Where does Hannah sleep?
I get on my back and start a round of sit-ups. The clock is ticking and there’ll be limited chances to do what I need to do; still, I’ve laid the groundwork and now I must pick my moment and be careful not to rush. If the last year has taught me one thing it’s the need to stay fluid, to adapt. Opportunities will present themselves. I just need to make sure I’m ready to take them.
I’m halfway through my routine when Hannah appears.
‘Can I leave you to lock up?’ she asks Mr Dalgleish. Her eyes have a soft, faraway focus. ‘There’s somewhere I need to be.’
I fall back onto the grass in a heap. If she leaves it might be days before I can try again.
‘Unless you have applied for an exemption, the guidelines stipulate the Host be in residence for every outside time and shower.’ The protocol seems to fortify him and he sits a little straighter in his chair. ‘I can let the prisoner out but it is your responsibility to see to it that he is secured back in his cell.’
‘Please, I—’
‘Those are the rules.’
Hannah looks like she is going to protest but then she seems to think better of it, closes the door and returns inside.
I pick myself up off the ground, finish my workout and have just reverted to performing laps when Mr Dalgleish gets to his feet. He grips the chair for support.
‘Time’s up.’
I join him on the decking and he walks me inside.
The kitchen has been ransacked. Drawers gape, their contents spread across the worktops, and cupboard doors swing wide, orphaned pan lids littering the floor. Hannah is standing by the cooker looking at a small rectangle of white paper.
Mr Dalgleish installs me back in the cell, closes the door and stands there waiting. He coughs once, a prompt. When Hannah still fails to notice he bangs on the bars.
‘Hannah?’ It’s the start of October but in his brief time outside he’s caught the sun and his nose and cheeks glow in the gloom.
‘What?’ She’s dazed, her thoughts stuck somewhere else. Then she looks at us and seems to come to. ‘Yes, sorry.’
She presses the button on the fob round her neck, securing the door electronically, and grabs the fail-safe from the hook by the sink. She puts the key in the lock, turns it without any trouble and is about to walk away when she stops.
‘My ring!’
She slips the key into her front dress pocket and bends down to the floor. ‘I thought it was gone for good.’ She is trying hard not to cry and her voice is thick with unspent tears. She looks at the empty drawers and piles of paper scattered across the worktops. ‘It must have been in among all that.’ She slips the ruby onto her finger, holds out her hand to admire it and then clutches it to her chest, as if she’s afraid it will fall off. She’s standing right next to me and when she turns our shoulders brush in the gap between the bars. The contact startles her and she steps back, then she catches sight of her ring again and laughs.
I look her in the eye and smile. I’m also happy. Her gaze is sharp and before long I feel my cheeks redden. When she begins to blush too she lets go of her ring finger. Her hand drops to her side like a stone.
Hannah
The Uber turned off the dual carriageway, took a left and stopped.
Hannah peered out at a scrap of ground filled with ten or so shipping containers.
‘Are we here?’
The containers were underneath a railway line and separated from the road by the same metal fences she’d seen outside the abandoned mansions in Queen’s Crescent. Canary Wharf’s glass towers glared in the distance.
The driver tapped his satnav.
‘This is the address you gave.’
Hannah thanked him and got out as a DLR train rumbled overhead. The ground was dusty and scattered with broken bits of concrete, as though a building had recently been demolished here.
She felt for her engagement ring with her thumb, reacquainting herself with its shape and weight, and moved along the fence until she found a gap big enough to slip through. On the other side she stopped and sniffed. The air was ripe with the smell of curry, fried meat and the tang of lemon. She was trying to work out what to do next (should she go from container to container?) when a man appeared on a pushbike. On his back he wore a bag branded with the logo of a food delivery app. He approached the nearest metal box, set the bike on the floor and went inside.
What interest would John have had in this place? What even was it?
The phone call from the hotel had been a spur. As soon as she got home she’d conducted a fresh search for the payslip she’d pulled out of his jeans pocket that day. She was sure there were other words written on it and she wanted to know if they could shed any light on why someone might want to warn her off. John had sometimes left paperwork he couldn’t be bothered to take upstairs lying around in the kitchen, stuffed on top of the fridge or next to the bread bin (where it would inevitably fall in the gap between cupboards, never to be seen again) and so she’d turned the place upside down looking for it. Finally, she’d found the payslip in a drawer of takeaway menus slotted inside a leaflet for Korean Fried Chicken. She was right. Underneath the words MARZIPAN RAIN John had also jotted down a postcode and a name. Piotr Nowak.
She was certain John had lied to her, that it wasn’t a horse. But why? What did it mean?
She decided the only way to find out if the three bits of information were connected was to go to the postcode and ask around.
She was assessing the different containers, working out which one to try first, when a woman appeared.
She frowned at Hannah, ‘You can’t keep turning up like this.’ She wore a denim shirt tucked into oversize cords and was leaning on a crutch encased in a brown and yellow knitted cover. ‘Check your files. Everything is above board. We have a five-star hygiene rating.’
Hannah was confused but then she realised she was still in her dress and heels, and the penny dropped.
‘I’m not from environmental health.’
The woman tucked in her chin, unconvinced.
‘I’m looking for someone, Piotr Nowak?’
A sigh. She still wasn’t happy but the name was like a password. She turned on her heel.
‘Follow me.’
A flutter of excitement. John’s payslip scribbles weren’t random. Maybe Piotr would be able to tell her what the phrase meant?
The woman was surprisingly fast, her crutch throwing dust into the air, and Hannah had to run to keep up.
As they passed the different cabins Hannah saw glimpses of people at work flipping burgers, stirring huge pans and scooping rice into foil containers. The cabins were cramped and windowless. Brand-name restaurant signs denoting sourdough pizza, Thai and sushi were fixed above every door.
The woman led her into a box in the far corner and approached a man slicing chicken.
‘Immigration,’ she said, cocking her head at Hannah. She lifted her crutch in the air and pressed it against his right shoulder. ‘Better not be any trouble.’ Then she hobbled out, back the way she had come.
‘I’m here legally.’ He brushed at the grey circle the woman had left behind and tipped the diced chicken into a tub of buttermilk. ‘I can show you my papers.’ His accent was faint, like he’d left home a long time ago.
‘I’m not from immigration.’ Hannah took a breath. She wanted to start from the beginning. ‘I’m here because of my husband. He died. Six months ago.’
Piotr cocked his head, waiting for more.
‘He was a detective. I found your name in his things.’ She stopped, trying to figure out how to explain Jem’s place in all this. ‘There are rumours about what happened the night he was killed. I’m trying to find out if there’s anything to them.’
Piotr scanned the other workers in the room, as if to make sure they weren’t listening.
‘Detective?’ He reached a sieve inside the vat of buttermilk, fished out the meat and dropped it into a nearby fryer. A delicious
smell filled the air. ‘White hair?’
‘You met him?’
Piotr held out his hand, indicating that she should keep it down.
‘He came here a while ago,’ he said quietly.
‘As part of an investigation?’ A flicker of hope. Maybe Jem was telling the truth about what he’d heard John say on the phone that night but he’d misinterpreted. There was no woman, no affair. John had argued with someone about a case. Scribbled the details down on a payslip because he didn’t have his pocket notebook to hand.
Piotr removed the cooked chicken from the fryer and left it to drain.
‘Let’s go outside.’ He guided her round to the back of the cabin. The floor was covered with mops in buckets, gas cylinders and canisters of vegetable oil. ‘It’s been a while,’ he said, retrieving a vape from his pocket. He nodded at the cabin. ‘But you can’t be too careful.’
‘Did John tell you anything about the case?’
‘He was asking about the people I worked for before I started here. The Heppels.’ He sucked on the vape and exhaled, his face obscured by white clouds. ‘They have places all over town – hotels, bars, restaurants – but they’re into everything, drugs, gambling, money-laundering.’ His voice blended with the hum of a nearby generator, deep and low. ‘He was trying to track down a guy called Slig who’d worked for them around the same time as me. I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much, and he went away.’
‘The Heppels. Did they have anything to do with a hotel called The Warlaby?’
‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘The whole operation was run by a bloke called Symeon and his two sons, Benton and Bobby. These days it’s just Symeon and Bobby. Benton died at the start of the year.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Car accident.’
‘Slig? Why was he trying to find him?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘When was this?’
‘Not long after I’d started working here.’ He thought back. ‘January?’
Two months before John was killed.
‘This is random, but have you ever heard the phrase Marzipan Rain?’
Piotr shook his head.
‘If you think of anything else will you please call?’ She gave Piotr a business card and he walked her back round to the front of the cabin. She was looking at her phone, trying to sort a taxi, when he spoke.
‘I did hear one rumour about Slig, the guy your husband was looking for, but it was a while after he came here.’
A driver accepted her request and she put her phone in her bag.
‘He killed someone. Caused a huge fuss. He had to leave town.’
She frowned. ‘Why the fuss?’
Another train rumbled overhead. Something was burning in one of the containers and the air stank of singed coconut.
‘The person he killed. It was a police officer. A detective.’
Jem
On Saturday, Mum leaves for a night out in a flurry of bangles and lipstick. The next morning there is no sign of her. The flat is quiet, calm. Normally when this happens it’s OK. I know how to take care of myself; how to brush my teeth, how to work the telly, what to say to the neighbours. I read my books. Eat at school.
But it’s the summer holidays and the fridge is empty.
Two days pass.
I make the cereal last as long as I can. But then a day after finishing it all I can think about is food. I feel like someone has scraped out the inside of my stomach, like it is twisting and turning into knots.
I go to the mini-market at the bottom of our block. I tell myself I just want to look. To sniff the loaves. Hold the fruit in my palm.
The shop is quiet, the man who runs it by the till with his son. The son is older than me. Tall with bleached ear-length hair, he has headphones round his neck and I can hear the tinny tsk-tsk-tsk of dance music coming through them. His younger sister is in my class at school.
I watch as the man chats to a customer, an old lady, and the son packs her groceries inside her trolley. When I’m sure they’re not looking I take a packet of chocolate biscuits from the shelf, tuck it into the back of my shorts and cover it with my T-shirt. My mouth is dry and I’m sure the whole world can hear the whomp of my heart. I know it’s wrong but I decide that when Mum comes back I’ll ask her for some money, come back and leave what I owe on the counter.
I walk slowly toward the exit, the biscuits slipping around my waistband. I’m almost there when I see the manager coming toward me. I speed up and so does he. I pull out the biscuits from the back of my shorts and throw them on the floor. Then I run.
Three days later and Mum still isn’t back. She’s never been gone this long before.
My stomach has stopped hurting but I feel tired and when I walk up the stairs to the flat my head is woozy.
I hover around the burger place on the high street. There are tables outside and sometimes people leave a few fries or a half-eaten cheeseburger on one of the trays when they go. I’m about to swoop in on some abandoned chicken nuggets when I see the son with the bleached hair from the supermarket.
He takes off his headphones and marches over to where I stand. I’m convinced he’s remembered me from the other day, that he’s going to drag me back to his dad so they can call the police about my stolen biscuit attempt. I try to back away but the road behind me is busy, the pavement clogged with people.
He looks me up and down.
‘You live in the flats, above the shop?’
I nod, terrified. He knows where I live. He can send the police to my house. Not only will I get in trouble for shoplifting but they’ll realise Mum isn’t home. I’ll be taken into care again.
‘At the shop, it’s my job to go through the shelves and remove anything out of date. Most of the stuff is fine, especially if you eat it that day, but still, it’s the law we throw it out . . .’ He pauses. ‘Every Thursday I load up a trolley and wheel it out to the big metal bins in the cut at the back of the shop. Sometimes I leave the trolley there, have a smoke, listen to my music. If someone were to come and take a few things I doubt I’d even notice.’
He pauses then, wanting to make sure I’ve understood his meaning.
‘Five o’clock?’ I say.
‘Every Thursday without fail,’ he says and then he clamps the headphones back on his ears and off he goes.
Thursday afternoon and I wait at the mouth of the alley. I’m wary, worried this is a trick. The back of the supermarket is marked by metal shutters that run from the ceiling to the floor. Just after 5 p.m. one of the shutters clatters open and the boy appears, pushing a trolley heaped with food. Seeing me, he pauses briefly, then wheels it over to the bin, puts on his headphones and goes to lean against the wall.
Slowly I approach, pick my way through the pile. There are packets of raw chicken and pork I wouldn’t know what to do with, but there is also ham, cheese and bread. At the bottom I find a clump of smashed Kinder eggs. I’ve brought my backpack and I fill it to the brim. Before I leave I go and stand in front of the boy and nod, letting him know I’m done. He pushes himself away from the wall and sets to work disposing of what remains.
Mum came back after a fortnight. Thin and exhausted, her eyes blank. Still, the arrangement with the shop continues. The boy’s name is Kenzie. He’s fifteen and tells me that when he leaves school he’s going to be a dance music producer, that he’s going to make songs the whole world will listen to.
One Thursday Kenzie asks if there’s anything else I need. If everything is OK at home.
I tell him it’s fine. I know better than to admit the truth.
I’ve just begun my mooch through the trolley when his dad appears at the opening. He looks from the food to my backpack and his face darkens.
‘Not this again.’ He comes forward and grabs the trolley, drags it back into the loading bay.
‘But Dad,’ says Kenzie. ‘What’s the harm?’
His father doesn’t reply and so Kenzie goes and tries to wrestle the trolley from him. In the scuffle they dislodge
the metal shutter from its holder and it drops a few inches.
‘Enough,’ says his dad finally and, after pushing Kenzie to the floor, tugs the trolley back inside the bay.
I run to check he’s OK, crouch at his side. A click and the shutter is falling, clattering towards us at speed. I lean over Kenzie, trying to shield him from the impact, and the sharp metal scrapes against my spine.
Hannah
The next morning and Hannah was waiting for Aisling outside a house on Savernake Road. Aisling was finishing up with a client and when she was done Hannah was going to walk with her to her next job on the other side of the Heath. Their catch-up would be brief but Hannah had seen so little of her friend of late that she was grateful for all she could get.
She thought again of what she’d learned from her trip to the docklands. She’d messaged Mickey and Rupert as soon as she’d got home, told them she wanted to talk to them about John’s murder, that there might be more to it, but they had yet to respond. She decided to try Mickey again now, while she had a moment.
Hearing the DCI’s phone ring, she felt hopeful. She’d tell her what she’d learned, see if it chimed with anything John had been investigating in the months before his death, and then the police would take over, decide what to do next.
‘Hello.’
A Canadian accent, the vowels clipped.
‘Laramie?’ Mickey’s ex-wife.
‘Hannah,’ said Laramie. She sounded weary. ‘Can I call you later? I’ve been up all night.’
‘Is Mickey there?’ asked Hannah, confused. ‘Is she OK?’
Laramie paused.
‘I thought that was why you were calling, that you’d heard . . .’ She stopped and took a breath. ‘I just dropped her at The Priory.’
‘Rehab?’
‘You don’t seem surprised?’
‘I knew she was drinking again . . .’ She tailed off.
‘But you didn’t think it was that bad?’ said Laramie. ‘That’s the thing about alcoholics, they don’t really do moderation.’
The Captive Page 9
