by N C Mander
‘No problem, just let me know when you’re on your way. Love to your “mam”.’
‘Ha ha. See you soon.’
‘Eddie,’ Charlie said as an afterthought, ‘just let Tanya know you’re ok, will you?’
‘Sure.’ Edison made the hollow promise easily and hung up.
Briefly, Charlie considered calling Tanya but decided that affording Edison a break from the pressure cooker he’d found himself in lately was more important. He pushed the conflict from his mind as his middle son charged at him, a clown’s mouth of chocolate decorating his face. ‘Come on, Daddy,’ he cried, tugging at his sleeve, ‘we’re going to the top of that mountain over there to see if we can spot the Loch Ness Monster.’ Charlie followed his son, putting the worries of London out of his mind as best he could.
In Bethnal Green, Edison’s stomach was churning. Ellie’s photograph looked up at him reproachfully as he shoved a change of clothes in a holdall. What would you be saying, he wondered as he retrieved his Glock from his sock drawer.
‘I’d be telling you not to go, Eddie.’ Her voice in his head was so loud that Edison caught himself looking round, believing she might be standing at his shoulder. ‘You’re needed here,’ his dead wife went on.
‘I know Elle,’ Edison addressed the photograph, ‘but what if he’s up to something? Or what if he doesn’t realise what on earth he’s got himself mixed up in?’
‘He won’t thank you for it. He’ll make your life miserable.’
‘More miserable than it already is?’ Edison looked around at the dilapidated room he called home.
You know I don’t trust him, not one little bit. Edison remembered the words his wife had said years earlier. She was right about so many things. But I have to go, he thought. If I owe that man anything, I need to go, he concluded, wrapping the gun carefully in a T-shirt before burying it right at the bottom of his bag.
By mid-afternoon, he was making his way through the crowds at Kings Cross, his holdall slung over one shoulder. He purchased a ticket that would take him as far as Newcastle. He settled himself on a train that would get him there shortly before half-past six. A wave of exhaustion washed over him. He closed his eyes and slept most of the way to the city of his childhood.
*
1835, Thursday 6th July, Central Station, Newcastle-upon-Tyne
Edison descended to the platform at Newcastle Central Station. The two-coach Metrolink train was pulling out of its dedicated platform, ferrying shoppers to the Metrocentre, an indoor shopping complex that was once the largest mall in Europe. The people of Newcastle took their shopping almost as seriously as they did their football. It was an overcast evening, but the pubs around the station were busy with drinkers spilling out onto the pavements. Edison had left London bathing in late-July warmth, but up north, there was a distinct chill in the air. Scantily clad women tottered about on high heels whilst short-sleeved men with aggressive tattoos bought them vodkas and cokes.
It was a familiar panorama for Edison but one he felt disconnected from. He felt no affinity with the city of his birth. Other than his ageing mother, there was nothing here for him. Sometimes, he wondered whether his real father was still living in the city. But now, and for many years, everything he cared about, or had cared about, was in London.
Outside the station, he clambered into a waiting taxi and gave the driver his mother’s address. ‘Alreet mate.’ The taxi driver spoke with a thick Geordie accent, ‘You local, like?’
‘Sort of,’ Edison replied trying to soften the public-school inflection he had refined since he was eleven years old.
‘Been a rough ol’ time in Byker lately, some of the kids ’ave been causing a ruck. Knives an’ all. Y’oughta be careful, mate. You don’sactly blend in.’
‘Thanks, I’ll be careful.’
They pulled up alongside the Byker Wall, its familiar bright blue vents ascending into the grey skies. The vast block of council flats stretched before him, and Edison took a deep breath before releasing his seatbelt. He handed the driver a ten-pound note and instructed him to keep the change. It was almost double the fare on the meter. ‘Thanks, mate, tek care o’ yousel’.’
‘Aye mate, I will.’ Edison replied, letting some of the dialect creep in. He opened the door and stepped onto the pavement. He immediately regretted his decision to take a taxi.
‘Who gets a taxi t’Byker?’ a dishevelled-looking middle-aged man called from the opposite side of the road. He was smoking a roll-up cigarette and carrying a can of supermarket own-brand lager. Edison looked around to see whether he was addressing anyone in particular. He wasn’t, but the crowd of teenagers clustered around a dilapidated children’s playground looked over and sniggered. Taxis were an attention-seeking extravagance on Newcastle’s most famous social housing estate. Edison pulled his collar up around his face and strode toward the communal entrance that led to his mother’s flat.
‘Nice jacket,’ one of the youths commented as he passed. He was languishing on a swing, the rusty chains crunched against the frame from which paint flecked and fluttered to the ground with every movement.
Edison dug his keys out of his pocket, swiped the key fob and slipped inside the musty corridor. A woman was bumping a buggy down the stairs. She reached the ground floor, and Edison stood aside, holding the door open. The woman looked up at him as she passed. ‘Ta,’ she said before stopping. ‘If it isn’t wee Scotty Edison?’
Edison was taken aback. The woman was in her early fifties and was clearly grandmother to the toddler in the buggy. He smiled. ‘Eee, you got big, din’t ya,’ she went on. ‘Betcha canny remember me.’
‘Sorry,’ Edison mumbled.
‘Nah, ye never visited much affer you went t’ tha’ posh school. Mary was so proud of ye. Ye gannin up to see ye mam?’ Edison nodded. ‘Try to check in on her most days, I do, but this one keeps me busy.’ She waved at the toddler, ‘’Is mam’s working all hours. I’m Tracy Cole. Lived at number twenty-three.’ Edison nodded and smiled in a pretence of recognition. ‘Bes’ be off, love to ya mam, Scotty.’ The woman hustled off.
On the third floor, he paused outside the familiar front door, the brass number twenty-five was faded and tarnished. He had not been home since Ellie’s death. His mother had been unable to travel to the funeral because of her deteriorating health. Since then, he’d wallowed in the misery of losing first Hughes, then his wife and finally his job. His mother had been so proud of everything her son had achieved, and it had all evaporated in the space of months. He carried the burden of feeling he’d let her down, and that had prevented him from visiting in over a year.
He wondered what he might find on the other side of the door. He wondered whether her health would have grown even worse in the time he’d been absent. Edison shook off the wave of guilt that washed over him. He buried the thoughts of turning around and leaving, took a deep breath and slipped the key into the lock.
The front door opened onto a small, dingy hallway. Edison stepped through it in three strides and pushed open the door into the living room. The room was dark – the only light filtered through dirty net curtains hanging in the small window. He looked around at the décor and furniture that hadn’t changed since his childhood. The chintzy three-piece suite was squashed into an area designated as the lounge, and a large dining table that could have comfortably seated six took up the other half of the room. The TV-dinner-tray table next to the occupied armchair served as evidence that the table was surplus to requirements – Edison considered it was probably two decades since anyone had sat round that table for a meal. Even when he and Ellie had visited, they had eaten fish and chips from their laps in front of the television. The television was playing on a low volume, showing the BBC’s coverage of the Wimbledon women’s semi-finals.
Mary Edison turned a gaunt and wizened face away from the screen to look at Edison. There was a moment’s hesitation before recognition swept over her grey features. A smile broke on Edison’s mother’s face – thin lips parted to revea
l a perfect set of white teeth, and a sparkle lit in her rheumy eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but something caught in her throat. She coughed, and her voice crackled like someone who hadn’t spoken to another human soul for some time. ‘Scotty,’ she said. ‘My canny lad.’ Edison crossed the room and crouched to kiss his mother’s cheek. ‘What a luvly surprise. I must put the kettle on.’ She spoke with none of the malice that Edison would have forgiven her for. Arthritic fingers curled around the armrests as she braced herself to stand.
‘No, no, Mam,’ Edison protested, resting a hand gently on his mother’s gnarled hand, ‘I’ll sort it.’ He stood up and went through to the kitchen. Dust moats caught in the grey light and settled on the surfaces. But for the evidence of a well-used microwave oven, the small galley kitchen didn’t look like it was regularly used. Acting on autopilot, he pulled open a cupboard where he knew he would find the mugs.
‘No, Scott,’ a voice admonished him from the doorway. He turned to see the diminutive figure of his mother leaning heavily on a walking stick. ‘Let’s have the decent china. Next cupboard along. I don’t get much chance to use it these days.’ She said it matter-of-factly without a hint of self-pity. Edison’s heart flipped.
‘Ok, Mam, you go sit down.’
‘Ok, luv. Don’t forget some biscuits,’ she instructed, turning slowly and painfully and disappearing from view.
Edison busied himself, setting a chipped, enamelled tray with the ‘good’ china. He filled the yellowed, brittle plastic kettle and waited as the furred-up element worked hard to heat the water. As the kettle laboured, he stuck his head round the door to find this mother sitting at the dining table, her hands crossed in a pose of practised patience. ‘Where are these biscuits then, Mam?’ he asked, and she jumped, unused to having company.
‘The biscuit tin, luv,’ she said, ‘where else? On the shelf with the tea.’
Edison found the tin and put a handful of supermarket knock-off Twix and KitKat bars on a prettily decorated china plate. He was glad to find fresh milk in the fridge.
The kettle eventually boiled, and he poured the water over the teabags in the teapot. He surveyed the tray and carried it through to the sitting room.
‘I better serve yours before it gets too strong for you, Mam,’ he said and poured her a cup of pale yellow liquid that she doused generously with milk, splashing some from her unsteady hand onto the saucer.
‘Glad you can remember how I take it. It’s been a while since you’ve made your mam a cuppa.’
‘That’s true.’ He was about to apologise when his mother interrupted him.
‘So, luv, how are you getting on? I haven’t heard much from you since …’ her eyes brimmed with tears as she spoke, ‘since Ellie,’ she forced the words out.
Edison could feel a lump forming in his throat. ‘I’ve been doing ok, Mam,’ he tried to reassure her, smiling through his grief.
‘And are you working, luv? I think you said that you were having trouble with your work, but that must have been over a year ago now.’
‘Yes, Mam, I’m still working.’
‘For the government?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Oh good.’ She looked pleased. ‘Not going anywhere, the government. Not like the shipbuilding and the car building.’ She sipped at her tea and reached a shaky hand for a biscuit. ‘And what about Charlie? How is he? He’s such a luvly lad. And a policeman – that’s a good job. Although there are those round here who don’t like ’em.’
She struggled with the wrapper on the biscuit, trying to work her claw-like fingers around the paper. Gently, Edison manipulated it from her grasp and opened it. ‘I told Charlie I was visiting, he sends his love.’ His mother smiled. Satisfied the tea had reached a drinkable strength, Edison poured himself a cup. The conversation turned to the mundane detail of life on the estate, discussions of the weather and who Mary wanted to win the men’s Wimbledon final on Sunday – ‘That dishy Swiss man – he’s very good, isn’t he?’
The carriage clock on the mantlepiece chimed. It was nine o’clock.
‘Have you had any tea, luv?’ Mary said, looking concerned.
‘Yes, Mam,’ Edison lied.
‘Will you be staying?’
‘I best be going, I think, Mam.’ He needed to get out of there. There was too much of his past crammed into this tiny home. The photograph on the wall of his wedding day, the memories of Ellie, sat cross-legged on the sofa, making her mother laugh over some anecdote about a model at the fashion magazine, and the spectre of his runaway father haunted the place.
Edison felt desperate to escape the claustrophobic flat, but as he stood at the door, his mother embraced him so tightly that tears sprang into his eyes. Mary’s diminished figure pulled away and looked up at him. ‘I love you, son, you know where I am.’
‘Yes, Mam,’ Edison turned quickly, picking up his holdall and descended the stairs.
Outside, the clouds had given way to a bright, clear evening. Early July, and the sun was lingering in the sky. The youths had disappeared, and a young mother was pushing a small child on the swing.
Edison walked back into Newcastle city centre, avoiding the ignominy of a taxi and the darkness of the Metro. Passing the handful of mattress shops at Manors then crossing the Central Motorway, he left behind him the rundown, inner-city housing estate and former industrial buildings which lay derelict between Byker and the river, waiting patiently for the inevitable creep of gentrification that would transform them into trendy apartment blocks and lofty wine bars. The buzz of the metropolitan city centre engulfed him, and he dived into the Tyneside Cinema Café and ordered a pint of craft beer.
Kat had called him once at around 8.00 p.m. and followed it up with a text message – Just let me know you’re ok. Softened by the afternoon spent with his mother, Edison sent a short reply – All ok. Please don’t worry. Might head up to visit Charlie for the weekend in Scotland. The reply arrived almost immediately – Thank you x – was all it said. Edison knew there was very little more he could glean from the surveillance at the bank. He had stalked the perpetrator through the Dark Web and had him cornered. He would fill Kat in on all that as soon as he returned to London. It was far more important that he confront Hughes.
Sipping the bitter amber beer, Edison scrolled through the handful of other messages that had arrived that afternoon. There was one from Charlie, saying he was looking forward to seeing him and another from Maria, which surprised him.
She had sent a photograph of the Penwill team, seated at a table laden with dozens of dishes of Turkish food. He zoomed into the picture and studied it more closely. He wondered if he could spot any hint of the hacker. Billy, Tariq and Maria were all grinning wildly, having made the most of the restaurant’s bring-your-own policy. Edison noted Tom’s absence. He was most likely still in the office. Jamie looked on edge. Neither Anna nor Christoph were looking at the camera, engrossed in conversation. And Emma was looking at Jamie and seemed to be midway through moving to comfort him in some way. Maria’s message asked after how he was feeling and told him that the whole team were missing him. Edison smiled. He was genuinely pleased to have assimilated so quickly into the close-knit crowd, and he was equally happy to know that his cover was still intact.
He replied to Maria, thanking her for her concern, telling her that he was so sorry to be missing the meal and making his excuses for his continued absence from the office the following day.
Whilst he still had his phone in hand, he opened an online shopping app and tapped in an order. Next, he searched for a suitably cheap hotel in which he could stay, checked the times of the trains to Inverness the following morning and the details of his planned onward journey from there.
The sun had long dipped beneath the horizon, but there was still light in the midsummer northern sky when Edison made his way to his hotel room and crawled under the duvet.
*
1123, Thursday 6th July, Westbury Ave, Wood Green, London
After the briefing at Thames House, Kat drove with Natalie to Wood Green and parked on Westbury Avenue. The address took them to a terrace of shops, and they found the offices of Barinak Holdings, sandwiched between a bookmakers and a beauty salon. A peeling sign clung above heavily shuttered windows. Barinak Holdings: Lettings, Property & Building Management Services it announced. Natalie took up her post on the opposite side of the road, talking animatedly into her mobile phone. Kat knocked.
Minutes passed before a key turned in the lock, and the door opened to reveal a short, round man with a balding head and a shy smile. Kat judged he was probably in his late sixties. ‘May I help you?’ he said, shading his eyes from the sunlight now flooding through the door.
‘Mr Yousuf?’ Kat ventured.
‘I’m afraid Murat is abroad. I am is his business partner, Hakan Gurbuz. Can I help you at all?’ He held out a squashy hand, and Kat shook it.
‘Mr Gurbuz, I am with the police.’ She flashed her fake ID as she spoke. ‘I need to speak with you about your property inventory. Would you mind coming with me?’
Gurbuz’s brow wrinkled into a frown, and Kat braced herself in the doorway should he attempt to run. ‘Of course, of course. I do hope everything’s in order. I’ll be as much help as I possibly can, but I must admit that I have not been that involved in the business lately. Murat, that’s Mr Yousuf, has been managing the day-to-day affairs. I’m not getting any younger, and it would be nice to retire one day.’
Kat directed Gurbuz to the car and watched in her rear-view mirror as Natalie, still rabbiting away, crossed the road. Kat drove to the Service’s nearest safe house, a tired 1970s terrace with views over Tottenham cemetery. She ushered a startled Gurbuz into the living room. ‘I … I … would have expected to go to a police station,’ he stammered, looking fearful.
‘Mr Gurbuz,’ Kat took a risk, ‘I work for the government.’ She watched for any hardening in the man’s demeanour, a hint that he was playing the game. His expression didn’t change from one of bewilderment. ‘Your property in Brooks Road was recently discovered to have been housing terrorists.’ The old man’s face slackened, and he opened his mouth to speak. Kat ploughed on, ‘We believe these men intend to commit mass murder.’
