by Louise Voss
She would never normally be brave enough to initiate a conversation with an older boy, but his terror suddenly reduced and compacted her own.
‘Scary, isn’t it?’ she yelled towards him, and he made a face at her.
‘To be honest, I’m shittin’ meself!’ he yelled back.
She moved closer to the boy’s ear so she didn’t have to yell so much. He smelt of sweaty fear and shower gel. ‘You doing a charity jump too?’
He nodded. ‘It’s for the Tommy D Project. It’s a foundation set up for teenagers who’ve lost a parent.’ For a moment, the boy looked about five years old.
Chloe blushed with pity and embarrassment.
‘What about you?’ asked the boy, and she felt relief combined with guilt that she didn’t actually have to enquire as to the details of his loss.
‘I’m jumping for the Anthony Nolan Trust. I got a bone marrow transplant through them that saved my life.’ Chloe thought she still couldn’t say those words without sounding somehow smug.
‘Cool,’ said the boy, vaguely, as though he hadn’t really heard.
‘I had leukaemia.’ She wasn’t sure why she was pressing the point. Perhaps because she wanted him to know that she wouldn’t jump out of a plane for any sort of trivial reason.
‘Wow. That must have been . . . pretty shit.’
She nodded. ‘It was. Apart from when Shawn Barrett came to visit me in hospital.’
‘Who?’
Surely he couldn’t be serious. ‘Shawn from OnTarget?’
‘Oh right – them. You don’t like them, do you? They’re for little kids.’
She blushed again. ‘Well.’ She could hardly believe the words she was about to say, especially as she realised that she meant them. ‘I used to be really into them. Not so much now, though.’
Jess’s face came into her head, her fervent passion for and utter loyalty to the band, and Chloe felt as though she had betrayed her. The tears that had never been far from the surface since the terrible news of Jess’s death threatened again, but luckily – if you could call it luck, thought Chloe – her instructor tapped her on the shoulder and indicated that they should start the process of being clipped together. Her companion’s instructor did the same.
‘Oh gawd, it must be nearly time,’ the boy shouted. He rattled at one of the big buckles on the straps that now held him to his jump partner. ‘This will hold, man, won’t it?’ he called over his shoulder. The man behind him nodded reassuringly. As if he’d say ‘no’, thought Chloe. She and the boy were now facing one another. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Josh,’ he said, grinning suddenly at her. He was even cuter when he smiled.
Impulsively, Chloe grabbed one of his hands. ‘Good luck, Josh. See you back on the ground.’
‘You too – er?’
‘Chloe.’
‘Yeah, you too, Chloe.’
At that moment, Chloe’s phone vibrated against her hipbone. The phone was in the front pocket of her jeans, inside the massive blue romper suit they were all wearing. She knew she was supposed to have left it in the locker on the airfield with her other possessions, but she never went anywhere without her phone, so it was coming with her. It’s probably Mum, wishing me luck, she thought as she managed to un-Velcro the lower part of the jumpsuit, fish out the iPhone and peer at the screen. She frowned in confusion as she glanced at the abbreviated message that appeared on her home screen:
Hey Chloe babe, it’s Shawn here, how—
Before she could click on it to read the rest of it, her instructor tapped her shoulder again. ‘We’re up first – let’s go!’
She hastily slid the phone back into her pocket and did up the jumpsuit with shaking hands, unable to process the words she’d seen. Her instructor guided her over to the wild blowing of the open door and she fixed the goggles firmly onto her face. Her breath was coming in great ragged gasps. No backing out now. Why did she have to be first?
The next few moments were a blur of wind and sound and adrenalin as they edged closer to the lip of the plane.
‘Aaaand – GO!’ yelled her instructor, and they were out before she could scream that she’d changed her mind, she wanted to be at home watching TOWIE in her bedroom; then they were whirling and falling into the great tumble dryer of sky and wisps of cloud and cold, cold air, up and down and round or maybe just down – she couldn’t tell until she opened her eyes, then shut them again fast as they plummeted, her scream ripped out of her.
Thirty seconds later she felt a colossal jerking sensation, like being snatched upwards by a giant hand, and a huge whoosh as the parachute – thank God, thank God – opened and ballooned above them. I’m alive, she thought, spreading her arms wide and screaming with relief and exhilaration. I survived!
It was only then, in the stillness and utter calm of the descent, patchwork fields spread out beneath her, that she had another thought: OMG, did I really just get a text from Shawn Barrett?
Chapter 38
Day 12 – Patrick
Gill looked askance at Pat as he laced up his ancient grey Vans, the ones he usually only ever wore to do DIY or gardening in. The left one had a large dark stain on the top, where Bonnie had vomited Ribena on it some months ago.
‘You’re even more stubbly than usual – aren’t you going to work today?’
‘Of course. But I don’t want anyone to know I’m at work,’ he replied, raising his voice to be heard over Bonnie singing ‘Let It Go’, off-key, along with the DVD.
‘They’ll never recognise you with those shoes on,’ Gill commented sarcastically.
‘I’m not going to the incident room yet – I’m going back to the Rotunda first. I just can’t believe that those clowns haven’t managed to uncover anything at all. They’ve been door to door round the flats above the car park. They’ve been all over the Rotunda for two days now – nothing. It’s ridiculous – someone must have seen something!’
Gill put a hand on his arm. ‘Um . . . far be it for me to tell you how to do your job – but shouldn’t you leave that to the other team?’
Pat straightened up and scowled. ‘But they clearly aren’t doing their job, are they? I owe it to Wendy.’
He’d called Carmella as soon as he woke up. She hadn’t been able to find anything useful on the OnTarget forum yet. No strange gaps in conversations, no signs that someone had been through and deleted evidence that they’d chatted with Wendy.
‘I didn’t realise you were that close to her,’ Gill said.
‘I wasn’t.’ He hadn’t told Gill about the Valentine’s card. He was going to, but didn’t know how she’d react. Would she be suspicious, think he’d led Wendy on? In the end, he’d decided not to risk it. ‘But she was part of my team. And I told you about the phone call . . . I fucked up, Gill. I need to make amends.’
‘As long as you don’t do anything that could potentially harm your career.’
‘Especially now mine’s the only income we have?’
She flinched like he’d slapped her and he instantly regretted his words. How easily his resentment bubbled to the surface. He and Gill needed to talk . . . about everything. But now wasn’t the time.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘It’s fine. I’ll be back at work soon anyway.’
‘I know. I have to go,’ he said, gathering Bonnie up in his arms, tipping her upside down and kissing the soft podgy underside of her chin until she squirmed and giggled. ‘Bye, then, monster. Be good for Mummy.’
Then he kissed Gill politely on the cheek – ‘Bye, Gill. Text you later’ – and let himself out of the house before he could see the expression of disappointment that he instinctively knew was on her face.
The private messages that Graham Burns had emailed Patrick – which he’d forwarded on to DCI Strong, explaining they came through a contact on Opera
tion Urchin – had confirmed to Patrick what he suspected. Wendy had gone to the Rotunda to meet someone who’d contacted her on the OnT forum: a user called Mockingjay365. The 365, Patrick guessed, was a reference to the OnTarget song, and the room in which Rose was murdered.
Frustratingly, Burns had only been able to find Wendy’s side of the conversation. Mockingjay365 had deleted his own messages; indeed, he had deleted his entire account.
‘It was set up using an anonymous Gmail account,’ Burns explained. ‘No real name given. I knew you would ask me about the IP address, so I already looked it up. It was set up in an Internet café in Soho.’
Patrick knew DCI Strong would ask one of her team to visit this café, but had little hope it would lead anywhere. Which was why he was doing this. Risking the fury of both DCIs: Laughland and Strong. But he didn’t care. If he found Wendy’s murderer, it would all be worth it.
The basement bowlplex at the Rotunda was swarming with teenagers even though it wasn’t yet noon. Patrick was momentarily perplexed by this, until he remembered it was half-term. A short, barrel-shaped security guard leaned on the railing halfway up the curving staircase leading back to the ground floor, looking as though he’d been standing there for about a week. Patrick stood next to him in silence for a moment or two, both of them surveying the alleys and café below, until the man spoke.
‘Looking for someone?’
Patrick arranged his features into a sorrowful, bitter expression – without much difficulty, he realised. It was pretty much his default expression these days. But the bouncer wasn’t looking at him anyway.
‘Kind of.’ He tried to emulate the cadences of Wendy’s Black Country accent, just slightly, hoping that he didn’t sound like he was channelling Noddy Holder.
The bouncer grunted uninterestedly. ‘You ain’t a journalist, are you?’
‘No. No way.’ He paused. Lying did not come naturally to him, never had – but this was for Wendy. ‘I need to talk to someone about what happened in the car park round the back . . .’
The guard rolled his eyes. Patrick noticed that the man’s stubble, crew cut, uniform and skin tone all seemed the same shade of grey. Perhaps it was the lighting. ‘If you’re a journalist, mate, you can sling your hook right now. I got a job to do here.’
‘I’m not, mate, honest. Thing is – that cop – she was my sister. Wendy. My kid sister . . .’
That got his attention. For the first time he looked sharply at Patrick, taking in his stained Vans and stubble, and the beginnings of the tears that Pat found no difficulty in summoning. ‘Oh. Right. Um . . . sorry to hear it. My condolences.’
Patrick scrubbed his sleeve across his face. ‘Thanks,’ he said in a cracked voice. ‘I heard she was in here before it happened. Meeting someone, but I don’t know who. The fucking police don’t have a clue and I can’t sit at home another day waiting for them to update me when they can’t seem to pull their fingers out. I mean, someone must’ve seen something!’
‘I feel for you . . . cock,’ said the guard. Two teenage boys loped down the stairs, one of them with his arm inside the front of his jacket. ‘Oi! You! No alcohol brought in, you know the rules. Give it here!’
The boy scowled and withdrew his arm to reveal the two open beer bottles he had hidden, which he handed reluctantly over.
‘If I catch you smuggling booze in one more time, you’re barred, you little toerag,’ the guard said.
Patrick watched the boys sulkily march down to the bowling lanes minus their contraband. ‘So, were you here that night?’ he asked the guard, who shook his head.
‘Nah, mate. Day off. Came in yesterday morning, all bleeding hell had broke loose. Manager handing over the CCTV. Cops interviewing all the staff.’
‘What about kids like those two?’ Patrick jerked his head down the stairs. ‘Obviously regulars, aren’t they?’
The guard leaned his elbows on the rail again and gestured down. ‘Cops identified one or two from the CCTV who were here when your sister come in. They’ve had a chat, apparently, but no-one had seen her before. Them two weren’t here at the time.’
‘Mind if I have a word?’
‘With them? Good luck to you. They’re so thick they probably don’t even know their own names.’
‘Could you, er, introduce me?’
Patrick had decided in advance this was the necessary level of obsequiousness. He didn’t want to plough in, in case the guard or the boys realised he was a cop – ‘the feds’, as kids called them these days. The feds! Like they lived in downtown Detroit, not suburban south-west London . . .
The guard appraised him, then shrugged. ‘If you want.’ They walked down the stairs together and over to the café area, where the two boys were examining a notice on the wall, which was advertising for part-time staff here at the Rotunda. They turned and looked up suspiciously at Patrick and the guard. The taller of the two held up his hands.
‘We don’t want no trouble. We’re just hanging out. Thinking of applying for a job here, actually.’
The guard rolled his eyes. ‘Good luck with that. This gentleman here wants a word. Show me you’re not both a waste of space and I might put in a word for you.’
A small, fascinated gaggle of teens had formed around them, bowling and flirting temporarily forgotten.
‘This is the brother of that cop that got murdered. So do something useful for once in your lives, and help him out, eh?’
Six or seven faces gaped in fascination and horror at their proximity to tragedy.
The taller of the two boys scrunched his nose like he’d smelled something nasty. ‘She was a fed. Why should we help someone catch the killer of a fucking cop?’
It took all Patrick’s willpower not to grab the kid by the front of his jacket and shove him against the wall.
‘Listen,’ he said, addressing the boy. ‘I’m not a huge fan of the police either. But Wendy wasn’t just a fed, as you call them. She was a human being. She was my sister.’
He glanced around, to make sure that none of his Met colleagues were in the bowlplex, before nodding gravely.
The group of teenagers stared at him, the tall boy hanging his head, one of the girls – a very pretty blonde with a nose stud, crop top and double-denim – punching the tall one on the shoulder and hissing, ‘You twat.’
‘So – were any of you here the night it happened, last Saturday?’ Patrick asked. ‘This is Wendy. Ever seen her in here?’ He took out his wallet and showed them a photo he’d printed off from Wendy’s Facebook page that morning – Wendy astride a pony, looking about twelve even though the photograph’s caption had been ‘On Holiday in the New Forest 2013’.
‘Ahhhh,’ sympathised an overweight girl whose bare muffin-top oozed over the waistband of her tight stonewash jeans, a silver belly bar almost completely hidden in the overhang. ‘She was ever so pretty.’
‘It didn’t happen in here, did it?’ the girl who’d punched the fed-hater asked. ‘My mum and dad won’t ever let me come here again if it did.’
‘No. It was round the back, opposite the bus station. But she was in here first to meet someone, so I want to know if she went there with them, or someone followed her?’
Blank faces all round.
‘Did any of you see her?’
They all shook their heads.
‘OK. If you weren’t here on Saturday, then you probably wouldn’t have. I don’t think she’d been here before. How about anyone else, your mates, who might have been? That guy’ – he pointed at the guard, who had drifted back to his vantage point halfway up the stairs – ‘says that you all hang out here every weekend. Why weren’t you here on Saturday?’
‘We were,’ chimed the prettier girl. ‘But the cops told us she – your sister – come in about 9.15 and we’ve usually gone home by then. Hardly any buses after half nine out towards Molesey.’
This was where Patrick and Gill lived, and he knew this to be true. ‘Do you all live on the 411 route, though? What about people who don’t – do they ever stay longer?’
The group all looked at one another, then the mixed-race boy said, ‘Well, yeah – the Feltham kids do, ’cos they can get the train back.’
‘Who are the Feltham kids?’ Patrick was dying to get his Moleskine out of his pocket.
The boy made a face. ‘We don’t like them. They only come here ’cos they got barred from Cineworld in Feltham.’
‘Really? Were any of them here when you left on Saturday?’
The blonde girl shook her head, making her poker-straight hair whip across into the eyes of her tubby mate, who jerked back.
‘Emily! That went in my eye!’ The two giggled self-consciously, then rearranged their faces back into sympathetic expressions.
Emily nudged her friend. ‘Wait – didn’t Foxy pull on Saturday? She was snogging the face off that chav from the Kennedy, remember?’
‘She left at the same time as we did, with him, didn’t she, so she wouldn’t have seen anything.’
The boys had started to lose interest and drift away back to their table in the café area, but it was the two girls that Patrick felt a spark of hope from.
‘Foxy? Who’s she?’
Emily shrugged. ‘Dunno. She’s always here, but we don’t know her real name. She knows all the Feltham boys, so I reckon she lives over that way, or goes to their school. I only know her ’cos she lent me her mascara in the bogs once.’
