Betrayed

by Jake Cross

  ‘Ah, so that’s your theory. Kaushal put him up to it, just before she went on the run – without him, strangely.’ Delivered with a double-dose of scorn. She opened the door, started to get out.

  ‘Yes. So in you go. This is what you do. Go inside and–’

  She got out.

  ‘–ask him where she is. If he’s defensive, it means–’

  He stopped as she slammed the door and started walking away. He got out. ‘Hey. Wait. You don’t even know what he looks–’

  Two people at separate cars in the car park looked round at his shout. Suddenly fearful he’d be recognised, he got back inside, cursing.

  He watched her go into the snooker club. She was back in seven minutes, grinning. He thought that meant she had something for him, until she got in and said, ‘He dumped her three years ago. Said she was fucked in the head.’

  ‘He answered your questions? Just like that? Was he suspicious? Did it sound like he–’

  ‘Next, sir?’ she interrupted. ‘I am your loyal assistant. Where shall we go next to waste some time?’

  ‘You think this is a waste of time? You have a better plan for finding Kaushal?’

  ‘Forget Kaushal, okay? You’re not thinking straight. She waits four years to come back at you, then goes into hiding and leaves her family scared and wondering, and the rude boy boyfriend who helped her set it all up goes about his business as usual?’

  ‘Let’s hear your better idea.’

  ‘Even if he was involved, the way to go would be to follow him. If he’s in contact with Kaushal, he’ll eventually lead us to her. But going in and asking him where she is is just stupid. If you insist on this, then bon voyage, my friend. You go your way and I go mine.’

  He knew she was right, but being told his plan was flawed did not sit well in his stomach. ‘So we wait and follow him, is that what you want to do?’

  ‘Is it hell. This is the wrong tree, barking dog.’

  ‘How can you say that? She’s missing and it has to be connected to me. Has to be.’

  ‘Not impossible. But this isn’t some little girl seeking payback for mental anguish. Too convoluted, too many people involved. This is bigger than that. And we need to be smarter in what we do. That means you need to step down as supreme commander of the mission and let me take over.’

  He laughed at her, but he was angry. ‘Fine. Take the reins, great one. I am your loyal servant now. What shall we do, O great one?’

  ‘So, we do this my way now?’

  ‘Whatever floats your boat. So, what’s your genius plan?’

  ‘Drive to Westminster.’

  ‘What’s in Westminster?’

  ‘In half an hour? Us.’

  His suspicions bubbled up again. The Westminster idea had been quick. Too quick to be improvised. She knew something after all. ‘You know something you’re not telling me. What it is?’

  ‘I don’t know anything. If I knew where the person who slit Damar’s throat was, I’d go straight there. I don’t. I just know we need to go to Westminster.’

  ‘So what’s there?’

  ‘In half an hour? Us.’

  He didn’t ask again. Just drove. They both sat in silence. But soon it got to Nate. He didn’t want silence. Silence allowed paranoid thoughts to creep in. Besides, talking would make him feel more comfortable around her, and they were going to be together for a while, and being comfortable beat feeling awkward, but it seemed as if she felt the opposite.

  He tried an opening line: ‘Fair enough, we’ll do this in silence. Just remember that you tried to kill me first.’

  She said nothing. He drove. Two minutes later, he held out his hand. Said his name again. She didn’t even acknowledge him. He felt strange trying to make nice with someone who had helped smash in his teeth.

  Silence. Two more miles. Nate’s ruined fingertips were beginning to throb from all the driving and he reached for the glovebox, and she grabbed his wrist with the speed of a rattlesnake striking. A fingertip delved deep into a nerve, causing a shooting pain and then numbness to travel up his arm. Strangely, in the half second before he yanked his arm away, he had time to notice an indentation on her ring finger. So clear and deep that the ring could not have been removed more than a few days ago.

  ‘What the hell was that for?’ he moaned, rubbing his wrist.

  She opened the glovebox. Inside were some painkillers.

  ‘Calm down, doo-dah,’ he said, taking the painkillers.

  She looked at him. ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know your name, do I, what’s-your-face?’

  She looked at him.

  ‘We’re not friends, like you said,’ he said. ‘Just give me a name to use so this isn’t even more awkward.’

  ‘It’s Toni. Just Toni to you. Now please be quiet and drive. Drive to Westminster.’

  ‘And what’s in Westminster?’

  She ignored him. He decided to ignore her back. So what if she didn’t speak again. Fuck her. They weren’t sitting together because they were good buddies. As long as she helped him find out who had killed his brother, he would endure her company, silence and all, and soon they’d part and never see each other again. So he clammed up himself and drove.

  A minute south of Tate Britain in Millbank, Westminster, they pulled up at the side of the road by an iron fence. Beyond it was a scrapyard. Battered cars were piled four high, like something a Lego-starved giant kid would build, or a crew of post-apocalyptic nomads to secure their camp. The gate was open. A guy was turning a flatbed truck in off the road, a Fiesta with a smashed front end strapped to the bed. Nate wondered if the owner was lying in an intensive care unit somewhere.

  ‘So what’s here?’

  She had been silent for the remainder of the drive, and stayed silent now. Got out of the van, started walking towards the gate. Nate exited. She stepped between the gate and the truck, forcing the vehicle to stop so abruptly, the Fiesta rocked hard enough for the glass remnants in the busted side window to sprinkle out. The driver threw up his hands.

  Right in his way, she stopped and turned, having heard Nate’s door slam shut.

  ‘You stay.’

  ‘What’s here?’ he said.

  She vanished inside the scrapyard. Nate leaned against the front of the van, but then became aware of the passing traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian. For a moment he’d forgotten about his fugitive status. He got back in the vehicle before someone could point and scream for the cops.

  She was back in four minutes. Got in, said nothing. Nate just sat there until she looked at him.

  ‘This isn’t going to work if we don’t talk.’

  ‘What’s to talk about?’ she said.

  ‘It also won’t work if you don’t tell me what you’re doing. Remember, I’m not your bloody assistant here.’

  ‘Maybe you want us to go our separate ways, then? See how far you get with all of London knowing your face and the cops kicking in doors looking for you.’

  ‘Just tell me why we’re here.’

  ‘Lewisham next. It’s over the Thames, so go south. Vauxhall Bridge.’ She pointed behind them. South, apparently.

  He didn’t move. Didn’t start the engine. She opened her door and swung a leg out, and for a moment he was going to be stubborn and let her go, but then he grabbed the key and started the engine, and she swung her leg back inside and shut the door.

  Corner of the eye again, he watched her as he pulled the van away from the kerb. And was sure he saw a slight grin on her lips.

  He calmed himself. Back to the task at hand. ‘So, I’ll beg again. Please? Please tell me what’s in Lewisham.’

  ‘When we get there.’

  He unzipped his fleece and yanked the neck of his T-shirt, exposing the raw area on his shoulder. ‘Remember when you did this? You remember the tattoo? You know what it was?’

  ‘Was being the correct word, because it’s now gone. I remember it. Some black men carrying a giant American f
ootball.’

  He couldn’t tell if that was a joke or not. The three ‘black men’ were – had been – silhouettes, and the so-called football they held raised over their heads had been–

  Her phone was on the dashboard. She snatched it. He let her. She played with it. He focused on the road ahead. Tried to clear his mind by watching the pedestrians going about their inert business, but his mind turned on him. It told him that all those people on foot and in the cars knew his face, knew his story, believed he was a killer, would shop him to the cops in a second. It dredged up a story he’d read about as a teenager. The Night Stalker, a serial killer who had murdered a bunch of people in Los Angeles. The cops had put that guy’s face and name in the news, just as they had with Nate’s. The stalker hadn’t been aware, though, until it was too late. Too late being when he was out and about in the busy daytime streets, like these ones. He’d been chased down and captured by normal members of the public, people no different from those Nate watched now. Thirty years later, the guy had died in prison, hated by the world.

  His daydream cracked when he heard Toni say, ‘Ah.’ And giggle.

  He snatched the phone. The screen showed a page of Google images, and one of them was a replica of his tattoo. He didn’t know how she had found it, what she might have typed, because certainly ‘football’ wouldn’t have pulled it up. But she had.

  ‘So, now do I get a modicum of respect?’ he said.

  ‘For what? Having a job?’

  ‘Piss off,’ he snapped. She laughed. He concentrated on the road. He watched her put the phone to her ear and heard a tinny voice, but not loud enough to make anything out.

  Two minutes later he felt her looking at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That scrapyard was where we got the van. I went there with Damar. He went to buy a van, then later, he told me that Lazar had arranged for it to be fixed up in a workshop. I never knew which workshop. That’s what I went to the scrapyard for. I asked the guy which workshop. And he told me. That’s where we’re going now. The workshop. Maybe a guy at the workshop knows Lazar. That’s the plan, and it’s a better one than chasing your missing Indian woman.’

  Something had changed in her tone. He snatched the phone again, or tried to. She was quicker, and his fingers got thin air. Then she propped the phone on the ledge where the dashboard clock was, and turned up the volume, and he saw a paused YouTube video. A newscaster behind a table, the words ‘BBC London News’ in one corner of the screen. But it was the caption across the bottom of the screen that sucked him in:

  Suspect in house fire death is decorated soldier

  She pressed play, and the memories came back.

  ‘The man police wish to question about a fatal house fire in Wandsworth last night is a former soldier in the Corps of Royal Engineers.

  ‘Nathan Barke, forty-two, is suspected of fleeing the scene of a fire at his home in Putney Village in which the body of an unidentified male was found. Barke served as a combat engineer with 33 Engineer Regiment, which specialises in bomb disposal. In March 2003, while on tour in Iraq, Barke’s team was targeted by a suicide bomber. With what his superior officer called “selfless action and quick thinking”, Sapper Barke detonated a grenade in the path of the suicide’s vehicle, causing it to explode a safe distance away.

  ‘Barke’s bravery was rewarded with a Mention in Despatches, the oldest form of praise within the UK Armed Forces. This evening police are hunting the former soldier for–’

  Nate stopped the video and looked at Toni, who only gave him a quick glance and said, ‘What, no medal?’

  ‘A Mention in–’

  She waved a hand and he stopped. ‘Oh, stop. You’re trying to impress me. Survive the rest of today without getting your throat slit and I’ll be impressed. Now, why don’t you use that Internet to find us some relaxing music?’

  ‘Piss off,’ Nate said.

  She giggled like a little girl. ‘You’re so easy to annoy, you know. It’s all that carrying a big football while dressed in black.’

  Now he laughed. Couldn’t help it. He knew she knew that big football had been a bomb, the cartoon variety, with an oval body and tail fins. A tattoo he and his team had had done as raw recruits, long before suicide bombers in Iraq and before the fog of war had eroded the fun outlook they’d had at being part of a new team dedicated to saving lives.

  She killed the moment when she said, ‘Just don’t get all high and mighty. Desert warfare is not the same as urban, and it was a long time ago that you were a soldier. Today, you’re a wet businessman. Remember that and you might live through this.’

  Lewisham.

  She directed him into a car park outside a supermarket and he turned off the engine. He looked at the supermarket, wondering why they’d stopped here.

  ‘Other way,’ she said.

  Across the road was a garage. It was a plain white building with a big blue shuttered door that was rolled up. ‘Twentieth Century Fix’ said a sign above the shutter. A couple of cars were parked outside, and inside they could see others in states of repair. Two guys in blue coveralls sat outside on plastic chairs, drinks on a small plastic table between them. Other guys roamed inside, repairing.

  ‘This guy we need, he one of them?’ he asked.

  ‘No. So he should give up the info easily, if the van sale was just that, just a sale. Unless he’s been told not to. I don’t know his connection to them. Damar thought the guy was just a guy.’

  ‘And what can he tell us?’

  ‘If I knew that, he wouldn’t need to tell us. Now, this should be a simple Q and A, but it might not be. We don’t know what this guy knows, or who he knows. He might be in this deep, and trouble might be on the horizon. We need to be ready.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean you. I mean me. I’m no good with things like this. My shoulder’s dislocated. It needs popping back in.’

  He glared at her. He knew she wanted him to do it. ‘That’ll hurt.’

  ‘It has to go in sometime.’

  ‘So we go to the hospital. It’s not a gunshot or stab wound. Nobody will call the police.’

  ‘But I’ll sit waiting while old ladies go in about their stuffy noses. Pop it.’

  He grabbed her right arm and felt around.

  ‘Swap seats.’

  She looked puzzled, but didn’t question his order. They got out, passed each other without a glance at the front of the van, and hopped back in. She held up her bad arm, which was now on the far side from him. ‘So now what?’ she said.

  ‘It’s popped out the back. Sit on my lap, facing me.’

  She gave him a long look, like she suspected some trickery.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Nearest hospital. Swap seats again.’

  She didn’t move. Continued to look at him. Five seconds, during which she was probably trying to work out if this was a game he was playing. And then she swung up her right leg, and climbed aboard him, knees either side, her ass on his upper thighs. She looked over his head, maybe unwilling to meet his eyes. He could smell diesel fumes on her clothing, maybe from the scrapyard. Which was good. Had it not masked the perfume remnants he’d inhaled earlier, he might have started to feel things he really didn’t want to feel. Being sexually attracted to someone who’d tried to kill you might be right up some freaks’ alleys, but not his.

  ‘Arms around my neck, arms locked, and hold tight,’ he said. He was aware that he tried to keep his lips close together as he spoke, so that his ragged teeth wouldn’t show.

  She lifted her arms, but they did not clamp around his neck. Instead, she grabbed his seat’s headrest. Now her eyes fell and locked onto his, and they were full of mistrust. He raised his hands, as if to grab her breasts. She stiffened, but it wasn’t wariness. Readiness. Preparation. The way a cat might get ready to pounce on a mouse. He knew if he grabbed those breasts, he was going to regret it about half a second later.

  He placed his palms just above her
chest, on her collar bones.

  ‘If this is some game–’ she began, and that was when he pushed, hard. He felt her right side move back two inches, and something shift under his fingers, and she grunted. She half climbed and half collapsed off him and back into the driver’s seat, rubbing her right shoulder. When she looked at him again, there was a wry smile.

  ‘If you had touched two inches lower, I would have crushed your nose on my forehead, you know.’

  Oh, he knew all right. ‘There might still be tissue damage, so no playing baseball for a while yet,’ he said. ‘And keep your ego in check. I need you whole in order to help me.’

  ‘Where did you learn that trick?’

  ‘I just made it up, based on a basic knowledge of physics that any human would acquire after forty-odd years on this planet.’ He pointed at the garage. ‘How do we do this?’

  ‘We stroll in like a couple of customers, and we say to him, “Please tell us who asked you to fix up our van.” That will be his one chance to get this done painlessly. After that, if he’s stubborn, he’ll be very unhappy that you fixed my shoulder.’

  He didn’t doubt it. ‘So which guy? There might be ten in there.’

  ‘A boss-type. Or we’ll go for the first guy we get alone,’ she said.

  They opened their doors to get out, and that was when a guy exited the garage through a door near the shutter, probably from an office. He wore red coveralls, not blue. He was bald but had a big goatee, which from this distance made him look like his head was on upside down. He stood around while another guy wheeled a dirt bike out of the garage. He put on a helmet, both guys chatted and pointed at bits of the bike, and then the bald guy climbed on the machine and rode it onto a side street alongside the garage. Alone. Alone and looked like a boss-type…