That brought McCarthy to a halt. ‘You’re doing my head in, I don’t remember—’ he pleaded.
‘I think you should be asking yourself why I’d even bother to save the life of a grubby little junkie like you.’
‘I’m not using anymore—’
‘Pull the other one, Pinocchio. The worst part about being you must be waking up every morning and remembering who you are. Not that you’ll be waking up for much longer, with Ketch waiting to stick you.’
‘What the hell do you want from me?’ whined McCarthy, exasperated.
‘Help me catch him and I’ll save your miserable, wasted little life,’ answered Longbright.
It was 2:14 on Saturday afternoon, a relatively busy time at the King’s Cross intersection, but today the Northern Line was seriously overloaded with passengers. Anjam Dutta set down his coffee and shifted his attention from screen to screen.
‘We’ll have to shut Staircase C ahead of the rush hour,’ he instructed. ‘And reroute the incoming Blacks across to Navy.’ The safety-and-security team referred to the tube lines by their colours when they were working full-throttle. ‘What’s happening out there today?’
He studied the two cameras trained on the main ticket hall. ‘We’ve accounted for the Arsenal charity match and the Trafalgar Square rally—remind me what that’s for?’
‘Something to do with global warming,’ said Sandwich. ‘There’s an anti-fur demo in Oxford Street, but West End Central’s advice is that it’ll be pretty small.’
‘The traffic’s still way up for a Saturday. You haven’t picked up anything on the net? Anyone running RSS feeds?’
‘Local news, Sky, BBC, London Talk Radio, nothing unusual I can see,’ said Marianne, ‘but you’re right, there’s definitely something going on.’
‘Keep your eyes open. If it gets any worse, we’ll have to partially shut the station. This is really weird.’ Dutta mopped his forehead and watched as a fresh surge of passengers descended the staircase to the ticket hall.
Janice Longbright wanted to get McCarthy off the street, so she dragged him into the New Delhi Indian Restaurant on Drummond Street, behind Euston Station, chucked him into the chair opposite and ordered spicy Thalis for both of them.
‘I like this place because it’s fast,’ she explained. ‘In fifteen minutes, when you get up from this table, you’ll have told me everything you know about Jonas Ketch, or I’m going to take you into the kitchen and shove your face into the tandoori oven, d’you understand?’
‘I don’t know why you’re so aggressive,’ McCarthy wheedled, trying for sympathy.
‘It’s your choice, mate. Talk, or this’ll be the worst Ruby Murray1 you’ve ever had.’
‘I’ll give you what I know about him, all right? I could tell he was bang out of order, soon as I met him.’ McCarthy fidgeted around on his chair like a child at Sunday school. ‘All sensible talk and that, but crazy behind the eyes. Damage, see? You can’t trust damaged people.’
Longbright figured it took one to know one. ‘How did you meet him?’ she asked.
‘I was doing eighteen months for receiving stolen goods; he came in to teach English. A lot of the inmates ain’t got English as a first language. I got volunteered to help him. He never said much, but there was this one day, he was showing the class how to write a resumé for a job. When the lesson ended he got off sharpish and left some stuff behind, just papers in a plastic folder an’ that. I was going to put our answer sheets back inside and leave it on the table, honest.’
‘But you had a look through instead.’
‘Well, I had to, didn’t I? And I saw this letter he was writing to his old man. About a dozen different versions of the same thing, all a little different, written months apart from each other, like he kept starting it and changing his mind about what he was going to say. So I nicked one; I figured he wouldn’t notice. When I got back to my cell, I read it. So get this: It’s a kind of history of his life, all the stuff that made him angry. His parents was always trying to kill each other. Finally his old man, this bloke Al Ketch, took the kid out of the house one morning after some big bust-up with his missus, and dragged him down the tube at King’s Cross, saying they was going away on holiday.’
‘Keep talking.’
‘Jonas really hated his mother, right, so he reckoned the old man was taking him off somewhere where he’d never have to see the old cow again. He was all excited about going away with his dad. So he sits down with his dad on a platform bench and they talk about their plans, how they’re going to go to Spain and get a fresh start, how it’s going to be really great for both of them. Then his old man gets all excited, striding about, ranting, and when he’s finished, he calms down and tells the boy he’s leaving. Not they’re leaving, he’s leaving. He’s had enough of them both, and he’s dumping the kid. And Jonas worships his old man, right, he can’t do no wrong in the boy’s eyes. He thought his dad was taking them off some place where they’d be happy, and it turns out the bastard is abandoning him. And while the kid is watching, the old man turns away, goes to the edge of the platform and walks—just walks—under the train that’s coming in. The kid is halfway there, heading toward his father just as he goes under, and he gets covered in his old man’s blood. So he runs off in a right state, and when he gets home, he finds his mum has killed herself. She’s taken an overdose of sleeping tablets and choked to death on her own vomit. How messed up is that?’
‘And then you ran into Ketch again at St Pancras station.’
‘That’s right, and he didn’t even recognise me, ’cause it was two years later and I’d lost a lot of weight, being off prison food and on the smack, and he gave me a couple of jobs to do, just pocket-money stuff, and I couldn’t tell him that I’d still got the letter, and that night I went home and read it again. And it freaked me out.’
‘Why did it freak you out?’ Longbright asked as their food arrived.
‘Because by this time I’d worked out the date, hadn’t I? I mean, I’m not likely to forget it, ever. His father died on the day of the King’s Cross fire, just like my old man, only my dad was in the station and burned to death, and his died under a train in the morning. And that’s when I knew, see. That’s when I knew who started the fire. He didn’t have to say nothing, I just knew. I could see it in his eyes. Kind of horrified he’d done it, and kind of arrogant as well. Trapped by something caused by his anger, something so terrible he’d never be able to leave the area until he’d come to terms with it. But that’s not possible, is it? I mean, something on that scale. I watched on the news as they carried the bodies out. Even the survivors were completely black. The effect those scenes had on me—I guess that’s when I started falling apart, you know?’
He started to cry, and the trickle of a tear became a flood, so that he was forced to blow his nose on his napkin and turn away from her, nuzzling the heel of his hand against his forehead. The gaudy red Indian restaurant had become a confessional. Longbright suddenly felt sorry for him.
‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ she said, drawing his eyes to hers. ‘He’ll know you’re out of the hospital now. He’s around here somewhere. He’ll follow you home and try to finish the job he started. But you have a chance of staying alive. I’ll stay close by you, and keep my team on alert. When he shows his hand and moves in, we’ll get him.’
‘Is that it? You really think I’m going to survive that?’ McCarthy was rubbing his red eyes, a terrified child. ‘He’ll stab me, and he’ll give you lot the slip again.’
‘You want to end this, don’t you?’
‘I know what you’re up to. You just want to get the arrest; you don’t care about me.’
‘I’ll bring him in, Tony, I swear. And I won’t let you die. We need to get him somewhere that’s enclosed, with escape routes we can monitor. Somewhere that’s always being watched.’
‘Where?’
‘The station. You’re going to perform that stupid wide-boy walk of yours, shout at t
he guards and passengers, generally make a bloody great nuisance of yourself and draw him back to the spot where it all began.’
‘People could get hurt. You’re crazy.’
‘You have no idea how crazy,’ warned Longbright.
1. Rhyming slang: ‘Curry’
FORTY-FOUR
Remote Control
Arthur Bryant found Sergeant Jack Renfield in the filthy junk-filled anteroom that passed for the Unit’s reception area. ‘What are you still doing here?’ he asked in obvious irritation.
‘Dan’s been trying out his new radios,’ said Renfield. ‘But don’t worry, I’m on it.’
‘What radios?’
‘We’re short-handed,’ Renfield explained, ‘so he’s been developing these close-range radio mikes.’ He held up something that looked like a pen refill, curved at one end. ‘He’s been dying to try them out. They’re like the security headsets bouncers use, but they’ve got a better range. During surveillance we can stay in contact with each other, and we can track everyone’s movements on the laptops.’ He turned his screen around and pointed to a number of red dots pulsing on a Google map of London.
‘Do they work underground?’
‘I don’t know,’ Renfield admitted.
‘We’re after a killer who operates in the tube network, you flybrain. This is not the right time to start testing out Dan’s toys. I asked Janice to get you to cover Tony McCarthy as he came out of hospital. Didn’t she come and talk to you?’
‘No. I saw her go out a while back. She didn’t say where she was going.’
‘Stubborn bloody woman! Has she got one of those things?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then see if you can raise her. And get after whoever it is you’re supposed to be following.’
‘Nikos Nicolau. He’s been sitting on his fat arse in an Internet café in Tottenham Court Road for the past two hours.’
‘And what if he suddenly disappears? Where have the others gone?’
‘Dan’s gone after the stroppy Indian fella, Sangeeta; Colin’s got Toby Brooke; Meera’s got the rich one, Fontvieille; John’s covering Ruby Cates. Raymond’s in his room having a massive row with someone from the Home Office.’
‘And I know exactly what Janice is up to,’ added Bryant. ‘Find someone to cover Nicolau—use Raymond if you have to; he’ll kick up a fuss but we need everyone we can lay our hands on. Find out where Janice is, and bloody go after her. If it turns out that Mr Fox is following them, she’ll need all the backup she can get. This has the potential to blow up in our faces. We’re close now, so I don’t want anything to go wrong.’
‘We’re close?’ Renfield was surprised. ‘That’s news to me. Hang on, I’ve got Dan on the line.’ He talked with the CSM for a moment, then covered the phone. ‘He just spoke to Janice. She’s on the Euston Road with McCarthy in tow, heading east.’
‘I know what she’s up to. She’s taking him back to the station, where it all began. Your bug won’t be any use there if they go down onto the platforms. Get to her first. Stay as close as you can, and keep in contact.’
‘How can I if she goes underground?’
‘I don’t know, run up the stairs and call me as soon as you get a signal. You’ll have to figure it out. I’ll stay here. Someone has to keep an eye on you all.’
‘You know me,’ said Renfield, heading out, ‘I’ll have a go at anyone, but we could do with some more backup than this.’
Moments later, Fraternity DuCaine appeared in the doorway.
‘Good God, you’re not dead,’ said Bryant, clutching theatrically at his heart.
‘Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m his brother,’ said Fraternity. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump. You don’t know how long the DS will be, do you?’
‘You could give us a hand while you’re waiting,’ said Bryant.
DuCaine shrugged amiably. ‘Sure, no problem.’
‘Good.’ Bryant unleashed a gruesome smile. ‘What do you know about card tricks?’
Anjam Dutta badly wanted a cigarette. He couldn’t drink any more coffee. His nerves were on fire. Something very big and very bad was happening at his station. He had called his bosses, but all they could suggest was closing the entire interchange down. Dutta’s eyes flicked from screen to screen, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. ‘We’ve got a camera out on the District & Circle, Sandwich. Did you call Maintenance?’
‘Twenty minutes ago,’ Sandwich told him. ‘They’re having trouble getting to their equipment.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Dutta could see the problem; a knot of passengers blocking the path to one of the supply stores. Usually he could register travel patterns just by glancing at the screens. Football days were the easiest because supporters were helpfully dressed in their team colours. Other groups offered subtler clues. Rush hour commuters knew their way around the system, and rarely strayed from their routes. They didn’t queue at the ticket windows because they all had travel cards. Tourists stood in line for tickets and clustered around the two main maps. Schoolchildren, students, hen night parties, clubbers aiming to arrive in in time for cheap admissions, concert-goers—they were all easy enough to spot.
But this one had him puzzled. There was no pattern—just a massive increase in traffic, right across the station. Passengers of all types and ages were pouring in from every entrance, despite the fact that access had already been restricted. He checked the arrival times of the Eurostar trains and found no correlation there. The wall clock read 1434. It was as if rush hour had decided to start three hours early.
‘What the hell is going on? I think we’ll have to shut the East Gate completely.’
‘We’ve never done that before,’ objected Sandwich. ‘The BTP will be pissed off if you back passengers up onto the street.’
‘The British Transport Police should be telling us about this, not the other way around. The Northern Line southbound platform is overloaded. They’re virtually falling onto the rails.’
The system worked so long as the law of averages operated normally and only a fraction of those who held travel cards decided to travel at the same time. Today, though, it seemed as if the law of averages was on hold.
‘So long as the trains keep coming in on time we should be all right, but if one of them gets a signal delay, we’re screwed. Where are all these people going? You’d better get everyone in here.’
Nikos Nicolau sat by the window in Costa Coffee, monitoring the messages on his laptop. They were climbing fast now. A few minutes ago they had stuck at 3,700, but suddenly they were hitting 7,000 and rising. There was a gullibility factor in people that you had to target by appealing to their vanity, he decided, as he posted another instruction. He figured the PCU had probably sent one of their drones to keep an eye on him, but what would they see? An overweight geek sitting alone at his laptop in a coffee shop. He played on the cliché, because he knew it would blind them to his real nature.
Time for another post. He typed THIRTY-TWO MINUTES TO REACH KING’S CROSS. Skipping through the messages, he felt like a chef adding flavours to a stew. It needs something more, he thought, a fresh ingredient. Looking at the original post, he had a brainwave. He recoloured the words in Day-Glo greens, blues and yellows, then changed the font setting to ‘Balloony,’ a script kids loved. Next, he dropped the message onto RadLife, a new social networking site targeted at tweens. Damn, he thought, this is going to be so cool.
He wanted to be there, but it was smarter and safer to handle the event remotely. This way he could keep it going right up until the last minute. Nikos wiped a patch of condensation from the window and peered out into the afternoon rain. Watch me and learn, you losers, he thought, hitting Send.
FORTY-FIVE
Kill Proximity
Ruby Cates had unclipped the plastic cast on her leg and dropped it off at the University College Hospital outpatients’ department. She emerged from the entrance a few hundred yards behind Tony McCarthy.
Now s
he was heading along the rain-battered pavements of the Euston Road toward King’s Cross station. Her mind was racing. The police were suspicious. She had seen various members of the PCU lurking about outside the house, and for all she knew one could be following her right now. That could work in my favour, she thought, hopping between stalled taxis. Things are seriously getting out of control.
In the past week, it seemed as if the world had turned upside down. Matt gone, Cassie dead. Everything that had seemed exciting a week ago had been wrecked or tainted. The true horror of what she had done was only now starting to sink in. Get to King’s Cross, she told herself. Put an end to it and get the hell out.
Toby Brooke could see the man with no neck watching him in the reflection of the furniture store window. He was wearing a black padded jacket and jeans, but couldn’t stop himself from looking like a copper. He thumped miserably from one boot to the other and wiped the rain from his shaved head, but seemed sort of content, just standing there in the downpour like a dumb animal.
Brooke wanted to get away, but was running out of options. Everything had gone wrong, and he had a bad feeling about the way it would end. He thought about slipping into the store and exiting through the rear door, but knew it would not be so easy to shake off the man who was following him. The sight of a taxi with its ‘For Hire’ light glimmering through the sheeting rain forced his hand, and he hailed it, jumping inside before his shadower was able to react.
‘King’s Cross,’ Toby told the driver, and sat back, turning to see if the policeman was managing to follow.
Christopher Fowler Page 26
