You have to believe that.’

‘Why do I?’ I flattened myself against the door-jamb, out of his reach, my smile already faded. ‘We’re about as meant to be together as – as Cameron and Clegg. Please, Rafe. Just go.’

‘I can explain about the stuff in the flat.’ He pushed his hair back, his forehead furrowed. ‘It was a – a misunderstanding.’

‘A misunderstanding?’ I was incredulous.

‘She’s just an old friend,’ he muttered. ‘She stays when she’s in town.’

‘Don’t worry.’ I looked down at him from the top step. ‘Rafe, really. I’ve nothing to say because there’s nothing to say.’

We stood there, Rafe and I, in the middle of my little street, and I closed my eyes. I saw the past year reel back through my head like an old film, jerky and in slow motion, and I thought:

I should tell you that you’ve hurt me because I trusted you. How your presence enabled me to get out of bed every day when I thought I never would again; when the pain was so bad I could barely breathe. You showed up and you stayed and you slowly pulled me through, dragging me from the abyss incrementally until my feet found solid ground. For that I will always be truly grateful.

But had I ever really seen Rafe in my future? Not so very long ago I genuinely hadn’t cared if I even had a future. Without Rafe, God knows where I’d have ended up. I was finding it almost impossible to admit that he had been important to me, now that he had hurt me too. I had spent so long suppressing my pain I had pushed myself into some kind of emotional limbo.

We’d met at Sadler’s Wells on a freezing January night. I had dragged myself to the Academy’s charity fund-raiser after a couple of sessions with Helen, during which she had firmly told me that I had to act as if I wanted to keep on living, even if I felt like I was dead inside. Even if I felt pierced with guilt every time I laughed, or so much as smiled. Even if I felt I was betraying Ned’s memory.

Rafe was at the do in an official capacity, a junior minister in the Department of Culture, and he had made a speech that was funny and entertaining. He was a captivating storyteller, and afterwards, as Tessa and I chatted quietly on the periphery of the busy room, Rafe had introduced himself. Tessa had been called over by Eduardo to meet a rich benefactor and I was left with the junior minister who was charming whilst I was shy and awkward, still weighed down with my own grief. After a minute or two of polite chit-chat, Rafe had fetched me a drink.

It was almost unpalatable white wine, and I’d wrinkled my nose at it and then tried to hide it because it was rude when he’d been kind enough to fetch it for me. He’d laughed, and cracked a joke about warm Chardonnay for the Bridget Jones generation, and then we’d both admitted we were dying for a cigarette.

‘I haven’t smoked for years. Not since I was a student,’ I was rueful. ‘Not till quite recently.’

‘So why now?’

‘I – it was—’ I found it almost impossible to voice the truth. That I had lost my son. That my son had died. That I didn’t care what poison I put in my body; that I would quite happily follow him.

‘Could I tell you another time?’ I managed eventually, and Rafe smiled and said of course, and we went and shared a cigarette outside, stamping our feet against the cold, watching our own breath join the smoke curling up into the freezing air. We talked about why he had got into politics – ‘to save the world’ apparently. And when he asked me out, a few days later, although Tessa had discouraged it (‘you can’t trust a politician, Claudie’ she’d frowned), Zoe, typical PR girl, had loved what he stood for (or maybe what he could do for her, who knew?), a Tory swung to “new” Labour – and it had been easy to listen to her. Helen had not been so sure I was ready for a new relationship, but she was guarded about her own views, making it clear that it must be my choice what I did. And so I began to ‘date’ an MP.

Rafe was a curious combination of social ease and mercurial moods. Sometimes I found him too glib, but he was very easygoing about life, whilst passionate about his job, and was often away for whole weekends at his constituency in Norwich, which suited me just fine. I needed light relief and human warmth, not the next grand passion.

For a long time, I had imagined myself as a very deep wound, gradually growing shiny skin across the bloody mess beneath. I had begun to heal, slowly, infinitesimally. But there would always be a bloody mess beneath; that was the truth, for the rest of my life.

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes again. ‘Let’s go and get a drink then,’ I said slowly. Perhaps I should be braver. Perhaps I should try to tell him how I had really felt.

Together we went to a little Ethiopian restaurant round the corner on the high street. We didn’t hold hands, but our arms brushed as we walked, and I thought, this is what I will miss, the easy intimacy I’d found with this man.

We sat at a little formica table with one wilted freesia on it, and it was so steamy we both had to take our jackets off. A long-faced boy with a puny moustache and skin as dark as bitter chocolate brought us coffee so strong it made my heart kick.

‘I know it looks odd, Claudie,’ Rafe said. ‘But I want you to believe me.’

‘We’re grown-ups,’ I shrugged, tracing figures of eight in the sugar I’d spilt. ‘You’re free to do what you like.’

‘Claudie!’ he expostulated. ‘We both know that’s not true.’

I was surprised by the depth of his emotion.

‘It’s made me realise,’ he caught my hand now, and for a moment I actually thought tears might flood his brown eyes, ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

The tears were an illusion. I tried my best to concentrate; but a part of me felt so detached I could have been in the other room. He let go of my hand.

‘Frankly, Claudie, half the time I don’t think you give a toss about me anyway. And that’s the problem.’

‘That’s not true,’ I mumbled, but I was worried it was.

‘Oh come on,’ attack was the best form of defence, of course. ‘It’s like you’re bloody devoid of emotion, Claudia.’

‘Oh,’ I said. I rubbed my sore eyes with the heels of my hands. A lethargy had settled over me after I’d come out of hospital the last time. I had fought it hard this past year; I’d tried to come out of my shell, to stop protecting myself from any form of external life, but recently I’d felt so strange again. I shook my head, impatient with myself. ‘Yes OK. I can see that I might come across like that sometimes. And I do try not to, really.’

‘I mean, Christ knows, I understand you’ve had a horrible time.’

‘A horrible time?’ I repeated, almost puzzled.

‘The worst. Like I did when I was growing up. Losing my parents so suddenly. You know, I can help you. And you can’t define your life for all time because you lost Ned—’

I didn’t want to hear him say the name. I stood violently, my chair scraping loudly across the silence. The long-faced boy stared at us blankly and turned up the volume on the TV in the corner. A studio audience applauded wildly and incongruously in the empty room. And then a face I knew stared out at me; Sadie Malvern. ‘Missing girl’ the text read beneath it. I saw Rafe’s eyes flicker to the screen. He was a ‘sucker for a pretty face’ – his words, not mine.

I felt my stomach knot. Had she been caught in the explosion too? I looked back at the screen, but her image was gone.

‘I’m going to go now.’

‘Claudie.’ Rafe chucked money on the table and followed me out into the night. It was a relief to get out of the heat. ‘Sorry. That was shitty of me. I just mean – I can’t reach you sometimes.’

‘So you decided to f*ck someone else?’ I was starting to feel anger now, which was some kind of release at least.

He looked like a small schoolboy now, bereft and guilty.

‘I wasn’t. I’m just – I’m not very good at commitment.’

‘It’s OK, Rafe.’ We were at my front door now. I walked away from him slowly, stepping over the broken eggs now smeared into the pavement, up the front stairs. ‘I don’t think I am either any more. Sorry if you’ve found me hard work. I probably am.’

‘Give me another chance, Claudie,’ he pleaded, but I knew that his heart wasn’t in it. We were both going through some sort of motion.

I gazed at him; at his hangdog look, at his lithe body and his immaculate designer clothes. He had provided comfort when I was desperate, a port in a storm when Will had decided to go – but we weren’t right for each other, I knew that much. He had known sorrow too, orphaned at an early age, and he had empathised. He had been a pair of warm arms in the night, and he hadn’t minded when I sobbed myself to sleep occasionally. He wanted to heal me, I could feel that, because that’s what he did; fixed things. Suddenly I saw him for what he was. Some kind of charming charlatan. I looked at him, and then I opened my front door and walked away – and Rafe let me go.

Slowly I climbed the stairs with the milk and bread I’d bought earlier. The doorbell rang one disconsolate time. We both knew I wouldn’t answer it. It was over.

In the dying light I looked out of the window and I contemplated the truth for a moment. I’d become so good at suppression; I was only half myself these days. Somewhere, in the far reaches of my brain, I knew that by hiding it all, I’d never recover properly from anything. And Helen – what would Helen say? Oh she’d have a field day about this when she found out. She’d warned me I’d be better on my own for now …

If she found out. I could choose what to tell her. Just like Tessa had chosen to lie …

I scrabbled in the kitchen cupboard and retrieved Tessa’s things. I picked up the business card from the club and tried to decipher the name scribbled on the back. Paul Piper, I thought it read, which meant precisely nothing to me.

Which Tessa was real? Had she draped herself in the persona I’d known, wrapped it round her like a disguise – or was that the real woman despite the stolen identity? It was time to do something about this mess.

I shut the door behind me, and headed into town.





THURSDAY 20TH JULY SILVER



Silver let himself into Philippa’s as quietly as he could, in the almost vain hope that the whole household would be asleep. He slipped off his boots by the front door, planning to make tea in the large, cosy kitchen and contemplate what to do about Lana, unassailed for once by argument, the blip-blip of a Nintendo DS or some unedifying Dub-step. But the gentle throb of Bob Marley coming from the end of the hall announced that Philippa at least was still up. Abandoning the tea idea, he began to creep up the stairs. After the shrill dressing-down from Julie, followed by the tears and recriminations when he said gently he thought it was best they stopped seeing one another, he’d had his fill of women tonight.

‘Leticia?’ he heard the creak of the kitchen door opening. ‘That you?’

He swore silently. ‘No, P, it’s me. Joe.’

‘I told her to be in by ten.’ It was half-past. ‘Flipping kids.’

Leticia, Philippa’s middle daughter, was going through what could only be described as a hormonal stage. She’d hit thirteen hard, retreating to her messy pink bedroom when she was in the house, where cast-off clothes were scattered across the floor like small islands. Or she sat at the large kitchen table scowling, iPod earphones stuck firmly in whilst she surfed the net endlessly, usually on Facebook. Speaking to her was generally pointless; occasionally she’d manage a monosyllable or a forced smile that never reached her heavily mascara-ed eyes. The fact that Philippa was on Leticia’s back the whole time only served to ratchet up the general tension.

And yet despite all the sulks and slammed doors, Silver knew what a lovely girl Leticia really was; he could see she was merely lost in a wilderness of uncertainty about life. He thanked God Molly was still a few years from the angst-ridden adolescence that was so overwhelming Leticia. It probably wouldn’t be long though … Silver felt the knot of anxiety in his gut tighten as he thought of his own family.

The track and trace on Lana’s car had rendered nothing so far. Silver was still praying that she’d simply parked up somewhere, got horribly smashed and was sleeping it off. If she didn’t surface by the morning, though, he’d have to act.

‘Do you want me to go and have a look for Leticia?’ he asked her mother now.

Beneath her neatly coiled corn-rows, Philippa’s wide, jovial face was unusually serious, her dark eyes troubled, but she shook her head.

‘Thanks, Joe, I appreciate it, but she’s down the road at Marlon’s. She’s just pushing me over this time thing. I’ll give her till eleven and then I’m down there, if you don’t mind holding the fort. Fancy a cuppa?’

Silver debated the fug of a kitchen. He knew if he chose, he could discuss his worries about Lana with Philippa and, as single-parent-extraordinaire, she’d be a good sounding-board. But he feared the reality of voicing his fears.

‘I’m knackered, P.’ He started back up the stairs. Then he changed his mind. It was good to talk, wasn’t it? He had to remember that sometimes. ‘Maybe just a quick one, then.’

Philippa was drinking rum, but she knew better than to offer Silver any. She switched the kettle on whilst he yawned at the kitchen table, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

‘Bad day?’

‘Long day.’

‘Any nearer the truth?’ She plonked a cup of tea in front of him and pulled over the red biscuit tin from the middle of the table. ‘What’s the word on Berkeley Square today?’

‘I’m more worried about my errant ex-wife right now, to be honest,’ he lifted the lid. ‘She’s gone walkabout again.’

‘Oh dear.’ Philippa glimpsed the empty tin. ‘Little sods! That’s three packets in two days.’

Silver groped around for the last crumbs. ‘I think she’s drinking again,’ he muttered.

Philippa had had her own issues with an ex-husband who was an addict; boy-man Marlon, the eternal loafer and weed smoker. But Silver seriously doubted that the ever-efficient Philippa had been the one to lead Marlon down the slippery slope into addiction; whereas he lived every day with the knowledge that if he had not hit the bottle so hard himself as he ascended a stressful career ladder, just like his own father had, his wife would have been unlikely to follow. If he had not ignored her whilst in a whisky haze, she might not have met Ray Steen every Monday at the Majestic. And if she had been happier and more sober then Jaime Malvern might still be alive, and Lana might not have disappeared into the ether herself.

‘Why’s life so complicated, eh, P?’ He ate the crumbs of a custard cream with despondence.

‘Joe, you take too much on your shoulders, man. Drinkers – they make their own choices, no?’

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged, unconvinced. ‘It’s a hard habit to beat though.’

‘You did it.’ She knew he still attended the occasional AA meeting after he’d left an address list open on the family computer once. ‘And she’s a grown woman. Just like Marlon’s a grown man – or pretends to be.’ She pulled a face, almond eyes indignant. ‘Some people, they just find it hard to deal with life. With responsibility. But you can’t live it for her, Joe.’

‘I’ve hardly been doing that though, have I? I’ve left her up there with the little ’uns whilst I get on with stuff down here.’ He’d said it. It almost winded him, but he’d said the thing that was pressing into his brain, that was hurting him most. He exhaled.

‘You’ve been earning a crust and helping the nation to boot.’ Philippa sucked her teeth. ‘Come now, Joe. Stop beating yourself up. You’re doing good; doing something important. You’re following your path. And you know your kids love you.’

‘I know I don’t see enough of them.’

She laid a warm hand over his, her skin dark against his own tanned hand. ‘There’s time, Joe. You can rectify your mistakes. Remember that.’

She was a wise witch, this woman, he thought, grinning at her remorsefully. ‘I hope so, P. I really hope so.’ He yawned and stretched. Leticia still wasn’t back. ‘Do you want me to sit up with you till she’s back?’

She glanced at the clock. ‘No. I’ll give her another fifteen minutes. And then—’ she mimed wringing a neck, ‘I’ll give that father of hers what for.’

‘I’m going to hit the hay then. Give me a shout if you’re going out, and I’ll keep an ear open.’

‘Appreciate it, Joe. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Philippa shook her head as she listened to him lollop up the stairs, pursing her generous mouth as she dumped his mug in the sink. He was a good man, Joe Silver, of that there was no doubt. Even if he was a little distracted from time to time by his expensive clothes and unsuitable women. That Julie! My God, what a pain; far too desperate to win the attractive Silver over. Philippa held no hope for Julie at all after an awkward Friday night drink in her kitchen a few months ago; she was obviously just another dalliance for a lonely man who still mourned his marriage. As for the children issue – well, Philippa might have her own opinions when it came to fathers and child-care – but Silver would come to the right conclusions soon enough, of that she was pretty certain. He wasn’t terrified of a little self-reflection, as so many men were – though he was still a selfish child at heart, like them all. Philippa expected no more of the male species, and her cynicism ran deep. She drained her last centimetre of rum and checked the time. Where the hell was her disobedient daughter?

As Silver hit the bed, he heard the slam of the front door downstairs announcing Leticia’s arrival home. He could sleep easy now. But exhausted as he was, Silver found it impossible to doze off. Thoughts of Lana and the rolled car outside Hebdon Bridge six years ago haunted him; and eventually when he slept, he saw his ex-wife pirouetting through the fields with a muscle-bound Ray Steen, Molly panting behind in bloodied ballet shoes, reaching out in vain to her mother.

He woke sweating at 5 a.m., and put another call in for the track and trace.

Still nothing. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. If Lana wasn’t back by lunchtime, he was going home.





THURSDAY 20TH JULY CLAUDIE



In the cab that smelt of old sick and new air freshener, I stared out of the window as the London night slid by, turning the little pink and black card for Sugar and Spice over and over in my hand, feeling the embossed tassels on the huge breasts of the cartoon girl on the front. Passing under a street light, I gazed down at her lascivious wink as she curled one arm above her head.

As we pulled onto the high street, I had leant forward and tapped the Asian driver on his back.

‘Can you take me to this place please? It’s in London Bridge.’

I thrust the card at him. He swore and swerved, nearly taking a female cyclist out.

‘Yeah all right, love,’ forcefully he pushed his arm back against my hand. The girl on the bike was busy flicking him a V. ‘I’m driving. Just tell me where you want to go.’

‘It’s called Sugar and Spice.’

‘The titty bar?’ he sounded incredulous. ‘Are you sure?’

I wasn’t at all sure. ‘A titty bar?’

‘Yeah, you know. Lap-dancers, pole-dancers, that type of thing. Girls with no clothes on.’

‘Oh I see.’ I took a deep breath; I had no idea what I was going to do once I arrived. ‘Yes, there please.’

He eyed me in the mirror. ‘Are you one, then?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘A dancer?’

In my old green parka and jeans, grazes still covering half my left cheek, I hardly looked like the girl on the card.

‘No. I’m just—’ I looked down at her sly come-hither leer. ‘I’m just looking for a friend.’

Muttering, he swung the cab towards London Bridge.





There had been a time that whenever I’d crossed the Thames I’d been amazed by the night beauty of this great city, at the skyline and the mix of new and old. Only gradually, it had begun to feel different … recently it had felt too crowded; full-up, no sky left, electric light cancelling out the black. No room for anything except artifice, Rafe had said to me sadly one day, citing a need to get back to basics some time soon to save us all. ‘We’ll be living in a crater soon.’

On the edge of London Bridge, beneath the arches, I paid the surly driver. In an ironic twist, Sugar and Spice was situated opposite Southwark Cathedral, between McDonald’s and a bike store; it had a big black door, a bigger, blacker doorman with an earpiece and a curly-lettered gold-plated sign – all of which looked thoroughly uninviting to me.

‘You’re not going to get seen looking like that.’ The doorman folded his gloved hands before him, his face implacable. ‘I’d go home and come back when you’re feeling better.’ He didn’t bother looking at me when he spoke.

‘I’m perfectly fine, thanks, and I don’t want a job.’ I tried a winning smile. I realised I hadn’t smiled properly in days; it almost hurt my face. ‘I’ve come to see Mr Piper.’

He did look now. ‘Mr Piper?’

‘Yes,’ I smiled harder. ‘Mr Piper. Is he here?’

‘Never heard of him,’ the man shrugged.

‘He’s expecting me,’ I lied.

‘Not here, he ain’t.’

‘Oh.’ I didn’t believe him. ‘Maybe I got his name wrong.’

‘Maybe you did.’

‘I was told he was the man in charge.’

‘You was told wrong.’ He had all night, apparently.

‘So,’ I tried the useless smile again, ‘could you help me, please? What is the right name?’

I was interrupted by a short, fat man like a cannon-ball in a dark pinstripe suit pushing past me with a rather dumpy blonde in tow, all leopard skin and scarlet lipstick and a cloud of cheap perfume. The man eyed me quickly and looked away derisively.

‘Tell her to beat it,’ he instructed the doorman, jerking his head at me and clamping Blondie’s wrist in his meaty paw as they descended the stairs. He was American, with comb-marks in his slicked-back hair; so fat that his sagging belly strained tightly against his blue shirt, and he had a nasty little moustache that could only be reminiscent of one person. ‘Not our type. At all.’

‘I have told her, boss.’ The doorman folded and re-folded his gloved hands, looking at me as if to say I told you so.

‘Don’t be mean.’ The blonde, whose chest was as inflated as the American’s ego obviously was, stopped on the step below me and sniggered, her over-blown top lip protruding over little teeth. ‘I’ll give her a lesson, if you like.’

‘That, cherry pie,’ the American tweaked her nipple lasciviously, ‘I’d love to see.’

‘I was looking for Mr Piper, actually,’ I said loudly, sickened by his temerity. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Mr Piper? Who wants to know?’ The American dropped the blonde’s hand now and stared at me. Oil seeped from the deep creases and acne pits on his face. I held his gaze.

‘Me. I – I have an appointment, actually.’

It was the American’s turn to smirk. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. I won’t take up much of his time.’

‘I’ll say, honey. You’re,’ the American glanced at his ostentatious watch, ‘only a week too late.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No Piper here, honey.’ He spelt the words out like I was deaf. Or stupid.

‘Oh.’ I was thoroughly confused. ‘Well, I can come back.’

‘You do that.’ The American ran a fat finger down my good cheek. His breath smelt of old meat. ‘You’re a good-looking broad, or you might be out of all that shit.’ Without warning, he pulled my coat open. ‘Good tits.’

I lurched backwards, standing on the blonde’s bare toes in the process. ‘Ouch,’ she protested, digging her nails into my hand to push me off.

‘Come back when you’ve cleaned up,’ he leered. ‘Get your roots done. You never know. We may even have a job for you.’

‘Come on, Larry.’ Blondie scowled at me. ‘I’m dying for a wee.’

‘Sure thing, cherry pie.’ But he didn’t like being hurried by her, that much was clear. He pushed her hard in front of him so she stumbled slightly in her spindly stilettos, grabbing the railing just before she fell. She pouted up at him, and then thought better of complaining. I looked at her again. There was something vaguely familiar about her.

‘Sorry, Larry,’ she simpered. ‘Weak bladder!’

‘Yeah. You and the rest of those tramps downstairs.’

Charming, I thought, as they disappeared into the club. He was horrible, and he had a vile energy about him that fouled the air even after he’d gone.

I turned away. Now what?





FRIDAY 21ST JULY SILVER



For the fiftieth time since Wednesday, Lana’s phone clicked straight through to voicemail without ringing. Silver chucked the receiver down, threw his drink can in the bin and called Kenton in.

‘Any joy, kiddo?’

‘Not on Michael Watson, not yet, guv, no.’ Her squirrel eyes were less bright than usual as she admitted defeat. ‘Directly after he set up the Purity Alliance he was living in India, Mumbai I think, hanging out with some Sanyasins.’

‘Some who?’

‘You know. Baghwan and orange clothes and Rolls Royces? Encouraged to sleep with each other and sometimes their children, and break their own legs in therapy to find themselves. That kind of liberal thing.’

‘Marvellous,’ Silver rolled his eyes, and noted with annoyance he’d got diet Coke on his pristine cuff. ‘And then?’

‘Possibly involved in running one of those trendy teepee campsites apparently down in Devon, about five years ago – but it’s long since moved on.’

‘Trendy teepees?’ Silver thought nostalgically about camping in the drizzle and the sheep-shit in the Lake District when the children were small. Lana, of course, had never come; she would have rather died first. Nowhere to plug the hairdryer in. ‘Christ. And now?’

‘Not sure,’ she cleared her throat. ‘But we’ll find him, don’t worry.’

‘And the posh girlfriend?’

‘Rosalind Lamont? I’m going to talk to someone who was attached to the Empathy Society later. Acted as some kind of secretary, woman called Jan Martin, runs a café now down in Spitalfields called the Vegetarian Oven. They’ve all lost contact though. Not spoken since around 2007, according to her.’

‘Wild-goose chase, no doubt.’ Silver sighed heartily. ‘It’s a bit bloody preposterous isn’t it? These so-called do-gooders doing harm.’ He opened the top drawer of his desk and retrieved his electric shaver. Kenton gave a half-smile. It’d be a bad day, the day Silver didn’t shave. He switched it on, then switched it off again as he thought of something.

‘Any joy from the Sadie appeal?’

‘Just the usual nutters.’

‘Parents?’

‘Phone’s been cut off. Local uniform are going round. Again. No one ever answers the door apparently.’

Silver wondered if it would be someone he knew making that house call. With an effort, he turned his thoughts away from the Malverns.

‘OK, thanks. Keep on the Watson thing. We need to eliminate him.’

‘Sure, guv.’ Lorraine Kenton turned to leave, then turned back, hands dug deep in her trouser pockets like a schoolboy, clearing her throat. ‘It’s probably none of my business – but is everything OK?’

Silver walked to the window and looked down at the station yard where a couple of Vauxhalls were being washed. It was humid today, the sky sagging with unspent rain, and he felt tired and below par after a disturbed night’s sleep.

‘My ex-wife’s missing.’

‘Missing?’ Kenton looked worried.

‘Well, I say missing, but that might be a bit dramatic. She didn’t come home again last night apparently – not for the first time in her life, it must be said. She had a bit of a—’ He snapped the blinds shut, and then opened them again. ‘A drink problem. She’s been sober a while, but—’

‘Old habits die hard,’ Kenton finished for him.

‘Exactly.’

How hard, Joe Silver knew exactly. The long, cold pint, the whisky chaser glinting gold on the bar; the alcohol that would take the pain away, the bitter-sweet annihilation. The morning after, dry mouth, cold sweat, clear clean panic followed by self-loathing – followed by the only cure – another drink.

‘Kids all right?’ Kenton asked gruffly. Personally, she didn’t really see the point of kids, but still …

‘They are for now, their grandma’s there, but if Lana doesn’t turn up by lunchtime, I’ll have to go back.’

‘Boss’ll understand.’

‘Yeah, guess so.’

Didn’t look good though, the disappearing alcoholic wife; of that he was fully aware. It would be ringing all sorts of alarm bells in the promotion department. Silver worried that he’d be taken off the Op immediately if he told Malloy – though his gut was telling him he should relinquish the responsibility now anyway; his concentration simply wasn’t good enough. The Sadie Malvern thing was bothering him to a ludicrous degree and the reality was, he needed to solve it for his own ends. He had it firmly in his head now that he owed the poor family.

And much as he adored his kids, he loathed the idea of Frogley right now, and that was the truth. He hated the village, he felt the stone walls closing in on him every time he drove down the winding main street. Worse, the guilt lacerated him. He didn’t want to admit that he was terrified of going home.

The desk phone rang. Silver eyed it warily.

‘Want me to—’ Kenton indicated the phone.

‘No, it’s fine. You go on.’

She quietly closed the door behind her as he picked up the receiver.

‘The track and trace, boss, on the Peugeot; we’ve got a spot.’

‘Go on.’ Silver sat.

‘Beach car park, Wednesday afternoon, about five.’

Beach. The bleak sea; hungry and unforgiving. His heart twisted. ‘Abandoned?’

‘No. Leaving the car park. A couple.’

Silver frowned. ‘A couple?’

‘Yeah, bloke and a blonde woman, long hair.’

Lana. With a man. He felt relief: and something else, something intangible.

‘Right. Cheers for that. Do me a favour, can you run another track and trace in about an hour?’

He called his mother-in-law. ‘She was seen leaving Forth Harbour Beach at five yesterday with a man. The cliff car park.’

‘Thank God.’ He heard the break in Anne’s voice. ‘But with who?’

‘Don’t ask me, Anne. I’d be the last to know. Is she seeing someone?’

‘Not that I know of.’

They were tight, Anne and Lana, thick as the proverbial thieves, drinking tea all morning, setting the world to rights; shopping together in town most afternoons. Strange if Anne didn’t know. But then, if Lana was off the wagon again, she’d hide everything from her mother she could; she’d managed to in the past.

‘Let’s give it to the end of the day, yeah? If she’s not back by then, I’ll drive up tonight. OK?’

‘Right you are,’ Anne sighed deeply. ‘Oh, and Joseph—’

She was going to thank him, he could sense it.

‘Don’t mention it, Anne.’

‘I was going to say, Matthew’s room is dead tatty. You really could give it a lick of paint next time you’re up. And he needs a haircut. Long hair on boys is ridiculous. And have a word with Ben about those pictures on his walls. Girls, you know. Not many clothes on. I mean, really, that Jordan. All inflated. Not nice.’ She sniffed. ‘’Specially not with our Molly in the house.’

With that, she was gone, and Silver was left, grinning into thin air. Some things never changed, and for once, he was relieved. It made life a little more secure.





Silver had a quick meeting with Counter Terrorism, who were now more distracted than ever after a new threat to British airspace had just been reported by American and Saudi intelligence.

‘I just can’t see that Berkeley Square is anything to do with any of the Al-Qaeda factions.’ DCI Lynne Murray pushed her hand through her short, dark hair like a woman on the edge. ‘Not their style, and we’d know by now if it was them. They like to lay claim. It’s something domestic, if you ask me. Some nutter much closer to home.’ She chucked her coffee cup in the bin and missed, coffee splashing up the wall. ‘Bollocks. I’m so bloody stretched it’s unreal, and now the bloody Yanks are kicking off again.’

Half an hour later, Silver had a briefing from the Explosives team at Bow Street. The bad-tempered head of the department, Leo McNulty, leafed through a batch of images from the scene, sucking his greying moustache in a way that turned Silver’s stomach.

‘A f*cking badly made suicide bomb, Joe. In a bag. Not a vest or a belt. Nails galore. Which makes it harder to tell you who detonated it.’

Silver didn’t ask why it had taken so long for them to determine what was pretty obvious from these pictures. McNulty said it anyway.

‘F*cking rain hampered us, and the amount of debris and asbestos from the bank. Health and Safety have gone f*cking mad, especially after all the civil suits following 7/7 and 9/11.’

‘Any way of telling yet who our bomber was?’

McNulty spat into his own bin. Silver tried not to wince.

‘I’ll let you know asap, all right?’





FRIDAY 21ST JULY CLAUDIE



All night the name Piper had rattled round my head like a toy train on a track, interspersing dreams where I was dying in a lift-shaft. When I woke up, my head was pounding. I went to the bathroom to take a pill but I realised I had finished the bottle. When though? I couldn’t remember. A sob built in my chest. I had to hold on; to get through this, just to find out about Tessa and what I’d done. Then … well, who knew? The future seemed an indistinct and unimportant blur.

Finally, I made the call I had been avoiding. My dependence on Helen scared me sometimes: I tried to cope without her as much as possible, but I was frightened. Please God don’t let me be losing it again.

‘I’m sorry I missed my appointment yesterday,’ I said, when she picked up, and I heard my voice crack. ‘I’m not—’

‘What is it, Claudie?’

‘I don’t feel too good right now.’

‘That’s OK, Claudie. Can you come to me today? I’ll make time for you.’

‘I don’t think I can move, Helen.’ The admission was torturous to make. I fought back the tears. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’

‘Don’t be. You hang in there. I’ll see if I can shift some appointments.’

I breathed out.

‘I’ll call when I’m on my way.’

I just sat, staring into the middle distance, listening and thinking. A sudden distant bang, the whirr of someone’s mower. Next door’s piano. People living as if nothing had changed.

I watched a spider slowly encroach on me across the ceiling, and I thought about Tessa again. Why would anyone lie about who they were? Because they wanted to hide something, I supposed, or because they wanted to be what they were not …

Whatever the reason, somewhere there was an answer to why Tessa lied, and more crucially, an answer to my part in her death.

I wiped my eyes and forced myself into the shower. I had to find some clarity before this headache killed me.

When I got out the phone was ringing. Dripping onto the rug, I picked it up, steeling myself. I wouldn’t be intimidated.

It was Will.

‘Are you OK?’ he sounded faintly annoyed. ‘I’ve been worrying about you, Claudie. Why haven’t you rung me back?’

‘I didn’t know I was meant to,’ I said. A spider’s shadow was magnified three-fold behind the pale blind. It must be spider season.

‘Don’t be so obtuse,’ he snapped. ‘I left you loads of messages.’

‘Did you? I haven’t spoken to you for over three months.’

‘You have.’

Oh God. Had I?

‘I didn’t get the messages.’

‘Well there’s a surprise.’ His sarcasm stretched down the line.

‘I will just hang up if you’re horrid,’ I warned. ‘You know I will.’

‘Oh that’s grown up,’ he mocked. He was always nasty when he felt guilty. ‘Hang up then.’

I deliberated for a moment. ‘What do you want?’ I said eventually.

‘I want to know you’re OK.’

‘I am OK.’

‘You sound – spacey.’

‘I’ve just had a shower.’

‘It’s ten o’clock,’ he sounded mildly outraged. He was a lark, Will, up with the dawn chorus.

‘So?’

‘So, why aren’t you at work?’

‘Week off. Courtesy of my dear sister.’ I thought again of Friday; of the fact I apparently hadn’t had a scheduled shift – and yet I’d been on the way to work. My hands started to itch.

‘Can we meet?’ I could hear the tension in Will’s voice.

I sat down on the sofa, pulling my towel tighter. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure if—’

‘What?’ he prompted.

‘I’m sorry, Will.’

‘Look,’ my husband said. ‘I’ve got to come into town tomorrow. I’ve got a meeting at St Pancras. We could have some lunch.’

There was a pause.

‘I’d like to see you,’ he said softly.

‘I’m still pretty pissed off, Will.’

‘Why?’

Another pause. Was he serious?

‘Because you left,’ I said eventually. It was hardly rocket science.

‘You could have come.’

‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave London. You knew that.’

‘But he wasn’t here any more, Claudie,’ Will sighed. ‘Ned wasn’t here any more.’

‘So?’ I was stubborn. ‘He was to me.’

‘And now you’re pissed off because I tried to help you?’

‘I didn’t need that kind of help.’ He had found me Helen when I was on my knees; but at the time I had only felt he had interfered. Abandoned me, although I had been unreachable, perhaps; and then interfered to ease his conscience. Oh, the ironies of separation. No one knew me better than this man. But I couldn’t see him, not now, anyway. And he had been weak. Weaker than me, maybe, I was realising recently. He had cut and run. He had not sat beside me when Ned breathed out for the last time. I had been alone, uselessly willing my tiny son so desperately to hang on, my mother in a taxi that arrived too late, my husband – my husband pacing the streets of London, unable to countenance his own pain. Freefalling into unimaginable grief, I hadn’t registered his actions at the time: but when he chose to flee later, I was astounded.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go. Clients waiting.’ He was a designer in a small firm. ‘Call me later. Let me know. And, Claudie—’

‘What?’

‘Just be careful, Claudie. Take care of yourself, I mean.’

Futile platitudes. But something he’d just said suddenly clicked.

‘OK,’ I muttered. St Pancras.

‘Proper care.’ I could hear someone calling him. ‘Hang on,’ he was shouting.

‘I’ll call you,’ I lied. Anything to get him off the line. ‘I swear.’

Messages, he had said. I looked at the answer-phone that I had not listened to for days; I clicked it on. There were two from my mother last week, from Portugal: one about coming to London for shopping; one about my sister’s birthday. One from Rafe on Thursday night, trying to track me down. One from a loan company offering to help me with debts. Two from Will. And then Tessa’s voice, tense and low. I froze in the centre of the room.

‘What happened to you, Claudie? Are you OK? You said you’d come; I stayed here all night. Oh God. I don’t know what to do. And,’ the noise of traffic, a beeping horn in the background, ‘I just wanted to say,’ another pause, tearful now, ‘I’m sorry.’

I found myself checking the room almost guiltily in case anyone else had heard. I went back to the machine and hurriedly replayed the message, my hands shaking. Friday morning, 6.50 a.m. Her voice urgent and distressed. What did she mean? Why couldn’t I remember where I should have been? I banged the side of my head frantically with the flat of my hand.

I wiped the message off, and opened the cupboard, scrabbling around for the bag I’d shoved in there yesterday, searching for the keys I had found in Tessa’s bag. My hands were shaking as I swung them round the small bejewelled ballet shoe. A tiny silver key; the key to a locker. Property of St Pancras was stamped on it in little letters. I’d thought nothing of it, but now – now …

Above my head now, the spider was black and blot-like on the ceiling. I couldn’t wait for Helen. I had to get to St Pancras now.





Outside, the noise of the street seemed riotous and the colours hurt my eyes. Ahmed on the corner loading up his fruit and veg boxes with gaudy tomatoes and oranges. Guy over the road lovingly washing his old Renault. The postman in shorts, whistling as he walked down the street. Tentatively I shut the front door behind me. I stood stock-still for a moment, clasping Tessa’s key, the cold metal warming in my clammy hand. I heard sirens in the distance. ‘There’s a nee-nor, Mummy.’

I was already sweating, beads springing on my top lip. Panicking slightly, I turned to go back and then Helen came round the corner, brow slightly furrowed with concern, greying hair very pale against the black jacket she wore; leather despite the heat, smart velvet trousers swooshing across the dirty pavement. She had come, and now I was going to betray her effort and run out on her. Instinctively I pressed myself against the door, heart hammering. She hadn’t seen me yet; she had stopped to pop her A-Z back in her bag.

Swiftly I turned the opposite way, speeded to a jog before she saw me. Frantically I flagged down an oncoming black taxi and jumped in before she caught me. It was vital that Helen didn’t catch me. I knew she would think I wasn’t lucid. We’d have to do the delusions chat again and she’d suggest medication; maybe I’d get sent back to hospital. My stomach churned like I’d drunk five litres of coffee: I was totally awash with adrenaline, which made a change from the torpor I had felt recently. I asked the driver for St Pancras and caught my breath as I sat back in the seat, feeling almost jubilant.

The jubilation subsided pretty fast.

I couldn’t remember the simplest of things; I could barely remember my breakfast. My head throbbed; my heart ached, but I would find out why Tessa had lied, and where I should have been to meet her before she died.





FRIDAY 21ST JULY SILVER



‘Mum sent a text,’ Matty said breathlessly, and he sounded so pleased. ‘This morning. She’s really sorry. She said. She’s sorry, Dad, she just weren’t feeling too good, and she had to get away for a day or two.’

Matty’s grammar always slipped when he was over-excited.

‘Wasn’t,’ Silver corrected, standing in the corridor outside McNulty’s office. ‘Wasn’t feeling too good. Did she say anything else?’

‘She said she’d be back soon.’

‘Good lad. Let me call you back in a minute.’

At that moment Silver despised his ex-wife. He despised her with every fibre of his body.

He rang her mobile. She didn’t answer, so he left her a short, sharp message telling her exactly what he thought. The stupid, heartless bitch. He’d climbed out of the guilt pit and was back on solid ground.

Then he rang his son back.

‘I’ll be up at the weekend, I promise. Either late tonight or tomorrow morning. How you doing with your peas?’

‘Gran’s stopped giving ’em to me. I can nearly do a kick-flip on my skateboard. And,’ he was jabbering with excitement, ‘and I beat Ben’s score on Mario Game Kart, Dad. He’s gutted.’

‘Atta boy. And wear your helmet on the board, yeah?’ Silver never thought he’d be the kind of man who’d worry about what he’d once regarded as over-protective measures, but overnight it had happened to him, as his love for his own children burgeoned, along with the best of them.

‘And Ben keeps kissing that Emma Burton girl behind the kitchen door. But Gran won’t let them go up to his room and—’

There was a commotion in the background. Silver waited.

‘Molly wants to talk to you.’

Molly was in tears. ‘Can you come home, Daddy, please? I miss Mummy. And Gran doesn’t know how to fish-tail my hair properly.’

‘I know, sweetheart. I will come home.’ Silver felt the cold clutch of guilt in his belly. ‘Just got to finish something up here, and then I’ll be back, I swear.’

Silver went to see Malloy. He updated him on events and Counter Terrorism’s rather fraught cooperation, and then he explained in as little detail as possible what had happened at home, as far as he understood it. His boss was a tough but fair man, if a little volatile, with two children of his own although, unlike Silver, he also had a doting wife who had always kept the home-fires well stoked.

‘No worries, Joe. You do what you’ve got to do.’ Malloy sighed heartily. ‘The kids’ll need you. Just keep me posted on when you’ll be back.’

‘Will do. Cheers, guv.’

‘F*ck knows who’ll take over while you’re gone though. That bunch of muppets can hardly manage the proverbial piss-up.’

Silver left Malloy’s office with a heavy heart. He checked his watch. He wanted to see Tessa Lethbridge’s flat; he needed to chase Michael Watson’s whereabouts, and to make some headway with where the hell Sadie Malvern might be. When he headed back up North, he’d go and see her parents, and he wanted as much information under his belt as possible before breaking any sort of bad news.

Out in the main office, Tina Price was waving frantically at him as she took a call on the public line, her angular dark bob swinging madly as she did so.

‘Someone claiming responsibility for Berkeley Square,’ she mouthed, jabbing at the receiver she held.

‘Again?’

SOUNDS SERIOUS she’d written on a piece of paper that she was holding up now.

Silver picked up the extension to listen in.

‘It’s taken you a while hasn’t it?’ The voice was assured, slightly American and definitely synthesised; croaky and mechanical. Soulless and eerie – and impossible to tell whether it was male or female at this juncture.

‘Sorry sir?’

‘You’ve been very reticent to confirm that it was definitely a bomb that caused the devastation.’

‘Do you have information for us?’

‘It’s not the Purity Alliance, I’ll tell you that.’

Was that a slight stutter Silver detected?

‘So do you know who it was?’ Tina said.

‘Yes, my love, I do.’

‘Who?’

Silver shook his head wearily. This was just another loon with delusions of grandeur.

‘It was the bank we were after. The Hoffman Bank. So greedy. Did you know they are responsible for the deforestation of 96 million square feet of rainforest? The leeches will take it all.’

‘Really?’

‘Get a f*cking trace.’ Silver stiffened and beckoned to Okeke. ‘Now.’

‘We’re on it,’ the younger man hissed back.

‘So my girls sorted it. And we will make you all pay. Pay for the unnatural taking of the land and the ruination of this beautiful world.’

‘Your girls?’

The hairs on the back of Silver’s neck went up.

‘The Archangel whistles, and they come. I whistle, and they follow. My Daughters of Light.’

‘Follow you where exactly?’

‘Everywhere, from Hamelin to Harrods. Harrods may be next. All those greedy shoppers. Consumers have gone mad.’

‘Are you planning another attack?’

Silver could see the perspiration on Tina Price’s brow. He winked at her. ‘Good job, kiddo,’ he mouthed, ‘keep him going.’

‘Are you all listening? Do I have Scotland Yard’s full attention? I’m so pleased. Remember, we’re alive and remain and shall be caught up together in the clouds.’

‘We’ve got a trace,’ Okeke leapt up.

‘Coming to find me?’ the voice laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

The line went dead.

‘It’s a f*cking pay-as-you-go mobile. Somewhere near Upper Street.’

‘Put everyone in the area on alert.’

But it was useless, they all knew that much.

Silver’s heart was thumping. At least they had something; something was better than nothing. He called Kenton over.

‘You busy?’ Silver grabbed his jacket from the hanger on his office coat stand.

‘Seeing the radical Jan Martin at five o’clock for leads on Lamont and Watson. Not looking forward to it actually. She sounds pissed off. And posh. My worst combination.’

‘Fancy a visit to Sugar and Spice after we’ve interviewed Lucie Duffy?’

He could have sworn Kenton’s face lit up.

‘The club? Not half!’

‘All right, Lorraine. Calm down.’ Silver straightened his collar in the glass. ‘I didn’t mean as a customer.’

‘No problem, guv,’ she flushed, following him out. ‘I knew exactly what you meant.’





FRIDAY 21ST JULY CLAUDIE



The taxi pulled into the rank between King’s Cross and St Pancras stations. I thrust the money into the driver’s hand without waiting for change and sprinted into St Pancras.

It was buzzing with the anticipation of a thousand travellers; expensive luggage, lovers forced apart, families reunited, weary businessmen. A tramp asked me for change; I had none.

It took me a while to locate the public lockers in the glossy new station, which were at the back beside a bakery and the Ladies, and longer to locate no. 209. There was a young couple dressed all in black passionately entwined in front of the section I needed. I waited as patiently as I could manage for about three minutes, tapping my foot on the tiles, but when I realised they had no intention of letting each other go, I asked them politely if they wouldn’t mind just moving slightly. The girl, skinny and dark, raised a tear-stained face to me before pushing her head into her Goth boyfriend’s neck so hard that I thought they might become surgically attached.

‘Oui,’ she shrugged. ‘Bien sur.’ They moved infinitesimally to the left so I could just about open the locker door, and began kissing again.

I had to bend to slide the key in, my heart beating ridiculously fast. It opened smoothly, and I crouched down to search inside. Within seconds I felt crushing disappointment as I realised it was empty. All this – and nothing. The police had obviously got here before me – though I wondered how they’d know about the locker if there was only the key on the ring as evidence. But whatever the truth, the answer to the real Tessa Lethbridge wasn’t here. My hands shaking, I slid them round the locker for a final search in some desperation, unwilling to believe that I had come here for no purpose.

My fingers made contact with something smooth and my stomach contracted: thank God. I pulled it towards me. It was an A5 photo, the ballet school students of 2010, a few of the girls’ faces ringed with blue biro. I felt an involuntary shiver. Amanda Curran; Sadie Malvern; Lucie Duffy. The new girl Anita Stuart. Favourites of Tessa’s, that much made sense.

I smoothed the photo out against my knee, and their bland faces gazed up at me; Sadie Malvern scowling, red-haired Amanda Curran smiling, Lucie Duffy smirking, a blue halo of biro around each of their heads. I turned the photo over. On the back was written ‘The Queen of Hearts, she had some tarts’.

I remembered Tessa saying that Sadie would never go far. ‘She brings too much baggage, that one,’ she shook her head as we sat in the staffroom one day, watching a tape of a rehearsal. ‘I had so much hope for her; technically she is brilliant, but she can’t lose herself when she dances. She is too conscious.’ She paused the DVD. ‘Not like Lucie and Manda.’

I had seen very little of Sadie Malvern myself; she wasn’t one of the dancers who tended to hurt herself, and she was a tough cookie, so I’d only treated her once or twice. She had broken her arm badly as a youngster in some kind of car smash, and it had set badly. Plus I knew she had some sort of eating disorder from the frailty of her structure, but although I always alerted Eduardo when I spotted it, not eating was absolutely rife amongst the girls. There was little to be done before they actually started collapsing in class.

I pushed the photo into my bag and checked the locker again. There was something else, shoved right up against the back wall; I reached in and pulled it towards me. A thin book, a leaflet almost, on African plants. I started to flick through it, spotting words scribbled in the back pages, but before I could absorb anything, out of the corner of my eye I saw someone approaching. Quickly I pocketed the book in my parka and began to shut the locker door. I was worried that a station official had rumbled me and was about to ask how I had come by the key. But that was ridiculous – I could be the temporary owner of the key; they would know no better.

I began to stand, ready with a string of excuses – and then something was flying at me, the weight of a body, and I was so shocked that for a moment I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t move fast enough. I felt myself falling, I was going down again, and the man too. As I tried frantically to find my feet, to stand again, I felt hot fingers on my ankle. Glancing down, I saw meaty knuckles tattooed with strange symbols.

I kicked out with all my might and pushed myself off the floor and away from the hand. Stumbling forwards, I smacked my head on the lockers and for a moment I stood, bewildered, listening to a voice scream, and I realised the scream was coming from the French girl who had been kissing her boyfriend.

I glanced at the boyfriend and I thought that he was bleeding, and crying and shouting, and I realised I had to start moving before it was too late. A tall, thickset man in a leather coat was behind me, cursing in a language I didn’t recognise. He was nursing his wounded hand that I had kicked, and then he was reaching his arms out for me, his dark woolly hat pulled down very far over his forehead. I pulled myself together and I ran, ran, ran for my life through the crowds, the tourists and bemused commuters, tripping over a thousand matching wheelie cases, and all the while, the girl behind me was screaming.





My first instinct was to make for the cab rank, but when I rounded the corner there was a long snaking queue, so I turned tail and pelted down the Euston Road until a bus passed that I could jump on.

Bent double, fighting to breathe, I travelled to the junction with Euston Station and then jumped off and into a black cab. No one was behind me. I had apparently lost the man back at the station, but I was frightened now, really frightened. What the hell was going on?

I stared at the photo from the locker; at Lucie Duffy’s smug little face. I knew from the office that she was at the Royal Opera House rehearsing for the gala performance of Swan Lake. Perhaps she would know something more about her mentor Tessa. I tapped on the driver’s glass.

‘Would you take me to Covent Garden, please?’ I needed to get to the girls in the photo, that alone seemed clear.

Lucie Duffy and I had never hit it off amazingly well; she was born to be a prima donna and that was all there was to it. Fully aware she was talented above and beyond the rest of her year; to be dancing a solo role at the Royal Ballet at nineteen spoke of phenomenal success. Yet she lacked the humility to make her likeable, certainly when it came to other women. Men, well, that was different. Lucie liked men. But she couldn’t be bothered with her own sex, apart from her little coven, and I had also discovered, she didn’t like being touched. She suffered badly from cartilage problems with her left knee, and I had treated her a lot throughout her two years at the Academy. But despite all the time she’d spent on my table, she could barely raise her eyes to meet mine, let alone make conversation. Her classmate Amanda Curran was very different. Manda was charming, open and chatty, but Lucie didn’t have time for a mere physiotherapist. And there was something not quite right there, I sensed: a fear, almost, of someone getting too close.

Arriving at the Royal Opera House, I ran up the front stairs so fast I lost my footing and banged into the chest of a dark-haired man in an expensive suit coming the other way.

‘All right, kiddo?’ he said, steadying me, and I nodded, pushing my scarecrow hair out of my face – ‘My fault’ – and ran on.

I was surprised to see Lucie in the foyer, wrapped in blue angora, on her mobile phone. She was waiting for the lift, and I called to her before she was swallowed up into the bowels of the building.

‘Lucie!’

She turned, uncomprehending, looking through me as if I was not there, phone clamped to her ear.

‘Claudie Scott,’ I reached her side now, slightly breathless. ‘Physio from the Academy. Used to treat your knee.’

‘Oh hi, Claudie,’ she smiled tightly, and a look I couldn’t fathom crossed her pretty face. Triumph, perhaps. ‘Hang on, would you. I’ll see you later, my darling,’ she murmured into the pale-pink phone. ‘My big prince.’ She snapped it off and pocketed it. ‘If you’re after a comp, you’ll have to talk to Mason. I gave her my entire allotment of freebies.’

‘No, it’s fine thanks.’

‘You’ve lost weight,’ she said almost accusingly. She looked me up and down and then smiled properly.

I smiled back. ‘How is your knee?’

‘It’s holding up. At the moment, anyway.’ Lucie pressed the lift button again urgently. ‘Bloody lift. Kiko’ll be going mad.’ She turned to me, suddenly all consternation and great grey eyes. ‘God, did you hear about Tessa? How freaky! I’m a bit annoyed actually. I look like a right idiot.’

‘Why?’

‘All those quotes I gave the papers, about her being an inspiration. And she’d been lying the whole time. I mean, why would you?’

‘Yes, well. That’s why I’m here actually.’

‘Oh?’

I had her attention now.

‘I’m trying to understand why she lied. I found this photo.’ I dug it out of my bag. ‘It belonged to her. Look.’ I pointed at the blue biro circles around her and the other girls’ faces. ‘Do you know what this means?’

‘Oh my God.’ Lucie wrinkled up her little nose. ‘That’s really creepy. Why the f*ck was she doing that?’

‘I don’t know. I kind of hoped you might. Do you know who the Queen of Hearts is?’

Lucie shoved the photo back at me. ‘Haven’t got a clue. And I don’t want one either. I’m really pissed off with her, silly cow. I mean, I know she’s dead, but honestly.’ The lift doors slid open and Lucie practically jumped inside. ‘I trusted her. I told her things—’ She broke off.

‘What kind of things?’ I prompted.

‘Just things. Never mind.’

‘Have you got Sadie or Manda’s numbers?’ I asked, slightly desperately, placing my arm against the door to stop the lift leaving.

‘Manda’s round the corner at the Coliseum. And Sadie—’ she stooped to press the button inside, ‘Sadie’s missing, poor thing.’

‘Missing?’ I gaped at her. And then I had a flash of the television in the restaurant last night with Rafe. I hadn’t absorbed it properly.

‘Sorry, but I’m in a rush. Are you all right by the way?’ she smirked. ‘You look a bit – mad.’

The door slid shut in my face. I couldn’t help feeling, as I walked away, that the last look on Lucie’s face had been one of victory.