Dead Girl Walking

by Christopher Brookmyre

  I was reeling, grateful I was sitting down on this big soft couch. Emotion and instinct were already at odds, my desires muted by a fear of flying too close to the sun.

  All I could do was try to be honest.

  ‘I know what you mean about us being driven by the swell,’ I told her. ‘But my worry is that it was only circumstances that drove you towards me, and I’m wary of where that leaves me now that things are less crazy.’

  ‘Oh, it will always be crazy, one way or another. But no matter what happened between us, I wouldn’t kick you off the tour, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’d let you stay on the bus, at least until the next town.’

  ‘Joking apart, that’s it precisely. We’re about to start a two-month tour of the USA, with all the stress and pressure that goes with it. I don’t think, under those circumstances, that a relationship between us would be a good idea.’

  Heike took a long drink of her beer then let out a sigh, sounding resigned.

  ‘Probably not a good idea, no,’ she admitted, slumping back on the couch.

  I slumped back too.

  A couple of moments later, our feet touched under the table. I couldn’t say whether Heike reached to mine or I to hers; maybe they just kind of brushed halfway.

  Futures

  He kept his head down as he entered the gardens between Temple Place and Victoria Embankment, ever mindful of drawing attention to himself and in particular to who he was meeting. This was where she’d first told him about Anthony Mead, and where they had hatched their conspiracy to expose him.

  It wasn’t long past nine but it was already shaping up to be very hot. There were about a dozen under-fives running about the place, shrieking joyfully as they evaded the clutches of the nursery teachers who were trying to slap some suncream on them. None of them looked like they worked for the Met or the MoD.

  He glanced towards the spot where they had always sat. She was there, but she was not alone. Trying not to overreact, he reminded himself that it could be a perfect stranger sharing her bench, but all of his instincts told him otherwise, and when his contact spotted him, her worried expression confirmed it.

  She was sitting next to another woman: ten or fifteen years older, soberly dressed and exuding authority. A quick scan of the gardens revealed two men in close proximity: two men he hadn’t even seen until they wanted him to.

  There was no point in turning back. They already had his source, and it wasn’t like he would be able to give these people the slip. He maintained his direction and his pace, slaloming some of the nursery kids before arriving at the bench.

  ‘I didn’t give you up,’ he stated. It wasn’t going to make any difference to the outcome, but it felt important to tell her this.

  ‘She knows you didn’t,’ replied the older woman. ‘Kendra, you’re free to leave now,’ she added.

  The woman he had only known as Kay got to her feet, giving him a helpless but apologetic look. She didn’t say anything, just walked away with a hesitant gait in the direction of the river.

  ‘What’s going to happen to her?’ he asked.

  The woman eyed him with a penetrating but inscrutable gaze. This was no cop, he guessed, but an altogether more exotic and dangerous species.

  ‘A less noble individual might have enquired as to what she gave up about you.’

  He shrugged. He genuinely didn’t care. Not about that.

  ‘You’re not with Westercruik,’ he ventured.

  She responded with a thin smile and patted the bench, inviting him to sit. He got the impression there wasn’t really an option to refuse.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question. What happens to her?’

  ‘If she was going to be thrown to the lions it would have happened before now. I’ve known she was your source for some time. It’s you I’m interested in at the moment.’

  ‘Well, you’d better hurry up. They’re dangling the electrodes pretty close to my bollocks.’

  ‘Relax. You won’t go to jail. That’s not the game here, believe me. Not now, anyway. They’ll be ordered to leave it. They won’t be given a reason and they won’t be happy about it, but they’ll do as they’re told.’

  He was about to ask how she could possibly know this when the answer hit him like a sledgehammer.

  ‘You’re the one who set the whole thing in motion.’

  She said nothing by way of response, simply held him in that unnerving stare.

  ‘You played me,’ he went on. ‘When the intel on that laptop turned out to be bollocks I knew I’d been used, but I assumed it was about finding leaks. You’ve found them all now. What else could I give you?’

  ‘It was about finding leaks,’ she replied. ‘But it was about exposing them too: making sure there was no option for an internal cover-up. I used you to take it public.’

  ‘So I was your useful idiot. Why are you showing me your hand now?’

  ‘Because there was more than one game being played. Your involvement with Kendra brought you to my attention. It’s true I set you a trap, but it wasn’t to see whether you’d take the bait: that part was a given. I was more interested in finding out how you’d respond after the jaws snapped shut. So now I know I can trust you,’ she added pointedly.

  ‘Why would you care about that?’

  She watched the children for a moment, making him wait.

  ‘I was hoping you might help us out.’

  Parlabane almost choked.

  ‘Me, help you? Did you actually read my file? That would be like the Catholic Church reaching out to Richard Dawkins.’

  ‘No, it really wouldn’t. You’re a man of principle, Mr Parlabane, you’ve just proved that. You think we’re on opposite sides, but you’re drawing the line in the wrong place.’

  She looked out towards the river, and Parlabane felt relieved at the reprieve from her regard but no less anxious about where this was going.

  ‘There’s a new game kicking off,’ she said, ‘and it’s going to be between those of us who believe in common responsibility – in nations, in government, in democracy and accountability – and those who believe they are above all of those things. The bad news is that we’re the underdogs. They’ve got all the money and all the influence: that’s why we need all the help we can get.’

  ‘You’d have to be pretty desperate if you’re asking me.’

  ‘Hear me out,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve not told you what it would involve. You would be lied to, double-crossed, misinformed, manipulated and, if necessary, disavowed. Plus the money’s shit too.’

  ‘You’re really selling it.’

  ‘I don’t have to sell it, Mr Parlabane. You made up your mind thirty seconds ago.’