by Holly Watt
‘Don’t move, Casey.’
A beautiful woman was blocking her path. She was wearing a long black coat, almost a cape, that flowed in the breeze.
‘Come over to the edge of the bridge, Casey. Come and stand with me for a while.’
There was something familiar about the woman, and yet Casey felt only the menace, the echo of a nightmare dreamed before. For a second, she couldn’t take it in.
‘What do you want?’ Casey battled to keep her voice steady.
‘A car will come for us in a moment,’ and Casey heard the woman breathe a laugh. ‘It’s been held up by the bomb scare.’
‘And it’s your bomb scare.’ Casey’s mind raced. ‘The traffic . . .’ Lambeth was the only other bridge over to St Thomas.
‘Maybe,’ the woman said, in a Scottish accent. The nurse.
Stupid. So stupid. Casey’s anger almost blotted out the fear, for a moment.
‘I should have known,’ said Casey.
‘You should have known.’ It was almost reproving. ‘I think it’s your heart that’s the problem.’
Casey glanced across at her profile again. The quick glance, the flicker of a smile. Those emerald eyes, oddly familiar.
‘You’re Amelie.’ It flooded back. ‘That night in Gigi’s. You were there.’
‘So quick,’ she smiled. ‘I knew you’d remember.’
The tourists were ambling past, red from the sun, and laughing at the human statue who never blinked. Someone was playing the bagpipes, badly, over by Westminster tube.
The best ambush never looks like one.
‘I won’t get into the car,’ said Casey. ‘I’ll never get into that car.’
‘I think you will,’ Emerald’s eyes drifted up the river. ‘Because there’s a rifle, of course.’
54
Dash was watching the Prime Minister speak down the barrel of the television camera.
Appalled about these allegations surrounding Alexander Kingsley. Only allegations at this point. But horrified by the idea, of course. Accepted his resignation. International development always been of crucial importance to this government.
He trailed off slightly at that point, almost embarrassed, but gathered himself.
The reshuffle of the Home Office ministers will be completed shortly. We’ll all be working together, as a cabinet, through any challenge.
The Prime Minister spun away from the camera, leaving the political correspondents to pick over his words.
Ross punched the sky. ‘This story!’ he gloated. ‘This fucking story!’
‘You like it,’ Dash said slowly. ‘You love watching them die.’
‘Just giving the public what they want,’ said Ross. ‘Roll up, roll up. And dance for the crowd.’
Dash’s phone went, and it was Miranda, giving him the readout of the Kingsley meeting, almost dissolving with rage.
The editor hesitated by the news desk. Dash glanced up, impatient.
‘You were right.’ The editor forced out the words.
Dash gestured: it was nothing.
‘Extraordinary, though.’
‘Yes.’ Dash turned back to the list.
‘We never think . . .’ Salcombe went on. ‘We never thought what it is like, from the other side. When these women are . . . They can make you say anything. And do anything. And be anything.’
Dash glanced up. You understand them, Dash thought. You understand the killers. ‘That’s not the point, and you know it. They were doing it already, these people. You know that.’
‘Maybe,’ Salcombe said. ‘Maybe.
‘If they could wave a wand, and make none of this exist, do you think they would?’ Salcombe asked. ‘Casey and Miranda. They wanted it all to be true, every step of the way.’
‘They didn’t,’ said Dash, knowing it was a lie.
Salcombe almost smiled. ‘We’d have burned them all for witches, a few centuries ago.’
When the battle’s lost and won, thought Dash. And they burned for a rumour, not for a truth. He stared down at his list and a few seconds later Salcombe walked away.
Ross was moaning about the layout of page five when Miranda walked in.
‘Where’s Casey?’
‘Don’t know.’ Ross looked around vaguely.
‘Where the fuck is she?’
Dash walked over to the investigations room. There was no one there.
‘Has anyone seen Casey?’ He tried to keep the panic out his voice.
‘She got a call from the hospital.’ Arthur looked up. ‘Remember?’
Miranda was gone, racing across the newsroom, and crashing out the door.
55
‘Because there’s a rifle, of course.’
Casey ducked instinctively.
‘Stand up,’ Amelie ordered almost gently. ‘Come and stand next to me.’
Somehow Casey made it to the edge of the bridge, next to a green and gold lamp post with shields at her feet. They leaned against the parapet, looking down at the House of Commons. They would look so normal, the two of them, watching the evening river, with the tourists chattering all around.
Casey imagined the sights trained on her body, and felt her heart stumble.
‘“The river glideth at his own sweet will”,’ whispered Emerald.
‘What do you want?’ Casey interrupted.
‘We didn’t guess each other’s game that night in Gigi’s.’ Amelie almost smiled. ‘I asked Jasper about a Callie a couple of times. Said I’d really enjoyed meeting you. But he couldn’t place a Callie, even though I’d seen you chatting to him. I should have guessed. We both should have guessed, I suppose. I saw you stumble into the table, knew you hadn’t broken your shoe. I thought it was deft, that arrival. I might borrow it one day.’
Emerald. Amelie. Once, a long time ago, this girl must have been named Emily or Amabel, Emilia or Emmeline. That first syllable; enough to turn her head.
‘So you heard Adam talking?’ guessed Casey. ‘That night.’
Emerald inclined her head. ‘Just by chance, really. Just like you. I’d just met Selby, back then.’
‘So you went after Milo?’
‘I couldn’t have him talking.’ Amelie shrugged. ‘I went to that flat of his, in Pimlico, the day after that night in Gigi’s. He was all over the place, towards the end. The guilt had broken him. It can happen, one gathers.’
‘So you told him to throw himself out of the window?’
‘I pointed out the incongruity,’ explained Emerald gently. ‘That he was telling his friends, and yet terrified that people would become aware. It emerged that he was horrified by the thought of his parents’ knowing. I may have mentioned that there was a way’ – Amelie paused – ‘a way that his parents need never know. I said I could ensure it, in fact, if he gave me a list of the people he had told. It wasn’t a long list, in the end. I think he had only told a couple of people when he was drunk, and then felt even more terrified. He wasn’t making much sense at that point anyway, too much drink, too many drugs . . .’
Milo had jumped to protect his parents, Casey thought. And then Casey had forced the knowledge on them anyway.
‘And after that you went after Adam, to Geneva.’
‘You and I started at different ends, but I could work backwards, don’t forget,’ said Emerald, ‘But then, when I spoke to him in Geneva, Adam didn’t talk about Milo. Even when I pushed him quite hard. So I let him . . .’
Amelia paused delicately. Casey thought of Adam and Lulu in Geneva, oblivious. The bullet had passed so close.
‘And you took the painting from the flat? The little Renoir?’
‘Oh no,’ said Amelie. ‘He gave me that in return for his journey, oh, ages ago now. I love beautiful things.’
She looked at her watch, a silver Cartier. Her face was exquisite in the fading gold of the light.
‘The car won’t be long now,’ she said.
‘Is that why you do it?’ asked Casey. ‘For the beautiful things?’
‘I suppose t
hat is a part of it.’ Emerald stared up the river. ‘It’s certainly a part. But there’s something else about it too. When a man is dancing absolutely to your tune, and yet still believes he is leading every step. You know that feeling, Casey, don’t you?’
One of the big ferry boats was passing under the bridge and Casey thought about jumping. But the sniper would be there, somewhere.
‘I’m nothing like you,’ said Casey. ‘Nothing.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Amelie glanced up as a seagull shrieked down the Thames. ‘I’ve been thinking about you, Casey. Wondering. I spoke to Josh, you know. He’s so angry. You made a fool of him, didn’t you? And men never like that. They hate it, even. You’ve disrupted so much, Casey. All that work.’
‘A nice little business, was it? And you never even had to see them die.’
‘It’s all in our heads though, isn’t it? For us.’ Emerald ran her fingers along the bridge. ‘I’ve researched you, and your friend Miranda, over the last few days. You know exactly how it is, don’t you? When you’re playing that game of chess, and you can’t even acknowledge the board.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I could always tell the ones who wanted the kill.’ Amelie was almost talking to herself. ‘Sometimes, you just know, don’t you think? Across a room. Although they didn’t even know it themselves.’
‘You’re mad.’ Casey felt the anger surge.
‘They all want it, Casey. The kill. Somewhere deep down. Because isn’t that why you love your soldier boy? Just a bit?’
‘No,’ said Casey. ‘No. Never.’
A Chinese bride was posing for photographs just a few feet away, stiff in satin. Smiling for the camera as her new husband clutched her hand apprehensively.
‘You can’t kill me up here,’ said Casey, not sure if she believed it. ‘You’d never make it off this bridge.’
It seemed impossible that this could happen, right in the shadow of Parliament, in the centre of the city. A cyclist swept past, too close to a taxi.
‘Oh, I can.’ Emerald was quite confident. ‘And I will, if I need to. Rory just wanted to talk to you first. Say goodbye, I suppose.’
I’m going to die, Casey thought sadly. This is how it ends.
The traffic was starting to move again. The police had evidently found nothing in their hunt of Lambeth Bridge. Any moment, a car would draw up, and Casey would disappear into the darkness for ever.
She looked across at the block ugliness of St Thomas’. Ed was up there, somewhere, hurt but alive.
I love you, Casey thought. I never told you, but I do. I love you.
A few yards beyond Amelie, a blonde figure walked up and leaned against the parapet, almost invisible in the crowds.
She looked towards Casey, eyes fixed on hers.
I’m here, she seemed to say.
It will be all right.
I’m here.
And she never looked away.
‘Why Milo?’ asked Casey.
‘Milo . . .’ Emerald was looking at Parliament, eyes drifting along the crenellations. ‘He had everything, didn’t he? The looks, the charm and that beautiful girl – Bella, I think it was. But it was never enough, any of it. I first saw Milo at one of their private views, up on Dover Street. My old hunting grounds.’ Amelie smiled. ‘Milo was talking about something, I can’t even remember what now, and his father dismissed him, just like that, in front of everyone. I think Milo wanted to conquer someone. Anyone, really. Just crush them. Instead of always being flattened. I knew I could use that rage. But then . . .’ She paused. ‘Then it broke him instead.’
A ferry boat was cruising up the river towards them, dozens of cameras clicking at the honey glory of Parliament. It had passed under Lambeth Bridge, the red of the House of Lords’ benches, and now it steered left to ogle the Commons. Emerald watched it idly. It was high tide, the water lapping the terrace where the MPs were drinking away the day.
Casey’s glanced at Miranda, leaning against the parapet.
‘But that’s not all,’ said Casey. ‘It’s not just about the beautiful things, and the control, is it? There’s something else.’
‘I knew you would ask.’ Amelie’s eyes were appreciative. ‘You, Casey, would have to know. You couldn’t bear not to know. And you need there to be something more. You can’t let me just be the bitch. And I wondered . . .’
Casey let the silence grow. Emerald flicked a smile at her.
‘Revenge, I suppose.’ Amelie stared south down the river, over the silver towers. ‘Maybe.’
Casey heard the scream in the wind. Almost knew what had driven Emerald to take her revenge on those men, and seize back her strange sort of power.
‘Now I make them dance as I wish.’ Amelie’s eyes searched out Casey. ‘I have the power, now. My toys.’
‘Toys . . .’
‘Is this the power of the confession?’ Emerald threw away a smile. ‘You know it too well, Casey.’
At that moment, Casey realised she could never believe a word that came from Amelie’s mouth.
‘But why refugees?’ she asked. ‘Why refugees, of all people?’
‘Ah,’ Emerald shrugged. ‘Everyone else uses them, so why shouldn’t I? Does anyone care at all? The world lets them die on their mountainside, and so what is the difference? I’m just streamlining.’
‘You offered the clean kill,’ said Casey. ‘With no messiness. You dehumanised death.’
‘It’s where we want them though, isn’t it?’ said Amelie. ‘Not on our home front. Refugees, and death. Photogenic, and at a safe distance. We don’t want them here, do we?’
‘But why?’ asked Casey, that question she’d asked so many times. ‘Who needs that?’
‘Who needs any of it?’ Emerald’s glance floated up the river. ‘Who needs strawberries in winter and roses in autumn? Who needs cheap little dresses and fast little cars? And why ever do they bring me diamonds? I take it because I want it. I take it because it’s fun. I take it’ – she paused – ‘because I can.’
The ferry boat was nearing Westminster Bridge now.
‘Watch the hand,’ Amelie fluttered her fingers high. ‘Watch the hand.’
The tourists waved back.
The crack of the rifle deafened the Thames.
Miranda sprinted the last few strides, hurling Casey to the ground.
‘Wait . . .’ gasped Casey.
And Emerald jumped straight off the bridge, down on to the ferry boat.
56
‘The police marksmen really didn’t like firing straight into a hospital,’ Arthur was laughing. ‘You can sort of see their point.’
It had been Josh, up in one of the small hospital rooms. Lying with the rifle arrowed towards the bridge, his world narrowed to that tiny circle.
He’d been rushed just a few floors down to emergency, the doctors ignoring the M24 on the floor, and battling to save him despite it all. He died, just the same.
‘He was in a coma patient’s room?’ Ross asked. ‘Bit of a waste of that view.’
‘Miranda ran all the way to Parliament.’ Hessa bounced on her toes. ‘She realised you’d gone, Casey, and worked it all out.’
They were back in the Post’s offices, drinking endless instant coffees.
‘Miranda was shouting at me to call the police as she ran out of the office,’ said Arthur. ‘She phoned me as she was running down the road to Westminster Bridge. She’d worked it out. He was good, that detective, the one who came and interviewed you both. He put me straight through to the team up on the House of Commons. They didn’t believe me at first, of course.’
‘I sent through a photograph of you, Casey,’ said Hessa. ‘One of them spotted you out on the bridge.’
‘Why didn’t they just shoot Amelie?’ asked Miranda.
‘They couldn’t be sure,’ said Arthur. ‘I mean, she could have been anyone. Some bird that Casey’d just decided to meet up on the bridge for some reason. Or Casey could have
bumped into an old friend, just by chance. You can imagine, if the police gunned down some girl . . .’
‘So they started looking for the gunman?’ asked Casey.
‘They started looking for something. Some of the best marksmen in the world, up on the roof of the House of Commons.’ Arthur was almost boasting. ‘That gunman could have been almost anywhere, I suppose. But they figured he would be on the west side of the bridge, the side you’d walk across. And maybe the hospital just made sense.’
‘I suppose,’ Miranda realised, ‘they meant to kill Ed too, once Casey was accounted for. That would have been easy, for Josh.’
Casey felt her heart shudder, again.
‘Miranda walked out on the bridge,’ said Hessa, with pride. ‘The police were there, down by the statue of Boadicea, arguing about whether to empty the bridge or not. They told her not to, ordered her really, but she just walked out.’
Miranda ducked her head.
‘Thank you,’ Casey said to her. ‘It made . . . a difference.’
‘They haven’t caught her yet,’ said Arthur. ‘She hijacked that tourist boat, cool as you like. Jumped down like a cat on to the deck.’
‘Wild leap,’ said Ross. ‘She was lucky with the tide.’
Not lucky, thought Casey. And not controlling the tides. But knowing, and using, and that meant the same, really.
‘All the tourists were screaming their heads off,’ Arthur went on. ‘She had a gun to the captain’s head. Poor sod, he steered it straight into the pier at the London Eye, and Emerald disappeared into the yelling herd stampeding off the boat.’
‘The police are a shade embarrassed about that bit,’ Arthur said. ‘She dumped that long black coat, ducked the cameras, and they just missed her somehow.’
But they didn’t know her, Casey thought now. The ruthless player who would never be in check, just because she’d lost her knight. The police would never catch Amelie. She would know the police had a photograph of her, and be long gone, by now. Probably abroad, slipping out of the country like a ghost.
But they wouldn’t catch her, the police. Casey knew that much.
‘So, Josh was up in the hospital,’ said Miranda. ‘Does that leave Rory and Leo driving the car?’
