Broken Windows

by Janet Pywell

  Peter takes my arm.

  ‘Come on, Mikky. Let me take you home before you have a tantrum and cause a fight.’

  * * *

  Back in Josephine’s penthouse apartment, I toss my evening bag onto the couch before disappearing into the shower. When I come out, I pull on comfy joggers and thick socks, and lie on my bed.

  I spend a few minutes checking my messages and then call Marco, hoping he is not asleep and will pick up my call.

  ‘Marco?’

  ‘Hello, my darling,’ he calls cheerily down the line. ‘I left you a few messages.’

  ‘I’ve been out to a charity auction, then I took a shower. It’s freezing here.’

  He laughs. ‘I’ve just pulled into Messina – I’ve had a fabulous view of Mount Etna today, and it’s been beautiful. The only thing missing is you.’

  ‘I miss you, too.’

  ‘I spoke to Stella. She’s not coming back from India. She’s hoping to spend Christmas with her family in India now. Is that alright with you?’

  ‘Oh! I was looking forward to seeing them all and spending Christmas together.’

  ‘I know, but we will be together, Mikky.’

  I think how lucky Marco’s sister, Stella, had been after the attempt on her life by her nephew last year. His attempt to place a homemade bomb on the top of her car had left her face slightly scarred, but she had made a full recovery. Astonishingly, her ex-husband had been incredibly supportive, and now they were back together, living most of the year in his home in India, where he is now a surgeon.

  Marco continues, ‘I can’t tell you how excited I am to be coming home. Home for Christmas, with you – it’s going to be amazing. The best Christmas ever.’

  ‘I’m so pleased, Marco. It will definitely be the best. But I was looking forward to spending time with Stella and the family. I wanted us to all be together.’

  ‘Are you okay, Mikky?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m tired, and I miss you, that’s all.’

  ‘How’s Peter?’

  ‘He’s good. I think we’re going on the film set with the kids who are doing the parkour next week.’

  ‘That will be exciting. I loved the film clip you sent me that you took in Morocco. I’m sorry about Ali.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s still a shock.’

  ‘What about the documentary – are you still going ahead with it?’

  ‘I’d like to, but I haven’t seen the kids at all.’

  ‘I can understand that. They’re probably frightened. Be careful, Mikky.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘So, what’s next?’

  ‘I’m currently looking for a specific dagger, so I’ll do some Internet research.’

  ‘Great. Look, sorry, Mikky – I’ve got to go; the Harbour Police are here, and they want to check the boat over.’

  ‘Is everything alright?’

  ‘It’s just a formality. They do it all the time to make sure I’m not smuggling anything. Don’t worry. I’ll call you later and remember – I love you.

  ‘I love you, too,’ I whisper, and then the line goes dead.

  * * *

  Peter is in the living room.

  ‘Do you want wine?’ I call out from the kitchen.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Cheese?’

  ‘Please.’

  I prepare a tray of biscuits, cheeses, and wine, and carry it through to the open plan lounge/diner and push aside Peter’s gadgets; I sit at the dining table opposite him. He’s changed into jeans and a T-shirt.

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’ I ask.

  ‘Not anymore. You look fed up,’ Peter says, reaching out and cutting a slice of Gouda. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I don’t feel as though we’re making any progress.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘No.’ I gulp my wine. ‘That was a complete waste of time this evening.’

  ‘What about this?’

  He slides a piece of A4 paper across the table toward me. It’s a blown-up photograph of a small brown male nipple and underneath there is a curved dagger, about five centimetres long.

  ‘Oh my … what is this?’ I whisper.

  Peter holds my gaze and doesn’t respond, so I say, ‘Ali?’

  Peter nods. ‘Yes.’

  There’s something so deathly and final about the grainy photograph that I feel as though I might cry. Instead, I bite my lip.

  ‘It’s the dagger,’ I say.

  I open my work bag and pull out my camera. It takes me a few minutes to find the photograph of Monika’s tattoo from when she was sleeping in my bedroom in Morocco. I print out a copy – the same A4 size – then I lay the images together, side by side on the table, along with my sketch.

  The image of Monika’s isn’t as good because of the light.

  ‘It’s just like this one. The daggers are the same.’

  ‘Monika let you take this?’

  ‘No, I told you, Peter. She was sleeping. Her pyjama shirt was open, so I photographed her.’

  ‘That’s illegal, and it’s not ethical.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have done the same?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘No! The point is, Peter, that we now have evidence that there is a dagger and it would appear there is definitely a cult-like gang. We can actually link two people with the same tattoo.’ I smile. ‘Ali and Monika were – or are, in her case – cult members.’

  Peter refills our glasses and stares at the images laid on the table.

  ‘Can you leave a cult?’ he asks.

  ‘I wouldn’t think so when you think of the Moonies and Scientology. They make it very difficult for people to leave. Impossible, even.’

  ‘So, do you think Monika must still be a member of the cult?’

  He lifts the photographs closer to his face and frowns, analysing the detail.

  ‘Probably, and that’s maybe why she won’t speak to me. It might be why she hasn’t gone to Dixon House. She’s frightened.’

  ‘But how do they control these kids? What’s the attraction to join the cult in the first place?’

  ‘Matt seems to think it could be a parental influence; you know the fact that the Asian provides for them – money, food, shelter. Think about it: Ali and Monika are both from families where the parents have separated and, worse still, they were already involved with drugs …’

  ‘So, there’s no family cohesion,’ Peter agrees. ‘No stability. The kids have no role models.’

  ‘Matt reckons they have no male role models. Ali’s father wasn’t around, and neither is Monika’s – they both lacked stable male influence in their lives.’ I lean my elbows on the table and say, ‘Peter, what if … maybe Ali tried to leave the gang, and that’s why they killed him that night. Perhaps he wanted out …’

  ‘According to Matt, he’d already left.’

  ‘What if they wouldn’t let him go?’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Really? You actually agree with me that Ali was somehow killed?’ I pause with my wine glass against my lips. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’ve found CCTV from Tower Bridge the night Ali died.’

  * * *

  ‘Found?’ I query. ‘You found CCTV?’

  ‘Acquired,’ Peter mumbles.

  ‘You acquired it?’

  ‘Well, not me, exactly – a friend helped me.’

  ‘How come you have so many friends who help you in these shady dealings of yours?’

  ‘Not shady,’ he replies sulkily, and I ruffle his hair and laugh.

  ‘Show me, then. Come on!’ I lean over his shoulder, conscious of his familiar aftershave as he brings the computer screen to life, and we watch the film on the screen in silence.

  Cars are driving over Tower Bridge. A hooded figure emerges from the bottom left of the screen, hunched over and running like a dog on all fours – quadrupedal coronation in parkour. There�
��s a gap in the traffic. The figure jumps effortlessly – a safety vault – then precision jumping to land on the balls of his feet, wall running up the illuminated steel structure, bar swinging, then there is a butterfly kick, quickly and with practised skill. It’s a balancing act, bar kick over swing, looping, overarm and underarm – rehearsed and perfect parkour – and a jump spin, until he finally reaches the high-level glass walkways.

  Peter switches CCTV for a better angle of the hooded person, and I can make out the leather flying jacket. It’s a shadow, an outline. The traffic continues moving below. No one appears to have noticed Ali’s graceful athleticism.

  He stands, breathless, while he contemplates the scene below.

  ‘I’ve compared Ali’s movements with the ones we filmed in Morocco, Mikky. I’m convinced it’s the same person.’ Peter taps a few keys.

  ‘It is Ali,’ I whisper, watching the screen intently. ‘I know it is.’

  Inside my heart, I’m screaming – wait, don’t do it, Ali – but the figure doesn’t hear me.

  He pauses, kneeling, hunched over his sneakers, and I imagine the cold and biting wind on his face. Then, he seems to turn slightly in our direction – does he see the CCTV? – before turning his back and almost defiantly, with his arms stretched wide, jumping into the darkness of the icy water below.

  I slump back into my seat, shocked.

  ‘Do you want to see it again?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  Peter tops up my wine glass, and I know he’s looking at the clip again, but I can’t. I’ve seen enough.

  ‘It was suicide,’ I mumble. ‘Ali jumped.’

  ‘It looks like it.’ Peter focuses on his screen, tapping the keyboard with his stunted fingers, blown off by an Afghanistan bomb.

  ‘But then why did you agree with me? Why did you say that you think they killed him? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘No, but this does.’

  He turns the computer screen in my direction, to where there’s another CCTV in a dark street. It’s an almost empty car park, when suddenly the back door flies open, and a figure bolts from the parked car.

  ‘Is that a supermarket car park?’

  Peter nods.

  ‘Is that Ali?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘He’s escaped.’ I wait, holding my breath, watching as he’s followed by two hooded men leaping from the car to chase him. ‘Where is this?’

  ‘Islington.’

  Two men give chase, but Ali is quick. He uses his acrobatic skills to escape, sliding down the railing of a steep flight of steps, and they all go out of view.

  ‘Is that it?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s enough for me to think that whoever they are picked him up. Perhaps they were going to kill him, but his leap off Tower Bridge is almost an act of bravery. When you look at it again, you’ll see that he’s up on the high-level walkway. I think he’s looking for CCTV. It’s an act of defiance, Mikky. I’m convinced of it.’

  ‘I can’t look again, Peter.’

  I walk over and stand at the patio doors, looking at the illuminated Tower Bridge. I think of Ali running for his life, in fear, and running from what? Running from who?

  It takes me another glass of wine before I can sit with Peter again and go through all the action, piece by piece.

  ‘That car – is it the Audi that I saw that night?’

  I’m desperate to link the hooded men who chased Ali with the men who I saw in the grey Audi, after visiting Ali’s father.

  ‘No, I think it’s a different car, but I can’t see the number plate. I think they probably steal a vehicle for each different job they do. Maybe it’s a coincidence they were both Audis.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Police report?’

  ‘No, I think the owners are just happy to get their car back; they think it’s joyriders – and if the car isn’t damaged, they’re grateful they don’t have to claim on their insurance. And for the police, who are swamped with paperwork, they just want to tick the boxes that the car has been returned to the owner with no massive damage done.’

  ‘So, Ali did kill himself,’ I muse. ‘But he had so much to live for – they must have put the fear of God into him.’

  ‘Well, certainly fear,’ agrees Peter, and I remember that Peter is agnostic.

  ‘I think they put enough fear in him for Ali to take his own life.’

  ‘It might seem that way, but we can’t prove it, it’s suicide.’

  ‘And the coroner’s report matches all this?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s consistent with Ali being involved in a fight. He has bruised knuckles and a blow on his cheek.’

  ‘But no marks around his wrist, as if he’s been held captive?’

  ‘No, none.’ Peter looks at me. ‘But it doesn’t mean that he wasn’t snatched, beaten, and then escaped.’

  * * *

  I can’t sleep.

  I toss and turn in bed, not getting comfortable. I have images of Ali in my head; having held his arms wide, it reminds me of the Art Deco statue – Christ the Redeemer, created by the French sculptor Paul Landowski. The figure of Jesus Christ in Rio de Janeiro stands at almost thirty metres high and the arms stretch twenty-eight metres wide. Completed in 1931, it’s famous throughout the world and recognised as a significant landmark.

  In the end, although it’s barely three o’clock, I get up and make black coffee, and sit in the lounge, in the dark, curled up on the sofa, wondering why Ali killed himself.

  What could have frightened him? Why would a boy who had so many dreams of turning his life around kill himself?

  When Peter gets up and wanders through to the lounge at six-thirty, he’s not surprised to see me, and I say quietly, ‘Ali knew something. That’s what gave him the power. He knew something important, and he wasn’t going to let them have that information. That’s why he took his own life.’

  I swing my legs off the sofa and wait for Peter to reply.

  He sits down at the dining table without speaking and fires up his computer before saying, ‘Okay, Mikky. If you want to use that assumption – what could he have known?’

  ‘He might have had information that he wanted to tell someone.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Maybe – he wanted to go into the police force, remember?’

  ‘Then why not go to a police station and ask for protection?’

  ‘I don’t know … well, maybe he was frightened …’

  ‘Of the police?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m not convinced.’ Peter shakes his head. ‘He could have gone to Matt. He knows Matt would have helped him and protected him.’

  ‘This is bigger than Matt. Whatever Ali knew was very important.’

  ‘How did he find out about it? He only came back from Morocco at lunchtime – so what happened between when he left Matt and the Parks at the tube station to when he killed himself just before seven o’clock?’

  ‘We know he had tea with his foster family, saw his father, and then he met Kiki around six o’clock. Let’s assume Ali was in this cult or gang – whatever its name is – and then he left it. He was relocated and put into foster care. He’d only recently gone back to live with his father. Maybe they caught up with him again when he moved back to the estate?’ I suggest.

  ‘Okay, I’m going with this theory.’ Peter taps his keyboard.

  ‘So, let’s assume Monika has the tattoo because she is or was in this gang.’

  ‘I doubt you’re allowed to leave.’

  ‘I agree. I wouldn’t think so. You think of all the cults you read about. Their members are brainwashed, and they’ve been encouraged to have no contact with family or friends …’

  ‘I looked it up, and I think that there’s a level of deception. They don’t realise they’re joining a cult and it’s only when you want to leave that there are threats and intimidation. A cult leader uses psychology to get a person to distrust themselv
es – and very often they encourage them to take on a new personality – like an identity where their thoughts, feelings, and actions are marshalled and controlled …’

  ‘Through the cult leader?’

  ‘Yes – now assuming it is the Asian – cult leaders are often charismatic, inspirational, and noble. They’re motivated by a higher purpose—’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. It’s not about personal gain; it’s something more important – something more difficult to attain.’

  ‘Power?’

  ‘So, the cult leader, if it is the Asian, could be recruiting these kids by telling them that people need drugs because …?’

  ‘Because their lives are so crap – and by providing to the addicts, they’re helping them get the drugs they want …’

  Peter looks doubtfully at me, and I shrug. ‘It’s just a suggestion.’

  ‘What about trust?’ Peter says. ‘Isn’t it all about trust and providing a place of safety?’

  ‘Dixon House is a place of trust and safety. Matt and Claudia told me how the Asian and his team recruit these young and vulnerable children – they take them to houses and feed them while they bag up the drugs to sell on the streets. They promise them money and clothes and status, and the kids believe in what they do. These kids are tested – with chaffing, remember?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a test.’

  ‘How often do you hear on the news that young kids have gone missing, and that knife crime is on the increase or a body of a young boy has been discovered stabbed? Knife crime is growing, as are the drugs gangs and the county lines.’

  ‘You’re right, Mikky.’

  ‘Matt said there was a police raid last year and I think that’s when Mulhoon’s undercover officers were killed, but they don’t prosecute the kids – that’s how Matt can step in and help them. Dixon House is a safe place for them to go.’

  ‘So, Ali and Monika had help. They had Matt and Dixon House.’

  ‘Yes, but what if something else happened?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I stare at him, my mind a blank.

  ‘Okay, so if they got to Ali – which it looks like they did – did he pass on this information he had to anyone else? Did he tell Monika, for example?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wonder if they were in the cult together.’ I get up and stand at the window.