by Sam Blake
Anna paused and Brioni could see she was trying to choose her words carefully.
She knew how difficult this was.
‘Apparently Steve told Isolde he thought they must have been black or Asian, because the officer who called him asked all sorts of veiled questions about what Marissa looked like, about her cultural origins. It sounded like they needed to someone to identify them, and they’d found several handbags together but didn’t know which was which. Hers didn’t have any photo ID in it.’
‘My God, one of them must have been killed?’
Anna reached out to Brioni’s arm again. ‘I’m guessing yes. The pictures on Sky News last night showed the pavement littered with shopping bags and …’ She paused again. ‘According to the papers, there were fatalities who weren’t on the bus – those pavements are always busy.’
Those were the images Brioni had seen before she’d switched off the TV. She felt for a moment as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She hadn’t let herself dwell on them last night. There had been blood all over the pavement.
‘So Steve knows Mar was definitely there?’
The waiter arrived with their coffees and a plate of rustic toast that Anna had ordered for them both, setting a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the table for her. She smiled her appreciation and turned to Brioni as he left.
‘Yes. He told Isolde he’d met Marissa for lunch just off Tottenham Court Road, so he knew she was in the area. He said the app he uses confirmed her phone was in or near Selfridges. She must have been doing some shopping – he said she loves Selfridges.’
Brioni nodded slowly. ‘And the bomb went off right near there. I couldn’t watch the news last night. It’s so weird. I’ve been all over the world – all over South East Asia, places where there are huge levels of violent crime, gangs, drug cartels – and I get to the UK, supposedly a bastion of civilisation, and this happens.’
Picking up the toast, Brioni put it down again, her stomach churning. She couldn’t face food.
‘She could have dropped her bag in the panic. Perhaps someone else picked it up when the first ambulance crews arrived.’ Brioni rubbed her hands over her face, trying to concentrate as Anna continued. ‘Apparently it had her phone in it. And no cash, but all her bank cards were there. Steve told Isolde he’d called all the hospitals. He thought she could have been taken to a different one from the other people caught on that corner, but no luck yet.’
Brioni closed her eyes for a moment, then opened then. ‘It must have been chaotic. Remember the Bataclan in Paris? I met a girl whose cousin was eating in one of the restaurants outside. He said the worst thing was the confusion, not knowing where to go or how to keep safe … Perhaps she was dazed by the blast and dropped her bag?’
‘There were so many people, so many casualties, she could easily have got lost. She could have amnesia from the blast, or concussion, and she doesn’t have any ID.’ Anna pushed the toast plate towards Brioni. ‘I know how hard it is, but try and eat, you need to keep up your strength.’ She hesitated. ‘At least if she dropped her bag on the pavement, it doesn’t look like she was on the bus. It goes down to Victoria, past the embassy. Isolde had been worried she might have been coming down to meet Steve when she first heard.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
Sighing, Anna picked up her orange juice. ‘It’s so easy for people to just disappear in a disaster like this. I know it was a lot bigger, but there are still so many people unaccounted for after 9/11.’
‘And Steve was the last person to see her? You said he had lunch with her?’
Brioni’s voice had a hard edge to it as she poured sugar into her coffee. Anna was right – she needed to keep up her strength.
Anna looked at her quizzically. ‘What are you thinking?’
Brioni shook her head, pausing. Could she say what was going through her mind? It was probably better out than in. She picked up her coffee, choosing her words carefully.
‘If Steve was the last person to see her, could he or someone else have left her bag on the pavement to make it look like she was there, and actually something else happened entirely?’
From their conversation yesterday, Brioni had got the distinct impression that Anna had her own suspicions that Steve and Marissa’s relationship was borderline toxic.
Could something else have happened that day – something he was using the blast to cover up?
Brioni could see Anna thinking. She paused before replying.
‘I’ll find out when her bag was found. If it was while Steve was in Belgravia, then it seems unlikely he could have left it there, unless he had someone helping him. Mike Wesley is the chief inspector in charge. He should be able to tell me, he’s very nice.’
‘Do they know what happened at the embassy? If the two bombs were connected? I was reading the paper on the way in. It was full of this being an orchestrated attack on London, they’re calling it 12/7.’
Anna sighed. ‘I know. I’m not sure linking everything at this stage is healthy. It breeds panic and can lead to misinformation.’
She pursed her lips. Beside her, the elderly women who had been looking at Brioni were making a fuss of collecting their belongings, getting ready to depart, their voices loud. Anna glanced at them and dropped her voice.
‘I don’t know how much I can say, but I know the authorities want to make sure there is no Russian involvement in the attack outside the embassy before they make any statements.’
Brioni looked at her, unable to hide her surprise. She kept her voice to a whisper.
‘Like in Salisbury?’
Anna nodded, again making sure no one could hear them.
‘It’s the chemical thing. It was only a few months ago and tensions are still very high.’
‘But why would the embassy be a target? What have the Irish done?’
Tucking a loose strand of hair into the clip holding her auburn hair in place, Anna grimaced as she answered.
‘It’s not the embassy itself so much.’ She paused. ‘It’s me, and the PR Director of Cybex is Russian. The press has mentioned that she’s favoured – or was, at least – by elements in the Soviet administration. The flip side of that coin isn’t always pretty.’
Brioni couldn’t hide her shock. ‘But why would you be a target?’
Anna sighed, closing her eyes for a second.
‘It’s a long story. My brother-in-law is the current US ambassador to Moscow.’ Anna frowned as she continued. ‘My sister Jen was killed in an attack when they lived in Paris.’ She stopped speaking for a second, the memories obviously painful. ‘I really don’t think that’s what happened – there are much easier ways of targeting me. A bomb in a vehicle outside the building doesn’t seem like a very sure way to take out anyone specific, it’s more of a statement act.’
Brioni shook her head, her thoughts trying to sort themselves out.
‘There are a lot of things that seem bizarre about events yesterday. Are you worried?’
Anna sounded very sure when she replied.
‘The only thing I’m worried about is finding your sister.’
Chapter 20
‘So, what do we do? Where do we start? If the police can’t find her …’
Sitting in the coffee shop in St Pancras, her elbow on the table, Brioni ran her hand into her hair and stared hard at her coffee as if it would help her focus.
Anna reached across the table and patted her hand. Brioni’s eyes were bloodshot; she looked as if she really needed a hug.
‘I think we need to be logical, to look at all the possibilities.’
Last night, Anna had run through everything Steve had said about his wife, trying to form a picture of the lovely young woman on his screen saver – Brioni’s sister. Following the #LondonAttack hashtag, reading the first tweets from Oxford Street after the bus explosion, and then watching the news reports, all she had been able to see was Marissa standing on the pavement, minding her own business, going about her sh
opping.
Brioni took a mouthful of the buttered toast going cold in front of her, chewing slowly.
‘If she was on the pavement and injured, she’d be in hospital by now, but she’s obviously lost her ID. Between the two incidents, there must be hundreds of casualties.’
Anna sipped her coffee. She knew the London hospitals were experienced, had systems in place to deal with large-scale events; they would be trying to match Marissa to her missing person report. It had been different in New York on 9/11. They’d had to learn on the go, applying all their major incident knowledge to a nightmare scenario that few had imagined.
Brioni picked up her coffee, deep in thought. Anna kept quiet; she obviously needed a minute. She did, too, if she was honest.
This had made her think a lot about 9/11. And a lot about Jen. So many people had gone missing on that September day in New York, lives obliterated as the twin towers collapsed. It had been a seminal moment, had been the thing that made Jen and Charles decide to finally get married. Divorcing at thirty had put Jen off marrying again, had hardened her to letting anyone into the solid unit that was her and Hope. But Charles adored them both, and in every way he was the father Hope had never had. Anna felt as if he and Jen had been destined for each other, as if the universe had always intended for them to meet. Anna felt a tug at her heart. The universe had let them down that day in the bank in Paris, but Charles and Jen had had six wonderful years together, three of them as husband and wife. 9/11 had made Jen think about the future, and a year later they’d been married.
This incident was different from 9/11, though. If Marissa had been close to the explosion, they’d find her somewhere. She could be injured, or even dead, and it might take time, but Anna was sure they’d find her. Brioni voiced her thoughts.
‘If she’s not in hospital and not at the scene, then she must be somewhere else.’
‘And we know she hasn’t gone home. Maybe her bag was stolen. We don’t know if her wallet had cash in it, or if maybe someone took that, too.’ Anna’s brow creased. ‘But if that had happened, surely they would have taken the phone as well?’
Anna thought back to the news reports she’d seen of that corner, the shopping bags that littered the pavement as if people had dropped them and run. She’d seen a length of birthday wrapping paper sticking out of one of them, undulating in the little breeze created by a passing squad car, the cameraman zooming in.
Anna tapped her finger on the side of her coffee bowl. It seemed ironic to be discussing this situation in a French restaurant, of all places, the china as authentic as any you’d find in rural France, the coffee served in bowls instead of mugs. She cleared her throat.
‘If that happened to you, what would you do? You’re disorientated, you’ve lost your phone. Instinct must kick in …’
‘I’d head home, or to a friend, if they were nearer.’ Brioni took a bite of her toast. ‘But how do we find out who her friends are?’
‘Steve mentioned she volunteered at a soup kitchen that’s run in a church near where they live. Perhaps they can point us in the right direction?’
‘That seems to be as good as any place to start.’ Brioni paused. ‘Is Steve getting missing person posters printed or circulating her photo on social media? He doesn’t seem to have any social media presence – maybe I could help with that.’
‘I can ask Isolde if she knows. Twitter and Facebook would be the quickest and most logical way to find out if anyone’s seen her.’
‘And the easiest to check. Let’s see if anything’s gone up already …’ Brioni pulled out her phone, the case scuffed and battered. A moment later she began nodding. ‘Here we are – “Devasted that #MarissaHunt is missing after yesterday’s #LondonAttack, please help us find her.” It’s a guy called Reiss Chanin’s account. He’s put up her picture.’
Brioni swung the phone around so Anna could see; it was the picture Steve had on his phone as a screen saver. Anna glanced at the photo and back at Bri. They had the same cheekbones. There might be eight years between them, but you could tell they were related.
‘He mentioned the name Reiss yesterday – I think Steve said he worked with him. So that’s good. He’s trying.’
Brioni nodded. ‘She has to be somewhere. What’s the name of that church she was volunteering at? I’ll Google it’
Chapter 21
‘Try her phone again.’
In New Hope’s Baptist Church, Thelma O’Riordan looked across the kitchen at Sully, all fourteen stone of him, up to his elbows in cake mix, and frowned.
‘It’s only just past nine. I’ve tried three times already. I keep getting voicemail and it’ll just fill up. The battery could be dead or something.’
He looked at her, the sweat glistening on his forehead, the flush in his cheeks echoing the screaming open red mouth of the wolf tattooed across his neck.
The words had caught in her throat.
Thelma brushed a strand of vivid wiry hair out of her face and straightened up.
‘Oh, Christ, I really need a fag. That vaping yoke’s not doing it.’
It had been about eight o’clock last night when Thelma had finally joined the dots and realised why Marissa hadn’t turned up at six, like normal. How could she not have realised? But they were short-handed and they’d been busy; the bombs were all anyone could talk about. The regulars had trickled in, each with their own snippet of news. A lot of them had been around Oxford Street and Trafalgar Square – tourists were more generous than locals, they went to where the people were. More had friends around Victoria Station. They’d all been asking where Marissa was, and she still hadn’t copped it. But then when she had, an overwhelming feeling of fear had hit her.
Thelma put her mug of tea down on the stainless-steel counter and checked her messages again. Nothing. Just the text from Marissa at 3.10 yesterday afternoon, saying that she was shopping but would see them all later.
But later never came.
Steve had arrived at ten to collect her. He’d been out for a drink, had pulled up in a taxi on the way home from the pub, irritated when he’d walked in that Marissa wasn’t there waiting for him – he’d been trying her phone, too, and got no answer. He’d looked at Thelma in disbelief when she’d told him Marissa hadn’t turned up, had turned on his tail and got straight into the cab to see if she was at home.
Thelma bit her lip. ‘Will I call Steve and see if there’s any news?’
Sully grimaced, picking up the enormous stainless-steel bowl and moving it along the counter to pour the carrot cake mixture into the waiting loaf tins. The summer fete was tomorrow, the cake stall one of the most popular and a vital fundraiser for the shelter.
‘He’s an awful bollix. No fucking idea why she’s with him.’
‘No, well …’
Thelma didn’t finish the sentence. She pulled up Steve’s number on her phone.
‘You’d think he’d call here if there was news. We’re her friends …’
Letting the phone dial, Thelma raised her eyebrows.
‘We might be all in the same church, but I don’t think he sees us quite like that, d’you?’
Sully’s snort summed up both their feelings on Steve Hunt.
As the cab drew up alongside the gates of New Hope’s, Brioni leaned forward, trying to look inside. She’d thought Anna was mad when she’d suggested a cab, particularly when she’d seen the length of the queue at the rank outside the station. But Anna had raised her eyebrows mysteriously and doubled back inside the station, going up in the glass elevator. There was method in her madness – outside the front of the very elegant St Pancras Hotel there was no queue and a cab waiting for a fare.
Brioni was so glad Anna was with her. If they hadn’t met yesterday, she wouldn’t even know Mar was missing.
Steve Hunt was a total bastard.
Brioni hadn’t liked him from the moment they’d met; he coddled Mar as if she was some sort of china doll. watching her every move. –
Putting h
er elbow on the ledge at the side of the cab, Brioni ran her fingers into the roots of her hair.
Where was Mar?
Part of her was terrified that she was lying in a doorway somewhere, bleeding and concussed. This was London; it wasn’t as if there weren’t loads of people, but Brioni knew full well that that didn’t mean they’d help. She’d seen passers-by step over homeless people, seen people who clearly needed assistance totally ignored. She shivered despite the heat. She’d hardly slept last night, tossing and turning.
Would the people at the church be able to tell them anything? Brioni hoped so. Perhaps they could tell her who Mar’s friends were, where she might go if she was distressed.
On the railings outside the church, Brioni could see a banner advertising a summer fete tomorrow, so hopefully there would be someone here today. They’d need to put up tables and tents and things. The Victorian stone church looked as if it had huge grounds that wrapped around the left-hand side. On the right, a large single-storey glass building that looked like a community hall had been built.
Anna leaned forward to speak to the cab driver.
‘Would you mind waiting? We won’t be long.’
‘No problem, love, take your time.’
The driver switched off the engine as she pushed open the door.
‘Ready?’
Anna held the door open for Brioni as she climbed out of the cab. She could feel the heat from the cracked paving stones through the soles of her shoes.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
Closing the door, Anna paused on the broad pavement for a moment.
‘Did Marissa come to church regularly?’
‘Not after our mum died, there didn’t seem any point.’
‘But your family are Catholic?’ Brioni nodded as Anna continued. ‘This is a Baptist church.’
‘Steve’s a Baptist. His family are from Charleston.’
‘I thought I heard the south in his accent. It’s not that strong, though.’
‘Private school, and I think he hides it.’
