Swinging to the left, the cab pulled gently onto Blackfriars, Newport a small procession behind. If the messenger knew he was being pursued he didn’t let it be known. And as suddenly as it began, everything changed. At the next set of lights the black cab suddenly punched forward and darted through the red into open traffic, swerving a white van by inches.
‘Bollocks!’ grumbled Newport. ‘Hold on.’
Slamming her foot to the floor, she pulled the same stunt, gunning the unit through the speeding traffic. Other vehicles skidded to a halt in the junction, the smell of torque and burning rubber blitzing the air.
York gripped tightly onto the hand bar above the door. Thudding back and forth in his seat, his hat tipped off into the foot well.
At the next junction the cab didn’t even slow for the lights, bolting across at devastating speed. Was the driver in league with the messenger or was he being coerced? York guessed the latter.
This time Newport wasn’t so lucky. She gunned it and pounded the pedal as a convoy of vehicles poured into the junction and blocked her exit. Bashing a heavy foot down on the brake pedal, the car fishtailed into the junction, the back end of the vehicle moving out until they were travelling sideways into a swarm of cars and vans at speed.
York screwed his eyes closed. Was this it? Was this how it all ended? Was the last thing he heard on planet earth going to be his partner's intense cursing?
Then came the impact, the screech of metal on metal. He clung to the handrail, squeezed his eyes tighter, tighter, until…
Calm. Utter calm. The only sounds to hear were the occasional car horn or angry driver. York dared open his eyes. Newport was still beside him. She was staring at him, wide-eyed. ‘Whoa!’ was all she said.
They’d collided with one car only; there was no pileup. He glanced shakily along Blackfriars, the Oxo tower looming dominantly in a trio of iconic letters. He reached for the radio.
Newport climbed from the car and jogged to the vehicle they’d hit.
‘This is York,’ he said, adrenaline buzzed. ‘We lost the suspect. Over.’
A crackle. ‘This is Eyes-in-the-Sky. We saw, Nick. You were lucky to escape a bad one there. Over.’
‘Do you still have eyes on the messenger? Over.’
‘Got some bad news for you. Another junction after he gave you the slip, the cab pulled into a rank. There are dozens of identical cabs parked in there, there was no way to lock down which one was carrying the suspect. Over.’
‘For fuck's sake!’ York tossed the radio aside, abandoned the car and sprinted in the taxi’s wake, Newport at his heel.
As they reached the entrance to the taxi rank, the second unmarked unit showed up, a couple of uniforms inside. ‘Stay here and block the entrance,’ York advised. ‘Don’t let any more cabs come in, and sure as hell don’t let any leave. Our man still might be here.’
Jogging into the bustle of the taxi hive, York and Newport spread out.
This was a nightmare. Without the messenger, the recipient was smoke.
Slamming his sixth cab door closed, York cursed under his breath.
‘Guv,’ called Newport from a handful of cabs away. ‘You’d better take a look at this.’
As he approached, he prepared for his partner to hammer home that final nail of failure, and she did so brutally. On the back seat of the cab was the envelope, torn open and left behind, bug and all.
9
The twilight sky had turned gun-metal grey and the clouds had begun weeping quietly. The evening remained warm though.
Back in the passenger seat of the unmarked unit, York scooped up his trilby and planted it back on his head. His mind was wandering. Newport had tried to talk to him a couple of times but he hadn’t responded. He had to work this out.
He had to think.
An innocent girl or a despicable man was going to suffer tonight because of their failings. Because of his failings. Was his solution to the puzzle even correct? The pursuit hadn’t gone well either, and that had been his doing. He glanced down at his palms expecting to find spilt blood staining his skin.
Newport said something else, but he didn't hear it. He was worried about her. She hadn't admitted anything was wrong but there was something. He just knew. Once she damn near broke a shoplifter’s collarbone when she was shopping for vegetables. There was an inquiry. Turned out she and her husband were on the breadline and their house had been repossessed. They’d been living out of relatives’ pads for months. She’d bottled it up until a fourteen year old kid lifting a Snickers bar took the brunt force. Now she was hurtling through cross-traffic at seventy miles per hour with a ride-along.
‘So you want to tell me what’s going on?’ he said finally, eyes trained on the dappled windscreen.
Newport smirked. ‘That’s a bad habit you have, you know that?’
York wiped the foggy windscreen with his sleeve.
‘Yes, I want to talk!’ she snapped. ‘I want to talk about why you keep turning up to work looking like shit. I want to talk about why you don’t communicate with me. I want to understand why this partnership feels like a one-man-band most of the time. I mean I’ve tried, Nick. I try to be a part of what goes on in your head, but you don’t let me in. You’re so closed down, it’s breaking me! Talk to me. Please. Let's get this thing sorted.’
Sitting askew, he peered out the passenger window. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘That’s what I thought,’ she uttered. ‘If you’re not going to talk to me, at least have the balls to tell me why, and put me out of my fairytale fucking misery.’
He turned to meet her gaze.
She looked away.
‘Have you ever felt like you have a demon inside you?’ he said softly. ‘Not some little imp lighting campfires, I’m talking Lucifer burning down the fucking world. Someone told me earlier that I need to push that demon out, but I don't know how. Because I know it's not real.'
Newport looked at him like he'd gone mad.
'I know what it sounds like,' he said. ‘And believe me, it's not a fairytale.’
Newport waited a beat. Seconds ticked by. ‘Is this about Leanne and Frasier?’
‘You speak their names, Holly, you’d better know what you’re talking about.’
‘Is it, Nick? Are we talking about what happened to your family?’
He tore himself away from the streaked window. ‘Holly, for fuck's sake!’
‘No, we’re going to talk this out, Nick! I don’t care if you never talk with anyone about this again, you’re going to talk to me about it.’
‘And why am I going to do that?’
‘Because I want to hear it. But mostly because you want to tell me.’
His heart began thumping in his chest. ‘Pull over,’ he said clearly.
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
They weren’t far from the station. Newport guided the car to the curb and switched off the engine. Slipping from the car, York pulled up his collar against the rain. He walked to the nearest streetlight and paused beneath it.
Newport perused him into the tumbling sheets. ‘What are you doing? You’re getting soaked.’
The slosh of running water stole the night's other sounds.
‘Nick?’
‘Do you remember them, Holly?’
Her face said she did.
‘Do you know I haven’t looked at a photograph of them since they disappeared? I have boxes full of stuff, all of it locked away. I don’t even remember what they look like. My wife was the woman who changed my life, and I can’t even remember her face.’
Newport pulled her jacket tighter around her.
Under the unrelenting downpour, he fell to a crouch and buried his face in his hands. His partner made no move to comfort him. There was nothing she could do. The barrier was broken, and only he could pull himself back.
*
By the time they arrived at the station the rain had slowed and the smell of night had settled like
a film of dust. York hadn’t asked his partner not to speak of his malfunction, she just wouldn’t. Not with him, or anybody else.
The pair of them was the focus of attention as they made their way into the foyer. They probably looked juiced, sodden, and white from shock.
At the desk a couple of uniforms waited to sign what looked like a junkie into the register. In front of them was a lone woman who looked like she was straight off the corner of one street or another. She was ranting something about squatters; fairly standard desk behaviour for this time of night.
‘What you thinking?’ Newport asked.
York almost didn’t answer. ‘I’m worried. We’re not just one step behind anymore, we’re in trouble. I get the feeling whoever this guy is, he’s going to be angry that we followed his messenger.’
They reached the door to the Pit as the desk phone rang out through the foyer.
Newport shrugged. 'There was nothing in the recording to say that we couldn’t.’
‘There was nothing in the recording to say that we could, either. And it doesn’t mean our guy has to like it.’
She pushed open the office door. ‘So what do you think he’s going to do?’
‘I think he’s going to do exactly as he says. He’s going to kill somebody.’
Across the foyer, a voice rang out above the din. ‘DCI Nicolas York? Is there a DCI York here?’
‘I’m York,’ he called to the desk clerk.
‘Call for you, Detective. You want to take it here?’
The potential prostitute complaining about squatters was giving it some now, adamant she wasn’t being taken seriously. She probably wasn’t.
He sent Newport on ahead and took the receiver from the desk clerk. ‘This is York.’
There was a muffled sound from the other end. A woman, maybe? He didn’t know the voice.
‘You’ll have to speak up,’ he urged. ‘There’s quite a bit of background noise here.’ He looked over to the squatter woman. ‘Hey, shut up for a minute, will you!’
The complainer looked like she’d been slapped. She gave him the finger.
When the phone voice amplified and repeated the message, his knees jellied. ‘Who is this? How did you get my name?’
The voice became clearer with each syllable. ‘I know a lot about you, Nick, more than you think.’
His heart began thumping against his chest again. ‘What you said before?’
There was a moment of static. Eventually the voice spoke again. ‘I meant it. Your son is in London. He’s alive.’
*
I am not alone.
Enveloped by perfect blackness I tighten the fusty blanket around my shoulders, the insufferable cold creeping in through broken seams and ragged tears.
Stacks of nondescript cardboard boxes surround me. I cannot see them, but I know they’re there.
From the darkness come peculiar sounds. I am the only person in the house, yet I'm certain something watches me from another part of the basement.
I am not permitted to be frightened.
It is against the rules.
Outside, snow is on the ground, the fields and woods layered with a thick white bedspread. I saw it earlier, the trees’ frozen limbs sparkling like silver and diamonds in the winter sun.
Now, the sun has gone, both from the day and from my mind. Despite the rules I struggle to control my breathing, plumes of my icy breath clouding before me.
I am shivering, but I am not permitted to be cold.
It is against the rules.
Moments ago, there was a cough. But there was no way to be certain I hadn’t imagined it. I thought it came from my right, but I couldn't tell. I matched the cough with one of my own. Perhaps the first had been mine.
How long had I been here?
A day? Two?
Hours earlier I had devoured the single ration of bread and milk. Now there are stabbing hunger pains in my side. I do not know when the next rations are coming, if they are coming at all.
But I am not permitted to feel hunger.
It is against the rules.
10
King Shaka International Airport, Durban, South Africa, 2011
Today’s word: Carnage.
Across the table, Milo Stanton prodded enthusiastically at his iPhone. He insisted he wasn’t addicted.
Lately he’d become engrossed with a new app. It displayed a different word every day, sometimes exotic, sometimes mundane, but the aim apparently was to try and fit it into everyday conversation. Something to do with extending the vocab. Milo Stanton needed this app, more than he knew.
Despite the coffee shop’s tepid effort at a latte, Abigail Fuller, or Abigail Chambers as she was known now, decided she was in a good mood. It was one of the better business trips she’d been on and although Milo’s company wasn't exactly ideal, he could usually make her laugh.
Carnage was an apt word; the airport was chaos.
‘You should get one of these things,’ Milo recommended. ‘It’s like having a third arm.’
‘I’ve managed fine with just the two my entire life.’
‘What are you scared of? Afraid it’s going to jump up and bite you on the arse?’
‘Technology’s going too fast,’ she explained. ‘It’s all going to come crashing down at some point, believe me.’
‘Agh, I never thought I’d be given the glorious opportunity to meet such a developed technophobe! What is it that frightens you so much?’
‘Fright has nothing to do with it. Trust is a better word.’
Milo flashed his broad and patronising smile. ‘I think somebody’s watched the Terminator films too many times!’
‘People rely too heavily on technology. Nobody knows how to think for themselves anymore, that’s all I’m saying. You, me, we're the last generation of children to have actual personalities.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Take that family there.’ Abbey pointed out the perfect nuclear arrangement. ‘Teenage son glued to his phone, slightly older teenage daughter focused on a DS. Nobody on that table is talking. Not to one another at least. Technology is killing the art of conversation.’
‘Ah, but that’s one family. With most people I don’t think your logic qualifies.’
‘Based on?’
‘Absolutely nothing!’
‘Not the best of arguments,’ she laughed
‘Abbey, you don’t…’
Milo’s sentence trailed off as a large man in an NYC baseball cap stopped next to their booth and stared at them fixatedly. In one hand he held a copy of a sport’s car magazine, the other a half-eaten doughnut.
‘Help you?’ Milo asked.
The man held his stare. He looked confused.
Instead of shying away, Abbey held the man’s gaze, green eyes locked onto brown. Something about that seemed to unhinge him. He glanced down at his feet as though embarrassed and walked quickly away, pushing past an elderly man impeding his escape.
‘Freak!’ Milo shouted after him.
‘Shut up, Milton!’ she warned. ‘We don’t want any trouble, especially not from a giant.’
‘Don’t call me that!’ Milton snapped.
Abbey grinned.
‘Did you see the way that guy was looking at you?’ Milo whispered slyly. ‘He looked like you with an iPad.’
‘Confused?’
‘Angry!’
Whatever that meant.
This was the fourth trip she’d done with Milo. Dennis Smith had been his predecessor but had since retired. The old goat was living out in Canada somewhere now, he and his wife. Dennis had been certain democracy in the UK was on the plunge. The slow downfall nobody was really seeing, or were choosing not to. He talked for a long time about his longing to be back in a community where money was not the governor of society and people were still happy.
She missed him.
If life was a comic book, Milo would’ve made the perfect archenemy for Dennis. He was quite literally the man’s opposite. H
is love for money was not lost on anybody, nor was his devotion to possessions, and he seemed to be quite proud of the fact that he didn’t know a soul on his street.
Still, Milo’s two-dimensional attitude aside, she couldn’t deny that she liked the kid. At twenty-three he was an up-and-comer in the architectural field. Having been rejected to design the drainage systems for the new Wellington Court financial blocks in north London, he went away and drew up the blueprints off his own back. He submitted them anonymously, and the company ended up going with his designs instead of their own. Though no more efficient, he’d managed to reduce the amount of required project materials by sixteen percent. When word got out that it was Milo who’d come up with the design, those up above began looking at him as the next household name.
‘I can’t do any more of this coffee,’ Abbey grumbled. ‘I’m going to have a walk around, see if I can find something to read on the flight.’
‘Hey, don’t forget we need to’ve gone over these proposals by the time we land in North Shore. I want the commission on this one, Abs.’
‘Keep your hair on, Whiz!’ We’re set to hit it for six.’
‘I’m just saying, one more green light in New Zealand and we’ll be flying home with a hat-trick. And you know what that means - new BMW for me.’
She pushed herself out of the booth and climbed to her feet. ‘There’re more things to life than cars and money, Milo.’
‘Only poor people say that!'
Joining the multicultural ebb of people moving through the airport, she recalled a bookstore she’d seen at the top end of the terminal. Wrestling through the human traffic, she stepped into the congested store, noticing the shop assistant’s eyes lingering on her. Did she have something written on her face today, she wondered?
Idly she began to browse a few paperbacks, trying wholeheartedly to ignore the assistant’s glare. Skipping the newspaper stand where almost every nationality’s paper was headlining the Will and Kate hitch, she found herself at a sales-bin absently leafing through a battered second, third, eighteenth-hand copy of a violently graphic book entitled, The Blood Diamond Insurgency. As she put it back where she found it, she felt eyes on her again.
Hunting Abigail: Fight or Flight? For Abigail, it's both! Page 6
