The Divinities

by Parker Bilal

  ‘It didn’t go down like that.’

  Milo was shaking his head. ‘It all went sideways. People were killed.’

  ‘Apart from Avery, who was killed?’

  ‘Avery was already dead when they got there, according to reports. There were other deaths. Civilians. The rest is unclear.’

  ‘Was there an investigation?’

  ‘No, these guys were private contractors paid for by a private citizen. So, officially, it had nothing to do with the UK government. The rules of engagement in these situations were something of a grey area.’

  Drake remembered the contacts he’d had with private contractors in Iraq. More than once as an RMP he had come up against them. They were arrogant, and often thought of themselves as being a law unto themselves. Unaccountable to anyone, certainly not to a British redcap.

  ‘Try to get more details on the whole episode. There must have been reporters over there and someone must have filed the story.’

  ‘Maybe a local paper, I can try Reporters without Borders.’

  ‘Good thinking.’

  ‘Oh, one other thing. I got something back on the security guy you asked about.’ Milo scrabbled through the chaos on his desk to find a slip of paper. ‘Flinders?’

  ‘What about him?’ Drake was on his feet heading for the door. He stared at the map that Kelly had pinned to the board. A knife could do a lot of damage. Vital organs. Nerves.

  ‘No record of a Matthew Flinders with the Light Brigade in Iraq.’

  Drake looked round. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I checked twice. Came up empty.’

  ‘Maybe he changed his name,’ said Cal, ‘the way people seem to do these days.’

  ‘I’ll look into it.’

  ‘Check mother’s maiden name. Things like that. Try to run down his birth certificate, Milo. He had a tattoo.’

  ‘Is this priority?’

  ‘Just when you have a moment. How about the camera footage, any breaks there?’ Milo shook his head. ‘I want everything we can get about the kidnapping. What was the name of the outfit they worked for?’

  ‘Hawkestone.’

  ‘Get on to them and try to find someone who was there ten years ago.’

  ‘Okay, chief.’ Milo was tapping his pen against his teeth.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m just thinking, maybe this could wait till I get back from the hospital?’

  ‘Sure it can,’ Drake nodded. ‘Get over there now. I’ll look in later.’

  ‘You think DCI Pryce won’t mind?’

  ‘I think DCI Pryce can go fuck a duck.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Heather was talking about her mother who had apparently broken up with her boyfriend. She had moved in to get over the break-up and it was proving difficult.

  ‘It’s as if she’s the daughter and I’m the parent. Everything is about her. I don’t have a life.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  Ray listened with half an ear. An unease had begun to make itself felt over the last couple of days and it would not go away. She couldn’t really describe where this feeling came from, but it was real and she knew that until she dealt with it she would have no peace of mind. She had drafted Heather in for some overtime which, she was learning, brought its own drawbacks.

  ‘So, what exactly are we looking for?’ Heather’s face was flushed. She pushed a damp strand of hair back from her brow with an irritated movement.

  ‘Anything out of the ordinary.’

  ‘That helps.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s difficult to explain.’ Ray waved a hand vaguely at the pile of folders now spread across the floor of her office. ‘I’ll know when I see it.’ She knew this wasn’t an adequate answer, that Heather was uncomfortable with intangibles. She needed things to be spelled out.

  ‘Just to be clear,’ Heather said slowly. ‘You think that this case might be connected to a former patient of yours?’

  ‘There’s something here that rings a bell, I’m just not sure which one.’

  Heather counted off on her fingers. ‘So, we don’t have more than a rough time-frame. We don’t have a name. What do we have?’

  Ray sat cross-legged on the floor. She extended one leg and bent down, stretching her hamstrings, holding the bottom of her foot and pulling.

  ‘I did work for the MoD, treating servicemen and women with stress-related disorders.’

  ‘And you think one of them might be connected to this case?’

  Ray leaned back, resting her weight on her hands.

  ‘What we’re looking for is a patient who showed symptoms of acute paranoia. A resentment towards the establishment, society, and an affinity with Islam.’

  ‘Not asking for the moon, then?’ Heather muttered.

  They resumed their work, interspersed with the occasional break when they drank tea and snacked on biscuits that Heather produced from her bottomless stash. Three hours went by and they still had not turned up what they were looking for. Ray decided she really couldn’t justify keeping Heather any longer and sent her home, despite her protests.

  ‘I’m really not in that much of a hurry to get back to the old bat.’

  ‘You’ve done more than enough today. Go home, get some rest and we’ll take another swing at it tomorrow.’

  Once she was alone, Ray felt her thoughts beginning to clear. Perhaps it wasn’t an old patient, but a relative of one of them that she was thinking of. That would mean that her initial impulse to separate male from female patients no longer applied. With a sigh, she set about bundling the files together and starting again.

  Over the years she had seen hundreds of patients. Some lasted weeks or months, some just kept coming. Some she saw once and then never again. Others became regulars. In addition, she had done group-session work for a time, in hospitals and in prisons. All of that added up to a lot of possibilities.

  After another hour Ray needed to get out. She left her office and went downstairs where she put on her boots and threw on her leather jacket. Outside, the air was cold enough to tell her that it was probably going to freeze tonight. The moon was full and clear, sailing through wisps of cloud backlit by the city’s orange glow. She walked aimlessly, turning one way and then the other. Before long she was hit by the harsh white glare of Queensway. Music blared from kebab shops, call centres and trashy supermarkets, alongside a tide of tourist crap; the model red phone boxes, pillar boxes, policeman’s helmets. A miniature parody of that distant country that once was England. Cheap suitcases stacked like dominoes, gold and silver exchanges, currency booths and newsagents where nobody spoke English. The street was an enclave of the world at large, the Middle East and beyond. The people jostling by her chattered to one another in Farsi, Arabic and Turkish, three languages she spoke confidently. She allowed herself to drift along, picking up scraps and titbits, like a crow scavenging on other people’s lives.

  This place felt familiar to her, not just because of the fact that she had travelled extensively, that she had visited many parts of the world that were represented here, but also because this anonymity was her home. The only place she truly belonged. It belonged to everyone and nobody at the same time. She understood that some people didn’t like that. They preferred to cling to the fragments of the past, to close their eyes to what they didn’t like, or didn’t understand. To turn back the clocks, to whisk themselves back into another age, a safer one, one in which everyone looked like you and spoke the same language. Well, good luck with that. Like it or not, this was how things were now, and this was the way they were going to stay.

  It was this uncertainty, she realized as she walked on, that made the city an unknown territory, a borderland where everyone could dream. This was the intersection where jihadis and far-right extremists mingled, each trying to tap into the chaos, to harness the energy here and turn it from light to dark.

  Crane came to a sudden halt. People bumped into her, swore as they pushed past. The line of her thinking had brought her back to the s
ense of unease that had sent her out of the house in the first place. She wasn’t sure where it came from. All her instincts were trying to tell her something. She spun on her heels and began retracing her steps back to the house. She felt a very real sense of imminent danger. She needed to find the connection as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER 36

  Kelly was sitting up in bed when Drake arrived, still hooked up to monitors that beeped and a drip intended to keep her sedated. Despite all of this she was flicking the wall-mounted television impatiently from channel to channel with growing irritation before throwing aside the remote.

  ‘It’s so long since I’ve watched any telly. I forgot how bad it is.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be resting?’ he asked.

  ‘Milo came by.’ She pointed to the basket of fruit on the bedside table. ‘How come nobody gives you chocolate any more? Is that some sort of hint? Should I be worried about my weight?’

  ‘I’m sure he meant well.’ Cal held up the bottle of cava he had brought.

  ‘Not sure I’m allowed to get pissed.’

  ‘It’s motivation. I thought, better than a Get Well card.’

  ‘Right,’ she nodded. ‘Sweet.’

  Kelly was weak and pale. Her hair stuck damply to the side of her face. She wheezed when she spoke. The punctured lung had taken its toll.

  ‘The doctors say you were lucky.’

  ‘That’s me,’ Kelly quipped brightly. ‘Always the lucky one. It’s true. Apparently the blade missed several major organs and nerves. Which I’m really happy about,’ she concluded, lifting an arm. ‘I have a little loss of feeling in my hand, but they say that should come back.’ Kelly slumped back into the pillows, exhaustion mixed with disappointment on her face.

  ‘I heard you racked up a fair old bill there in damaged vehicles and potential law suits.’

  ‘You had to be there to appreciate it. Wheeler, needless to say, is not happy.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise.’ Kelly’s eyes flickered shut for a moment. ‘How about Chief Inspector Prat?’

  ‘He’s doing what he does best.’

  ‘Ouch!’ Kelly winced. ‘Sounds nasty.’

  ‘It is.’ As the smiles faded, there was an awkward silence. Drake studied the floor. ‘So, the thing is, I wanted to apologize for abandoning you there.’

  ‘Aha, so that’s what the bubbly is for, to buy forgiveness. Sorry, chief, but I’d have done the same thing in your place.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Drake felt relieved to hear her say it.

  ‘There was nothing you could have done for me. The ambulance was on the way. I just had to deal with that creepy old man stroking my hand.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Which I have a feeling he really enjoyed.’

  ‘Isn’t that what it’s all about, making people happy?’

  ‘Statistically, you realize it’ll be your turn next. I’ll leave you with the creepy perv.’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.’

  ‘Spoken like a man, always avoiding the issue.’ Kelly tried to change her position and winced as pain shot through her.

  ‘You all right? Shall I call someone?’

  ‘I’m fine. No sweat. Just help me back up.’

  Drake leaned over and put his arm around her to help her.

  ‘And don’t go getting any ideas.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have dreamt of it,’ he muttered. ‘Until you mentioned it.’

  She thumped his arm as he backed away to lean against the window sill.

  ‘So where are we?’ she asked.

  Drake tried to summarize his thoughts.

  ‘Pryce is pissed off that I didn’t inform him about Hakim.’

  ‘Which you didn’t.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘But you’re still convinced this is all connected to the mosque fire?’

  ‘Is this you sounding a note of doubt?’

  Kelly tried to shrug and winced instead. ‘I just get the feeling you connect with this guy somehow.’

  ‘It’s hard to explain, but once upon a time I could have followed that same path.’

  ‘But you didn’t, right? Isn’t that the point?’

  ‘Probably.’ This wasn’t a subject Cal felt comfortable talking about. There were too many questions, and answers he suspected he didn’t have. He looked around the room.

  ‘So, how long are they going to keep you?’

  ‘You miss me. That’s sweet.’

  ‘Actually, I’m worried about Milo. He’s worried about you. Takes his mind off the job.’

  ‘You’re all heart, chief.’ Kelly yawned. ‘I’m kind of getting used to it, people taking care of you. No cooking or cleaning involved. Not that I spend a lot of time on those pursuits.’

  ‘Well, don’t get too comfortable. We need you back on the team.’

  ‘Speaking of which, how’s it going with Catwoman?’

  Drake arched his eyebrows. ‘You’re talking about Doctor Crane, I assume.’

  ‘Not sure I like the sound of this,’ said Kelly frowning. ‘You’re bonding with her.’

  ‘She’s all right when you get to know her.’

  ‘Steady on, I’m supposed to be the one suffering from delirium, remember?’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘Oh, and one other thing,’ Kelly said, as Drake turned to leave. ‘Do me a favour and run that bastard Hakim into the ground when you find him.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  CHAPTER 37

  The storage space measured two by three metres. The glass-walled corridor offered a bird’s-eye view over the Chiswick flyover and Gunnersbury Park. In contrast the room itself was as narrow as a tomb. Sheet-metal panelling and a brightly painted door to add fake cheer. Inside were all Crane’s worldly possessions, stacked up in cardboard cartons. Even the padlock on the door was ordinary, chosen not to draw attention to itself. If somebody really wanted to break into this place they could do it with a tin opener.

  Ray had been mobile, as she liked to think of it, since she was a teenager. She had moved around a lot, storing stuff in friends’ basements, attics, barns. Over the years, she had progressed to lock-ups. Renting a garage on an estate somewhere. She had stored motorcycles and books, and in time there was a gradual accumulation of objects that she didn’t want to lose, but had nowhere to keep. Time moved on, and the world, in a way, began to catch up with her. Now there were lots of people who wanted the same thing. An anonymous place with a simple key. Your own space at an affordable price, available 24/7. In theory, of course, she no longer needed this. She had more than enough space now, especially since Julius had passed away. But old habits die hard and there was a part of her that would always feel the need for this escape hatch. A secret place she could fall back on when it all went sideways.

  Now she gazed at the stacks of cardboard packing cases. They were sealed and covered in a series of markings that corresponded, in some weirdly archaeological fashion, to different periods of her life. This was how she best remembered the contents, by the time in her life when she first packed them. There were boxes that were connected to relationships, to her time at university, to different jobs, to living at home. It was, in short, a sort of blueprint of her life.

  Ray was fine with that. She wasn’t particularly interested in the past. The present occupied her too much for that. Every time she came here she would automatically begin rearranging the boxes, sifting them into piles, restructuring the order of her life. It was a necessary process. The idea was that it would make it easier to find things. It never worked that way. It was almost as if every time she entered this room she saw with clarity what needed to be done. What she often found strange was this encounter with her younger self. How organized that person was, or so it felt. It frightened her, in a way, how focused she had been, and that made her wonder if she had lost her edge.

  Ray had brought a box cutter and a thick roll of duct tape with her. She took these out of her pockets and placed them on
the floor. The labels on the boxes became more erratic and unreliable as the years went by. It was as though the focus and sense of purpose she had had in her twenties was gradually filtered out as life became something you lived through, rather than a project you were planning for. She cut open one box after another, reacquainting herself with its contents before sealing it up again and scrawling a few words on the outside with a marker pen.

  She paused for a break, sitting on a couple of boxes in the corridor watching the headlights flashing by on the overpass down below. She was surprised to find herself thinking about her parents. A childhood memory of driving through the Sierra Nevada, en route to Marrakesh. Sitting in the back of the car, an old Jaguar her father had inherited from an uncle. Whatever happened to that? The novelty of it made it stand out. What she remembered most were the arguments. The embarrassment of sitting down in the front entrance of the hotel where they were staying and knowing that everyone could hear the shouting from upstairs. The looks of sympathy from the receptionist. She hated that.

  Two men walked by along the corridor. Both looked West African. They were speaking what she thought might be Wolof. They wore tracksuit pants and T-shirts. One of them carried a towel slung over his shoulder. She wondered if there were people living in these storage units. It wouldn’t surprise her, but then not much about this city did any more. How much could you get renting out sleeping units in here? She went back to work and soon found what she was looking for.

  Ray’s contact with Stewart Mason had begun back in 2008. Before he invited her to work for him at the Vesta Institute, Mason had been with British Military Intelligence – keeping track of Mason’s movements was something of a challenge. He asked her to go to Iraq on a confidential mission.

  ‘There have been incidents.’

  ‘What kind of incidents?’

  ‘Violence. Soldiers stepping over the line, abusing civilians.’ A hotel receptionist in Falluja had been tortured and killed. ‘It’s the one thing we didn’t factor in, cultural difference.’