Alias

by Cari Hunter

  “Better, thanks. She’s coming home this afternoon, but it’s left me running the farm and juggling the kids single-handed.”

  “Give her my best,” I say. “And don’t worry about me. I’m home as well, and Priti’s babysitting.”

  “Good, that’s good. You seem…” He hesitates and scratches something within earshot. “Well, more like you than I expected.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting there. My doc is really pleased with my progress.” It’s difficult to maintain my false cheer, but I want Martin safely out of the way on his farm with his family, content that his little sister is recuperating without need of further assistance.

  “Great.” He doesn’t ask the obvious questions—the whys or wherefores or what happens next—and I realise this is likely to be the first conversation we’ve had in months, that our lives are entirely separate entities, and that we don’t have a thing in common. He does a weird, choked cough, a habit from childhood, used to underscore decisions he knew I’d oppose. “Look, I spoke to Dad and told him to stay put. You know how he is with the winter weather. It’d set his rheumatism off if he came over.”

  “That’s fine, I understand,” I say, getting the gist from his terse summary. If my dad and I were at all close, he’d have been here a week ago.

  “He sends his love,” Martin adds as an afterthought, and then slaps his hand against a hard surface. “Right, I’d best go before Oliver feeds his breakfast to the dog.”

  “No worries. Thanks for calling.”

  He bypasses the signing-off conventions, the empty pledges to keep in touch, in favour of telling me to take care and hanging up. I listen to the dial tone for a moment, as if he might come back on and fit properly into my rose-tinted image of him. Then I sit the phone back on its base and pick up the first page of Wallace’s notes.

  * * *

  The baked beans I’ve added to my cheese toastie escape from a crack in its corner and make a splatter pattern on my notepad. Licking tomato sauce from the heel of my hand, I reposition my plate to catch the worst of it and dab at the errant splodges. They haven’t hidden much of any importance. Wallace has taken the easy option in his case updates, using my reports as the basis for his and copying chunks of text verbatim when he couldn’t be bothered paraphrasing. The initial assignment briefing confirms what I’d already figured out: that Hamer’s is suspected of supplying drugs on an industrial scale, and that I was to somehow finagle my way onto one of the relevant distribution teams. My shift transfer is documented toward the end of the reports, with a concurrent reduction in official contact to allow me to bed in. None of my multicoloured handiwork has made it into the file, so its translation remains a mystery. All things considered, the toastie is the definite high point of my morning.

  I’m scrubbing cheddar from the Breville when Mr. Akhtar calls to postpone my car pickup. I agree to a new time with him and take the opportunity to examine every nook and cranny on my mobile. I enter “2311” as a possible passcode and then scowl at the tech department label I find stuck to the back: “Code reset to 1111.” That sets the theme for the next half hour, as MMP’s willingness to return the phone is immediately explained by an empty call log and contacts folder. I’ve wiped all of my texts and WhatsApp and Facebook messages, and the sole surviving app is the one I used to contact Wallace. Any photos I might have taken are gone, those of family undoubtedly removed prior to the assignment, and subsequent ones deleted at some later, unspecified point. The realistic part of me applauds my decisions as sensible precautions, but that doesn’t stop the desperate and impulsive part from lobbing the phone across the table. It bounces once and lands in the fruit bowl with a satisfying clunk, where it starts to vibrate beneath a banana.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, fishing it out again. The text is from Priti: All well there?

  No, it’s not. I stab my fingers on the screen, daring the autocorrect to interfere. This thing’s bloody useless, Wallace’s notes are crap, and I don’t know what to do next. I think someone tried to kill me, and if I put one foot wrong they’ll try again.

  I pace to the door, the phone in my hand, the text poised on the screen. It feels good, just for a moment, to pretend I can confide in someone. Back at the table, I delete the message and write another: Yep, all well. Hope things are okay with you too. I add a smiley face and hit “send.”

  * * *

  The early shift at Hamer’s runs from seven till three, and everyone who gets the bus home walks to the stops via Dunstan Street. At two forty-five, I turn onto Dunstan and squeeze my newly purchased, nondescript silver Polo between a souped-up Corsa and a white Tranny van. I pull a cap low over my hair, obscuring my face with its peak, and pretend to be absorbed in my mobile. I’m more interested in the file photo of Jolanta and Krzys that rests on my knee, though, and I compare Krzys’s image to the first employees who hurry past the car. Without warning, the sky darkens and a heavy shower of sleet prompts a rush to open brollies and raise hoods. I swear beneath my breath as faces disappear from view, and I narrow my focus to the men, straining to compare their profiles. The mass exodus soon thins to a trickle and then stops altogether. I drum on the steering wheel, loath to admit defeat when I’ve barely even started, but the late shift will already be entrenched, a half-hour crossover ensuring that the wheels of Hamer’s grind twenty-four seven. Nothing more will happen until the night shift swaps in, and there’s no point returning for that, when I can see little enough in the daylight.

  “Damn it!”

  I clout the wheel, beeping the horn and sending an alley cat skittering for cover. From my position, I can see the main gate of Hamer’s: an ornate, wrought iron contraption controlled on a remote and only ever opened for management. Squinting at it through the sleet, I remember that we lesser employees had to use a side entrance, with a security pat-down mandatory on the way out and scheduled to take place off the clock. That extra fifteen minutes tagged onto the end of every shift dropped the pay below minimum wage, but the unions seemed disinclined to raise the issue.

  Under cover of dusk, I take off my cap and hold my head in my hand, my fingers seeking out the ragged line of sutures. I push on the ridge as if that might somehow reorganise the priorities up there, exchanging useless snippets about workers’ rights for the reason I rented a car and took Jolanta to Wales, or for the identity of the men who were out there with us that night. Nothing happens beyond the development of a slight itch left of centre. I start the car, fiddling with its levers and dials until the headlights and windscreen wipers cooperate, and then merge onto the A6, one in a long line of commuters heading for home.

  A lamp is glowing in the corner of my living room, courtesy of a timer set to give the illusion of occupation. Priti replied to my earlier text to confirm she’ll be out till morning at the earliest. I haven’t been alone overnight since the accident, and I’m grateful for the low hum of my neighbour’s telly and the clatter of pots as the couple above prepare their tea. Sitting on the sofa, the TV remote loose in my hand, I stare at the blank screen and contemplate my next move. Half an hour later, the six o’clock news starts next door, and I’m still none the wiser. Krzys is missing, my factory stakeout was a dead loss and a stupid idea, and I’m no closer to finding the mythical flash drive that may hold the answers. My suspension means I can’t access any of MMP’s resources, and the loss of my ID stymies any unauthorised investigation.

  The remote drops to the floor as I bring my knees under my chin and wrap my arms around them. Weary to the bone, I close my eyes, the temptation to follow Krzys’s lead and simply disappear becoming more attractive by the second. I don’t think I can do this on my own. I’m tying myself in knots, and sooner or later, I’m going to drop a bollock in front of the wrong person. I know I can’t run. Running would be as good as an admission of guilt, and the people who really are responsible for Jolanta’s death would get off scot-free. For a moment, wallowing at rock bottom, I consider calling Pryce and telling her everything. As a sergeant,
she outranks me, so I could lay it all in her lap and let her decide what to do next. If she agreed to pursue the case as a murder enquiry, wouldn’t she have jurisdiction? Isn’t that how it works?

  I can’t answer those questions with any degree of certainty, though, and I don’t come close to picking up the phone. Unwilling to vegetate in front of the television, I lump the Yellow Pages onto my lap and begin to leaf through it, paying particular attention to adverts for gyms, safety deposit boxes, private mailboxes: anywhere a combination number might access secure storage. I compile a list of companies to contact during office hours, my eyes growing heavy with two-thirds of the directory still to go. I fall asleep without much warning these days, like a narcoleptic kitten, and I scarcely have time to pull a blanket from the back of the sofa before the room starts to fade out. I hear a thump as the Yellow Pages slides off my lap, and then nothing.

  * * *

  I’m not sure what wakes me. I scrabble to sit upright, thrashing my feet to untangle them from the blanket. The living room is pitch-black, the lamp timed to go out at eleven, and it’s silent apart from the rhythmic tick of the mantelpiece clock. My pulse is slamming along with it, two beats for every tick. Nightmare, I decide, just as I hear the scratch at my front door.

  “Fuck…”

  I roll off the sofa, landing hard on my knees, and crouch on all fours.

  “Priti?” I whisper, but it’s not her. She’d be in by now, not rattling at the lock. Whoever has my keys has obviously used them to get through the shared entrance and then fallen foul of my new locks.

  The noise stops abruptly as I dart into the kitchen and pull a rolling pin from the closest drawer. I creep to the door and peek through the letterbox. The foyer is deserted, the main door secured. I set the pin on the hall carpet, every action slow and deliberate as I fight to regain my composure. Seconds later, an ominous rustling from my bedroom sends me hurtling back to square one.

  “Oh no, no, no!” The words scrape from my dry mouth, more a plea than any threat of resistance. I’ve left one of the windows on a security latch, fastened in place but opened a crack, and the right tools would force the lock in no time. The sound of splitting plastic spurs me to move, and I kick open my bedroom door as a keen breeze billows the curtains inward, revealing the outline of a figure with one boot on the sill, a knee nudging the cloth. He’s not completely inside yet, but he’s too committed to give up.

  I run at the window, slamming both hands on the frame and bashing it into his leg. He yelps and kicks, but his boot comes nowhere near me, and I shove harder on the uPVC, trapping his ankle as he tries to yank it free. Anger annihilates my terror, and I pull the frame inward so I can smash it out again.

  “Fuck you!” I scream at him, and he throws himself backward, using his entire body weight to drag himself free. I can’t see his face as he gets to his feet, only a black balaclava and a white flash of skin and teeth. He limps across to a waiting car, a dark SUV that someone else is driving. The angle is all wrong for me to catch its reg number, and I’m not brave or stupid enough to chase after it.

  I shut the window, fumbling with its lock and being careful not to touch the smear of fresh blood on the frame. The man must have cut his hand when he forced the mechanism. With no intention of calling the police this time, I do SOCO’s job for them, wiping the blood onto a clean tissue and sealing the evidence in a sandwich bag. There was blood at the scene of the first break-in as well, though whether a sample was actually sent to the lab is anyone’s guess. Regardless, a comparison might be useful at some point.

  I’m calm while I do this, methodical and precise. As soon as I run out of tasks, I turn every light on in the flat and crawl fully dressed beneath my quilt with my rolling pin and my mobile. I’ve made a flask of coffee strong enough to keep me awake till next week, and I sip my first cup as I unlock my phone to see why it’s blinking at me. The text is from an unknown number, my empty directory registering every text beside those from Priti as anonymous.

  I need to speak to you regarding your case. When would you be available for interview in Colwyn Bay? DS Pryce.

  She sent the message at about the time I was attempting to hobble the balaclava bloke. Someone at MMP has obviously given her my number.

  I could come over tomorrow, I type. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so I’m probably being optimistic, but I don’t want to be here on my own. Aware that she might have a life outside her job, I add some wriggle room for her: Or whenever’s best for you.

  Not expecting a reply before morning, I don’t fret over sending the text, and I jump sky high when my phone buzzes almost immediately: Tomorrow’s fine. Can you get here for 10 o’clock?

  I’m about to respond in the affirmative when an addendum arrives: I’ll meet you at the Delfryn Cafe by Llyn Ogwen, a few miles outside Capel Curig.

  It’s the village closest to the car crash. Does she think I won’t recognise the name? She must intend to drive the route with me, perhaps shock me into providing an honest account. The underhand tactic puts my back up, but at least I’ve figured it out in advance.

  Ten at the Delfryn Cafe, I type. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  She doesn’t reply.

  Chapter Eleven

  I don’t expect to sleep, but I wake at five thirty-two with my cheek stuck to the pillow and the rolling pin still clutched in my fist. Rain is pattering against the window, and the room is cold enough to make my nose run. Sniffling into a tissue, I stand in front of my wardrobe and consider my options. Pryce has only ever seen me in scrubs or casual castoffs, and for once I’d like to meet her on a more equal footing. I flick through the hangers for an outfit that’s smart without being too rigid, something that gives an air of professionalism, but not professionalism with a rod up my arse like her. I settle on a pale blue shirt with sleeves that will cover my cast, paired with navy jeans. Having ample experience of police interviews, I decide to pack a change of clothing and spare underwear in case things overrun. I can always stay at a B&B and travel back in the morning; it might be my best chance of a peaceful night.

  The shirt looks the part, but it’s a bugger to button and it knocks my schedule to shit. I’m still filling the kettle when my taxi arrives. Sacrificing coffee for punctuality, I grab my bag and coat and then run back for my toothbrush and toothpaste. One advantage of deciding not to drive to Wales—aside from not having to control a car single-handed for a couple of hours—is the opportunity to finish dressing on the train, and I step onto the platform at Bangor looking every inch the professional who’s managed two and a half hours’ sleep wrapped around a rolling pin. I hail another taxi and sit in the front at the driver’s suggestion, showing him Pryce’s text in lieu of embarrassing myself with dodgy pronunciation. He grunts an affirmative, and I tighten my seat belt as he accelerates from the rank.

  “You hiking?” he asks, cutting up an Audi before taking a roundabout on two wheels.

  “What?”

  He brakes hard for a red light and looks at me as if I’m simple. “Hiking, in Snowdonia. A lot of great routes start near that cafe.”

  “Oh, no. I’m meeting someone.” I peer out the window as the road begins to twist and climb. “We’ll probably go for a drive.”

  The morning mist starts to thin, revealing snow-capped peaks, their faces bristly with jagged rocks and scree. This could be the first time I’ve seen the area in daylight, and it’s so beautiful that it distracts me from the white-knuckle ride and the nagging, sickening sense of déjà vu evoked by the route.

  “That’s Tryfan,” the driver says, following my gaze to an isolated beast of a mountain. Snow is lying thick in the gullies on its flank, creating an undulating concertina effect and accentuating its irregular fin-like shape. There must be dozens of paths to its summit, but it stands aloof as if daring anyone to stake a claim.

  “It means ‘three rocks,’” he continues. “Those on top, there.”

  I watch mist eddy around the distinctive triad. I’ve heard the name before, s
poken in an eager estate agent’s pitch: “Stunning view of Tryfan. Really, you won’t find a better one.”

  “Have you ever been up there?” I ask, more to mute the voice in my head than out of any genuine interest.

  “A few times. Broke my ankle on the North Ridge ten years back.” He grins at me. He’s missing two of his front teeth. “I’m too fagged out for that now, but a young un like you, you’d have no trouble if you picked the right weather for it.”

  “Best wait till I get rid of this, eh?” I hitch up my coat sleeve, revealing my cast, and he laughs his agreement.

  Despite his laissez-faire attitude to road regulations, he’s about the best taxi driver I could have hoped for, providing an unobtrusive commentary about the area while avoiding personal questions. I only start to feel anxious once he pulls into a rough lay-by and parks behind a Land Rover Discovery that’s seen plenty of off-roading.

  “Delfryn Cafe.” He points to a white-clad lakeside cottage. “They do the best fry-up around here.”

  “Cheers, mate.” I over-tip him and swap the warmth of the cab for a biting wind and sharp pellets of snow, my sense of abandonment growing as he spins the car and skids back onto the road. I watch his brake lights disappear around a bend and then place my hand on the Disco’s bonnet. I’d hoped to get here first, get the lay of the land, and perhaps eat something to settle my stomach, but the metal is warm, and it’s the only vehicle in the lay-by.

  Keen to get out of the cold if nothing else, I pick a route around ice-crisp puddles and enter the cafe through its side door, stepping into a wall of heat and steam generated by an open fire and a kitchen on full pelt. Temporarily blinded, I stay on the threshold, struggling to pick Pryce out from an unanticipated party of middle-aged hikers who seem to have invaded the small room en masse. A waitress bustles past me, swooping three plates between a chap taking off his coat and a nowty-faced woman who misjudges an attempt to grab the waitress’s arm. As the dust settles in her wake, I spot Pryce in the corner window seat. Sensible enough to have checked the weather prior to setting out, she’s dressed far more appropriately than I am, her fleece pullover and the rucksack by her chair allowing her to blend in with the Snowdonia crowd. No one is paying her any mind, which seems to suit her just fine.