Broken Windows

by Janet Pywell

  ‘Anyone who was in the area the last few days would know filming was going on.’

  ‘Yes, but no one would have been that crazy to run to the top, pursued by an Asian with a gun.’

  ‘I had no choice,’ I whisper. ‘Watch the film and tell me what you would have done.’

  ‘I have watched it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You were very brave.’

  ‘I was only like that because I knew Peter was backing me up.’ I turn to him. ‘How did you manage to track me after I pulled my coat off?’ I ask.

  Peter shakes his head and pauses thoughtfully.

  ‘We were in the chopper. It was windier than we expected and then our connection was cut when the parka was pulled off you. I was hoping we would get to the roof on time.’

  ‘Where is Adam?’

  ‘Outside, he wants to make sure you’re okay.’

  ‘What about Badger? Is he alright?’

  But it’s Mulhoon who replies.

  ‘He’s missing, along with the Turk and the Asian.’

  ‘And the dagger?’ I ask.

  ‘After speaking to Peter, we assume the Asian still has it.’

  Peter says, ‘Bill couldn’t land the chopper on the roof but we could land in the car park beside the stunt mattress – it’s been there for a few days for the stunt team. They were freefalling.’

  Mulhoon rubs his shining egg-shaped head and sighs. ‘They’re trained and Mikky isn’t. It could all have gone so horribly wrong – if the mattress hadn’t been there.’

  ‘Believe me, if the mattress hadn’t been there and I hadn’t been wearing a protective vest, I wouldn’t be here today.’

  ‘Did you know it was still there?’ asks Mulhoon.

  ‘I remember the film crew talking about taking it away. When I got to the roof, I looked over the edge. I couldn’t believe it was still there.’

  Mulhoon nods. ‘You were lucky!’

  My eyes feel heavy, and I guess the painkillers are kicking in. ‘You have a lead now. You’ll find the Asian, won’t you?’ I insist.

  ‘You get some rest, Mikky. Let’s meet up in the morning,’ he says to Peter. ‘I’ll know more by then.’

  ‘What about Monika? Do you know if she is alright?’ I ask. ‘She was one of the Parks who came to Morocco.’

  ‘I’ll check, Mikky. You need to rest now and leave it to us.’

  * * *

  I sleep soundly all through the night, and the following morning Peter and I are eating toast and drinking tea, watching the BBC News when Marco phones.

  ‘I have a problem with the yacht,’ he says. ‘I won’t be able to get back for another week.’

  ‘That’s alright, my darling,’ I say, feeling suddenly teary.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘I miss you.’

  ‘I miss you, too, but don’t worry, Mikky.’

  ‘I’m sorry that Stella and her family aren’t coming to England now.’

  ‘Me too, but don’t worry, we will have a lovely Christmas.’

  ‘It seems so far away,’ I moan.

  ‘It’s only a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Peter isn’t coming to stay with us now at Blessinghust Manor, either.’ I look at Peter, and when he looks sadly at me, I poke out my tongue. ‘He’s going to visit his aunt in Scotland.’

  ‘Sorry, Mikky, I have to go. I’ll call you later. The boat mechanic is here. Bye, darling. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too, Marco.’ I toss my phone onto the sofa and glare at Peter.

  ‘Who’s Bill?’

  Peter looks surprised. ‘An old army friend.’

  ‘The one who owns the helicopter?’

  ‘Yes. He’s the guy who runs the sightseeing tours.’

  ‘The one who put up a prize at the charity auction?’

  Peter grins. ‘That’s the one. He used to fly Apaches in Afghanistan with me.’

  ‘He was a bit slow,’ I say, grumpily.

  ‘I know, Mikky, and I’m sorry. We were monitoring the SWAT teams gathering below and I thought they’d get there in time. I can’t believe they took so long to get organised. Then when you shrugged off your parka, we lost sight of you between the alleyways and the buildings—’

  ‘At least you had the chopper; you’d never have been able to follow me in the van.’

  ‘That’s why I asked for Bill’s help.’

  On television, the prime minister appears in a street scene canvassing for the election. Peter turns up the sound. He’s in the north of England visiting other constituencies, trying to drum up support for another term in government. He’s boasting how the Metropolitan Police successfully infiltrated a drugs gang and rescued twenty-five homeless children who’d gone missing. The video flips to the building which Sandra used for filming but which is now part of a crime scene.

  There’s no mention of me or the dagger. The journalist says that information is scant. They believe one of the gang members was pursued and managed to escape by freefalling onto a stunt mattress – part of the film stunt props which was fortunately still in place. It wasn’t a secret that the empty building was used as a film set – and as such, geared up to filming action scenes.

  The BBC switches to a journalist who interviews Sandra; the building is behind her and Sandra looks remarkably calm.

  We spoke last night on the phone, but then Peter phoned her this morning. He suggested that she play the game, talking about her new action film, the Parks, and the health and safety protocol over the past days.

  Sandra ends up reiterating that she’s happy no one was injured, and for her, it’s back to work and another day of filming, but this time on location in South London. The screen cuts back to the studio and the interviewer, and Peter reaches to turn down the volume.

  ‘That’s lucky, we’ve managed to keep your name out of it.’

  I swallow my toast as Peter picks up the phone; taking a call from Matt, he covers the mouthpiece.

  ‘It’s Monika. She’s at Dixon House and she wants to talk to you.’

  Chapter 13

  “When crimes begin to pile up they become invisible. When sufferings become unendurable the cries are no longer heard. The cries, too, fall like rain in summer.”

  Bertolt Brecht

  Peter insists on driving rather than taking the tube, and as we cross over Tower Bridge, I can’t help but think of Ali and our trip to Morocco almost two weeks ago.

  My head hurts more from thinking about the events rather than the soreness of my unprofessional fall yesterday. I was fortunate that Peter had been thorough in his preparation and insist I wear body protection.

  I climb out of the van and wince; my body feels stiff and I ache. I smile at Peter when he looks concerned.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I link my arm through his. ‘You’re my hero, did I tell you?’

  ‘Not recently.’ He grins, but I can tell he isn’t relaxed. His body is wired, and he glances continually over his shoulder.

  Monika is in Matt’s office, and when she sees me, she flings her arms around my neck and hugs me tightly. Then she pulls away, wiping her tired eyes. She looks exhausted and appears barely to have any strength to stand up.

  She sinks into a chair and looks from Matt and then to Peter. ‘Can I speak to Mikky alone?’

  The two men leave the office. I pull another chair closer, so our knees are almost touching. I take her hands in mine, conscious of her rough skin and torn nails. ‘You need a manicure,’ I joke.

  ‘And a haircut – look at it.’ Her rough curls are a mess, and she tugs at the wiry strands with despair.

  ‘Are you alright? Are they looking after you?’

  ‘Social services took me to a place last night. It’s a hostel where kids like me can hang out. I’m too old for a foster family.’

  ‘What about your auntie?’

  She looks up at me and her eyes grow round with fear. ‘I can’t go back. The boys – my stepbrothers – would …’ She shakes her head and looks away
, so I squeeze her hands, more to control my own emotions than to help her.

  ‘What can I do?’ I ask.

  She continues to look down at our entwined fingers and shakes her head.

  ‘I don’t know, Mikky, but I just wanted to see you. Adam told me you came to rescue me.’ When she looks up, her brown eyes fill with tears. ‘No one ever saved me before.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure you were in there. I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I was in a room.’

  ‘Was it very awful?’

  We hold hands and sit in silence for a while until she asks, ‘Do you know what gaslighting is?’

  ‘I know the term. I know it originated from the play Gas Light back in the 1930s – I think it was by Patrick Hamilton – and it was later turned into psychological thrillers on several occasions, the most famous version starring the old Hollywood stars Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer.’

  She raises her head and looks confused at all this detail, and says, ‘It’s when someone messes with your brain. They make you feel like you’re going crazy. They manipulate you and distort reality, then they blame you – so everything is your fault …’

  ‘The people that do that are often narcissists, sociopaths, or psychopaths. They exhaust you by running rings around you with crazy discussions, and they challenge and invalidate your thoughts, perspectives, and emotions until you doubt your own sanity.’

  ‘My stepbrothers do it to me, Mikky. Sometimes I want to kill myself.’

  I squeeze her hands. ‘You can’t let them do that to you. That’s how they get away with it …’

  ‘They provoke me. They terrorise and threaten me, and then they laugh at me. I can’t keep fighting them. I haven’t any more energy.’

  ‘Then you must stay away from them.’

  ‘How?’ She wipes a tear with the back of her hand. ‘They come and find me – my auntie tells them she’s worried about me and then they emotionally blackmail me into staying at home. They tell me I don’t appreciate what I have, and how kind they are, and what they do for me, and that without them, I’d be nothing …’

  ‘We must find you somewhere safe,’ I whisper.

  ‘There isn’t anywhere,’ she mumbles.

  I pull a packet of tissues from my pocket and offer her one.

  ‘I wanted to do what Ali did …’

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask gently. My heart is sinking. ‘You can’t—’

  ‘He was going to the police, Mikky. After we came back from Morocco, you and Peter had given him hope and he said he wanted to do the right thing. He wanted to save us all from the Asian and those like him, but then they got to him. He told me if they found out what he was going to do, he knew they were going to kill him. But he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.’

  ‘What was he going to do?’

  ‘He thought he could do a deal, tell the police what he knew about the gang and the Asian – in return he thought they’d protect him, but it didn’t work out that way.’

  ‘He told the police?’

  ‘He called me. He said he had a meeting and he was going to tell them everything he knew.’

  ‘Who did he speak to?’

  ‘He said there’s no point in fighting them – even the ones you think are on your side –because they’re not. He said everyone is corrupt.’

  ‘Who did he speak to?’ I urge. ‘This is important, Monika. Think hard. Did he give you a name?’

  Monika shakes her head.

  ‘He wouldn’t. He said he wanted to keep me safe. He said he had no choice. He had to kill himself. He wouldn’t let them kill him.’

  I sit holding Monika’s hand, then I say, ‘Monika, I’m sorry you’re sad, and that this happened to Ali, but I want to help. Just clarify this – are you telling me that Ali went to the police, told them what he knew, and that they weren’t interested?’

  She shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t just that. I don’t know who he went to see, but the Asian knew what he’d done. The Asian knew he’d gone to someone. The Asian went looking for Ali.’

  * * *

  Matt’s office is quiet. Apart from a few voices in the hallway, we sit in silence. I know Matt was calling the social services and I wonder if anyone has arrived yet to look after Monika.

  Her head is resting on her chest. She seems exhausted. She seems too tired to look up, so I lay my hand on top of her hair. She wipes her tears with the back of her hand, and when she finally looks up, her bloodshot eyes are the epitome of sadness, reminding me of the haunting images I’ve seen over the years of Mary the Mother of Jesus, holding her dead son.

  ‘I’ll speak to Matt,’ I say. ‘And find you somewhere safe to stay.’

  ‘Mikky,’ she says huskily. ‘I’d tell the police anything, but I’m frightened …’

  ‘I know,’ I whisper.

  ‘I’d swap any information I have for a new identity somewhere else, a new beginning, a new start – but I can’t do that now. The Asian is still around, and it’s only because you rescued me that I’m here now.’

  ‘Why did he pick you up?’

  ‘Because he knew Ali was my friend – he thought I might do the same thing.’

  ‘Did you tell the police what he did to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t trust them, either. The Asian is still out there.’ Monika sits up straight, then lets go of my hands.

  I stand up, and stretch my legs and my aching body. The fall from the twenty-fifth floor hurt even though I landed on a thick mattress. I walk to the window and move the blinds to one side, and see the rain lashing against the window. The courtyard is empty, but I can hear muffled voices; several people are huddled in the doorway, and occasionally a waft of smoke drifts past the glass.

  ‘I’ll sort it out, Monika.’ I drop the blind and turn from the window.

  Monika shakes her head. ‘You can’t. Look what happened to you. Adam told me what you did. The Asian shot you.’

  ‘But he didn’t kill me. He didn’t win,’ I say with resolve.

  ‘But what can you do now? If the police are on his side?’

  ‘Well, we need to look at this and see what our options are now.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Me and Peter.’

  ‘But what will you do?’

  ‘First of all, you have to tell us everything.’

  * * *

  Matt allows me to use one of the offices. He had gained permission for me to interview the Parks for the documentary and I’m taking full advantage of my privileged position to ask Monika questions. Claudia sits at the back, quietly watching.

  Peter isn’t happy with me speaking to Monika. He listens to her quiet, hesitant voice and he looks sad, but he remains tight-lipped and in the background, leaving me to gently ask her questions.

  ‘Tell me about the initiation ceremony,’ I suggest.

  Monika speaks slowly. ‘That’s how I met Ali. They’d brought him from Barnet, picked him up off the street. There was a group of us – I’d been taken to this addict’s house somewhere in North London, and the leader of our group was …’ she pauses and looks at Peter.

  ‘It’s alright, Monika. Peter understands, but if you want him to leave the room, it’s fine.’

  She shakes her head and continues, ‘He forced me to have sex with him, regularly, and he gave me drugs.’

  ‘Do you know who he was?’

  ‘No, but I saw him again. He was with the Asian in the warehouse.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Gross! Fat, but it’s muscle – he’s Turkish.’

  I suddenly know who she means. It’s the man I kicked in the balls – the one who escaped with the Asian.

  ‘So, did he take part in the ceremony?’

  ‘He gave us the tattoos. We lined up. There was maybe twenty of us, all kids, all sworn to secrecy, and we took an oath, then they cut us with this knife – a big blade – a special dagger.’

  I show
her the picture of the dagger that I’d shown Jeffrey Bonnington in Basel.

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She blinks, surprised. ‘We all bled, then we had to lick each other’s blood and that bonded us to each other.’

  ‘Where did they cut you?’

  ‘Here, under our heart. Then the Turk tattooed us, so it was a reminder that if one got caught or one betrayed us then everyone else would be caught.’

  ‘Did you want the tattoo?’

  She shrugs. ‘It pleased the Turk, and when he was happy, he left me alone.’

  ‘And Ali?’

  ‘I think he was high. They gave us drugs to make it seem like a great idea, and we’d chant.’

  ‘Chant what?’

  ‘I don’t remember. It sounded like gibberish. Foreign …’

  ‘Chinese?’ I suggest. ‘Mandarin?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Tell me about the dagger.’

  ‘It was very sharp – I know a lot of the guys carry knives and some even carry machetes. But it’s much more dangerous – its blade is so, so sharp,’ she emphasises.

  ‘Did it have any symbols or writing on it? Like this one?’

  ‘I have it tattooed on my chest, remember?’

  ‘Was there anyone else present at the ceremony?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think there may have been someone else.’ She frowns.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I don’t know, but the Asian seemed as if he wanted to impress. It was like a show.’

  ‘A show?’

  ‘He seemed aroused, if you know what I mean.’

  * * *

  I’m exhausted. It’s been an emotionally draining afternoon, and my body aches. We’re back in Josephine’s apartment, and I lay on the sofa and close my eyes, thinking about Monika.

  ‘We have a match on the dagger,’ I say. ‘But what would Raymond Harris have to gain by killing Ali?’

  Peter shrugs. ‘We’re guessing.’

  ‘How long do you think Ali was inside his constituency office for?’

  ‘Probably ten or fifteen minutes.’

  ‘That’s a long time – long enough to confide in someone.’ I get up from the sofa and move gingerly toward the table where Peter has set up the film on his computer.