Look Closer

by Rachel Amphlett

Will used his sleeve to wipe the tears away from his cheeks, ignored the man who stared at him as he hurried by the steps, and pressed the phone closer to his ear.

  ‘Simon wiped my laptop on Friday afternoon,’ said Amy, talking rapidly now. ‘I didn’t think that once I’d met with Rossiter and given him my ultimatum, something like this might happen. I think he’d already worked out that I’m onto him. We put the contents of my laptop onto two hard drives. You need to go and get those, Will. They’re your only protection at the moment.’

  ‘I’ve put both hard drives in our private mailbox at the Holborn Post Office,’ she said. ‘Along with some notes and a letter. You have to do what I’ve written in the letter, Will – it’s the only way to stop them.’

  She paused, her soft breathing echoing down the line. Will closed his eyes, and imagined her pushing her long fringe away from her face, the way she always did when she was deep in thought.

  ‘Don’t trust anyone, Will. People will kill for this information – if you’re listening to this, they already have.’

  She sighed, and then the message ended, before the phone company’s robot voice intoned how to delete the message, how to repeat the message, and how to save it.

  Will listened twice more, just to hear her voice again, before he saved the message and switched the phone off to save the battery.

  Re-shouldering the backpack, he glanced down the street, and then hurried towards the underground station.

  Get the hard drives and the letter, she’d said.

  Follow the instructions.

  ***

  Will slowed as he approached the side of the post office, stepped aside to let an old woman through the entryway, and then hurried down the alleyway to the post box he and Amy shared.

  He pulled his keys from his pocket, inserted the right one into the lock, and paused. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze wandering over the other customers as they queued.

  Was he being watched?

  He fought down the paranoia, and turned back to the small square door of the box. He twisted the key and peered inside.

  Sweeping aside that month’s gas bill and a marketing brochure from a mobile phone company, he spotted a slim white envelope with Amy’s neat handwriting imprinted on the front.

  He slid it out of the box and frowned.

  Where were the hard drives?

  He craned his neck to better see inside the dark crevice and then smiled. Turning his wrist, he pulled the padded envelope that had been taped to the roof of the box. He moved his body to shield his movements and slipped the package into his jacket, before locking the box.

  He turned and caught one of the post office employees watching him from a doorway farther along the alleyway, her face quizzical. He forced a smile, erasing the hunted expression he knew must be etched across his face, and raised his hand in greeting, and then strode towards the street.

  He hurried along the road before entering a café he and Amy frequented and sat at a table towards the back, facing the door.

  Once the waitress had taken his coffee order, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out Amy’s letter.

  He ran his fingers over her neat handwriting, his name written in her looping script, and then ripped open the envelope and extracted a single page of notepaper.

  He blinked back tears at the sight of Amy’s handwriting, her message brief but to the point.

  Will, they’ll be after the information on one of these drives. Keep the larger one for yourself – give them the smaller one. Your copy has all my notes on it. I was so close to finding the one piece of evidence that would end Rossiter’s political career and probably put him in prison for a very long time. You need to find that now. Hopefully by the time they work out it’s not on the hard drive you give them, you’ll have a good head start. Love you, Amy x.

  Will jumped as the waitress placed his coffee in front of him and held his hand up in apology.

  She smiled, shrugged, and walked away to tend to another customer.

  Will read the note once more, his fingers tracing Amy’s words, before he folded it and tucked it into his backpack. He pushed the larger of the two square-shaped hard drives to the bottom of the bag, then pulled out the smaller and turned it in his hands.

  He was still lost in thought when his phone vibrated in his pocket, and he answered it, his heart thumping, blood rushing in his ears before he realised the caller’s number had been withheld.

  I’m out of time.

  ‘H-hello?’

  ‘You saw what we did to your friend, Will. Now – where the fuck are the files?’

  8

  Immediate thoughts of denial were swept aside as Will ran his hand through his hair. His insides threatened to turn to liquid. Somehow, the caller had anticipated he’d visit Simon. Then, when the computer expert had failed to be any use, he’d been killed.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Will?’

  Will mumbled incoherently into the phone, trying to buy some time to think.

  It didn’t work.

  ‘What’s that? I can’t hear you, Will. Don’t fuck about with me. Speak up.’

  ‘Yes. I’m listening.’ He held his head in his hand, the phone pressed tightly to his ear.

  ‘Her laptop’s been wiped clean. Remember, Will. I can kill her. Just because she’s in a hospital doesn’t mean she’s safe from me. So where the hell are the files?’

  ‘Th-there’s a hard drive.’

  ‘Where? Do you have it?’

  ‘Yes – but I only found out about it a minute ago.’

  ‘You’re going to bring the hard drive to me.’ A pause, another cigarette inhaled.

  Will waited, blood rushing in his ears. He strained to hear the caller’s voice over the noise in the café and pulled the phone away from his ear to turn the volume up. The caller was talking again by the time he put the phone back.

  ‘What? Sorry – it’s busy here. I didn’t get that,’ Will stumbled.

  ‘Christ.’ Another drag on the cigarette. ‘Stick to the plan, Will.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing changes. Put the hard drive in a shopping bag and leave it on the bench seat at the bus stop opposite the shopping centre. Get moving. You’ve got thirty minutes.’

  The phone went dead. Will pulled it away from his ear and stared at it, then looked at his watch.

  Thirty minutes.

  Will stood, pocketed his phone, threw some change onto the table, and then raced from the café.

  At a bus stop, he hailed the first double-decked vehicle that pulled up to the kerb, threw himself into a seat, and mentally worked through a route which would get him to the drop-off area in plenty of time.

  As the bus pushed through traffic along the street, it drew up to another stop. Will glanced up as it slowed, then his heart lurched, and he stood, hurrying through the doors and onto the pavement.

  Ten minutes later, he hailed a different bus.

  As the vehicle swayed, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile phone, and frowned. He’d seen it on television, but would it work? He shrugged, turned the phone over and prised open the back, then removed the battery. He put the phone back together, put the battery in the front pocket of the backpack and the phone into his pocket, then leaned back in his seat.

  A quarter of a mile before the drop-off point, Will climbed from the bus, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and stalked through the entrance to a park as the vehicle pulled away from the kerb.

  He followed a path into the centre of the green space, desperate for a few moments of solitude while he tried to gather his thoughts.

  Before he’d pulled the battery from his phone, he’d noted the icon flashing which signified a missed call. He pulled the DCI’s business card from his pocket and checked the number.

  It confirmed his suspicions.

  The police were trying to contact him, which meant that they’d probably found out about the break-in at the apartment, probably from an astute ne
ighbour.

  Or a tip-off.

  He sank onto a bench next to the path and held his head in his hands.

  What if the caller had told the police about the break-in to stop Will from returning home?

  By now, he reasoned, the whole apartment would’ve been turned into a crime scene. And he had nowhere else to go.

  He leaned back, the two hard drives in his pack sticking into his spine, and wondered what Amy had got caught up in.

  Somehow, she’d uncovered a story that had some very powerful people scared. Certainly, they were scared enough that they had no qualms in attacking the favourite candidate to win the General Election and killing two men, injuring her in the process.

  And then ransack his home and stalk him until he handed over some information they would most certainly kill again for if they didn’t get it.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and gazed over the treeline of the park to the cityscape beyond.

  Grey clouds had begun to form, another rain storm gathering strength to the south of the capital.

  The wind had picked up, ruffling his hair, and he brushed it out of his eyes, noticing that the group of students who had been kicking a ball about on the grass were also packing up, pointing at the changing weather as they sauntered out of the park.

  Part of him wanted to put the battery back into his phone, call the hospital, and find out how the surgery was progressing. He blinked, left the mobile phone where it was, and pulled out the smaller of the two hard drives from his backpack, turning it in his hands.

  The simplest option – the best option – would be to hand over the hard drive and walk away in the hope he and Amy would be left alone, but even as the thought entered his mind, he realised that Amy’s life would remain in danger.

  Whatever Amy had been investigating in relation to Ian Rossiter wouldn’t just disappear with the hard drive – Amy herself knew the details.

  He’d have to do what Amy’s note said – access the second drive and go through her notes to find something, anything, which would explain the morning’s events. Something he could use once he’d handed the hard drive over to the mysterious caller. Something that person had killed Simon for, and probably the politician’s driver and bodyguard, too.

  He squared his shoulders with renewed determination, and fought down the panic that crawled in his gut. She knew he hated mysteries, but this time, he didn’t have a choice.

  Her life depended on him.

  Will stood, slipped the hard drive back into his backpack, and moved away from the bench, walking out of the park and towards the drop-off point. He pulled the phone from his pocket, inserted the battery, and waited until three bars of signal appeared, closely followed by a message that he’d missed a call from a blocked number.

  His heart began to beat rapidly. Maybe it had worked – maybe he really had disappeared off the grid for a while. Maybe the mystery caller was panicking. Maybe…

  Will nearly dropped the phone as it began to ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Don’t ‘hello’ me. Where the fuck have you been?’

  Will swallowed. ‘What do you mean? I’m on my way to the drop-off point.’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, Will. She’s not out of danger until I get the hard drive.’

  The caller hung up.

  Will put the phone back into his pocket, his hand shaking. His gaze swept the street as he began to hurry along the pavement.

  He spotted the drop-off point a hundred or so paces away.

  It was one of the new benches the local borough council had installed recently, a concrete base with the seat and back support comprised of black metal slats. Graffiti already covered the surface in places.

  A bus shelter cocooned it from the worst of the elements, its sides plastered with posters advertising more mobile phone deals on one side and a familiar brand of dog food on the other. Evidently the sales agency knew its local demographics well.

  Will checked his watch.

  Two minutes.

  He drew level with the bench and pretended to be interested in the photographic display in the estate agent’s shop next to it.

  As he looked at the adverts for houses he could never afford, he shrugged his backpack off his shoulder, shoved his hand inside, and wrapped his fingers around the smaller of the two hard drives.

  ‘I hope you’re right about this Amy,’ he murmured, and then turned.

  There were no passengers waiting on the bench, the seat facing the road, and when Will approached, he saw why.

  A temporary sign had been placed across the timetable stating that buses wouldn’t be picking up passengers from the stop until further notice.

  He placed the hard drive on the seat and hurried away, re-zipping the backpack.

  He took another look at his watch.

  He was on time.

  Will spun on his heel and desperately searched for somewhere he could hide and observe the bus stop without being seen.

  His phone rang once more.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Stop hanging about, Will. Fuck off.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Shit.’

  The road began to curve as he hurried past the shopping centre on the opposite side of the road, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and the drop-off point.

  A car honked its horn behind him, cutting through the noise of the traffic and sending his heartbeat racing.

  When he turned, a bus had drawn to a halt at the bus stop, its engine idling, blocking his view of the bench seat.

  His mind raced. He spun round, peering up at the buildings that towered over the street. The caller was evidently watching him – or had people in position to keep an eye on his every movement. What if something went wrong? Should he check the hard drive was still there? What if a passenger picked it up by mistake, and handed it in to the police?

  Will cursed, walked a few paces, reached a pedestrian crossing, and hit the button.

  ‘Come on!’ he hissed under his breath. He punched the button again, his mouth dry. Every instinct told him to run, to get away from the caller and his people, but he had to know. He had to find out if the hard drive was in the right hands and that Amy would be safe, for now.

  A taxi streaked over the pedestrian crossing moments before the zap of the timer kicked in and the little green man icon on the opposite side of the road lit up.

  Will was elbowed to one side, and a man hurried past him.

  ‘Out of the way,’ he growled, a phone to his ear as he stalked across the road.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Will, and then heard a hiss from the bus.

  His head jerked right, just in time to see the doors shut.

  The vehicle’s engine rumbled up a notch, and then the bus pulled away from the kerb.

  Will craned his neck.

  There was no one walking away from or towards him.

  He spun round to see where the man with the mobile phone had gone, his thoughts racing, before he saw him farther along the pavement, next to a woman with a push-chair, grinning as he hoisted a toddler into the air and hugged him.

  His heart pounding, he ran back across the road, dodging a car, and hurried back to the bench as the red double-decker passed him, walking in the opposite direction.

  He already knew what he’d find when he reached the bench.

  Nothing.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see the bus slowly disappearing along the busy street, black smoke spewing from its exhaust.

  His gaze fell to the timetable.

  The temporary notice had gone.

  ‘Shit.’

  The collector had been on the bus, and he’d missed his only chance to try to see who he was dealing with.

  He kicked the side of the bus shelter, disgusted with himself, then retraced his steps along the pavement, intent on finding the nearest underground station.

  Now he had no choice. He had to find out what was on the second hard drive.

 
Before the caller discovered that his copy was incomplete.

  9

  Malcolm Gregory drummed his fingers on the desk, then reached to his lips, extracted the dying cigarette, and stubbed it out in the ashtray in front of him.

  The day’s events had been troubling.

  They had been caught out when the reporter had first called last week and insisted on a meeting at short notice. The office had descended into a frenzy, trying to fathom what she might have uncovered, wrongly assuming it was the usual tabloid dirt that circled Westminster in the weeks leading up to an election.

  Despite advertising a partisan outlook to their readers, the lower market newspapers could always be relied upon to assist where necessary, and it was with this in mind that Gregory had agreed to the meeting, although he’d pulled rank and insisted it take place on neutral territory.

  The reporter had agreed, a little too eagerly, and the appropriate arrangements had been made.

  He tapped the delicately embossed cigarette lighter on the mahogany surface.

  In hindsight, his insistence that the meeting not take place immediately had been prescient. With less than a week to prepare, he’d used his most trusted people to follow the woman, track her movements, and attempt to pre-empt the contents of her investigation.

  She’d been clever, though, hiding information, avoiding emailing anything to her editor. For all Gregory and his team could find, she’d been working alone on her story.

  What his team did uncover at the last minute, only a day away from the scheduled interview, led to one of the most gruelling twenty-four hours he’d ever known.

  He’d instructed Rossiter to send all but the most trusted staff home, then sealed off his room and explained to the man what was going to happen if they didn’t control the situation immediately.

  Rossiter had reacted exactly as he’d anticipated.

  He raised his eyes to the stain on the wall, a chunk of plaster missing where the man had thrown his brandy glass at the surface, shards of glass exploding across the leather sofa underneath.

  Gregory had stood sentinel in the middle of the room, unmoving, his hands clasped behind his back as Rossiter had shouted, cursed, and paced, until eventually he had calmed down, sunk into one of the chairs beside the desk, and held his head in his hands, asking Gregory for his advice.