Good Girl Bad Girl

by Ann Girdharry

  “Nannie, it's me, Kal.”

  In response, Nannie closed her eyes and began a low moaning, rocking backwards and forwards, hugging her arms across her chest.

  “I'm not Alesha, I'm Kal,” she said quietly, already knowing they'd missed the good moment. The window of lucidity had closed. She turned to Spinks. “This happens sometimes, I'm sorry.”

  “No need for apology, Ms Medi. I completely understand.”

  Nannie's handkerchief fell to the floor. As Kal picked it up, she noticed a half-crumpled picture postcard tucked between the cushion and the side of Nannie's chair. The card crackled lightly as she pulled it out. Kal’s senses snapped to alert.

  On the front was a scene of bluebells, the flowers creating a purple-blue haze amongst the trees. A bench and a small house featured in a corner of the view. It was the bluebell grove at the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew. Kew Gardens wasn't far from Apartment 701 and it was one of Alesha's favourite places. Over the years, Kal had shared visits with her mother to the beautiful bluebell grove in late spring, or the early spring magnolia grove.

  Aware that Spinks watched every move, Kal placed the handkerchief back on her grandmother's lap and nonchalantly smoothed out the postcard. As she did, she turned it over. A single line was typed on the back - ‘Watch What You Say or They'll Be Calling You a Radical.’ Her heart started beating faster.

  “Anything pertinent?” asked Spinks, holding out his hand.

  Her mouth felt dry. “It's an old postcard.”

  He stared at the single line. “Do you make anything of this sentence?”

  “No, probably it’s a gift from one of Nannie's confused friends.”

  Spinks’ eyes rested on her. So she added a tiny bit more information, not too much, only the smallest of expert touches to confuse the trail. Her father would have been proud of her - so innocent on the outside, so cool and calculating on the inside.

  “All the residents have dementia. Perhaps all the recent news about terrorism is getting mixed up in their heads.”

  “I see.”

  Kal concentrated on maintaining a relaxed posture and a soft, gentle expression - one that in her photojournalism always threw people off the scent. She waited until Spinks blinked and shifted his stance, indicating his thoughts had moved on. Since he was a good detective, she estimated a part of him would still question whether she lied, except that one line would only mean something to her.

  “My first priority is to interview Sarah Wiseman at her office and after, I’ll be questioning people who may have seen your mother last,” Spinks said. “Be sure to call me immediately should anyone contact you issuing demands or if any new information comes to light. Nothing can be ruled out at this stage.”

  Kal nodded.

  “I can’t emphasise it enough - if you have any questions, contact me at any time. If you remember anything unusual, call me straight away. Good communication is essential, do you understand?”

  Of course she understood. Clearly, he took her for an idiot. She nodded again. “Yes, I get what you’re saying. No problem.”

  “That’s good. Now, will you stay with your grandmother or can I offer you a lift?”

  All she wanted was to dash back to the apartment at lightning speed, and she masked it by looking down and toying with the fringe of Nannie’s shawl. She was careful to keep her voice casual. “I'll stay for a while longer.”

  In reality, Kal remained long enough to watch Spinks exit the driveway. Then she kissed Nannie goodbye and raced for the bus back to Putney. On the way out, she checked at the office, as, reportedly, had Spinks. They had no record of Alesha's alleged visit.

  Chapter Five

  The bus driver flashed Kal a smile, his eyes scanning her up and down. She ignored him and stamped her way up the stairs. Now, she had a direction to go in, and fear made her hand sweaty on the metal stair rail. It made her light headed as she took her seat. Not a fear of danger because she felt prepared for that, no, it was a dread of the unknown, because now Kal understood why her mother left out the threat. It was a silent warning. ‘Watch out’.

  Sitting near the back, Kal did a search on her mobile. The line, 'Watch What You Say or They'll Be Calling You a Radical,' came from a song by ‘Supertramp'. It featured on their album from 1979.

  Her mind began replaying a loop - the blur of the letter and the strain on Sarah’s face, the sound of her mother’s voice crackling down the satellite call, and an image of her mother, perhaps dressed in smart, western clothes, bending to give Nannie a kiss and tucking the postcard down the side of the chair. Kal wiped her sweaty palms on her clothes.

  She got off the bus at Wimbledon Parkside, a road stretching long and straight in both directions. On one side of Wimbledon Parkside lay Wimbledon Common, which was a natural area of woods and grassland slap bang in the middle of south London and spanning some four hundred acres. On the other side of Wimbledon Parkside, smart houses and apartments stood back from the road. It was a short walk to apartment 701 - ten minutes at a normal pace and walking fast Kal could make it in six.

  Since arriving at the airport she'd lost track of time. Judging by the dimming light and the amount of traffic, it was coming up to the evening rush-hour. Assessing the flow of the cars, Kal crossed the road, jogging between a taxi and a white van. Over her shoulder a sudden detail snagged her attention. She spun around, the pavement making a damp, slippery noise underneath her shoe. A cold prickle ran up her back.

  She scanned quickly. In the mid-zone, there were a handful of pedestrians - a man with a black Labrador, two joggers in brightly-coloured gear heading fast towards her, a young woman hurrying along with her hands in her pockets and an older man carrying a shopping bag. Kal checked each person’s posture and she assessed the way they moved, probing for any off-key element in their faces or body language. All appeared harmless. Yet, hadn’t she had the distinct impression someone watched her from a distance?

  Her skin prickled again. Yes, certainly she’d seen someone. A person who’d been observing her. A figure standing absolutely still. Man or woman she couldn’t say, and now they’d disappeared.

  Always trust your instincts - it was the number one rule.

  Her father never told her. He came back from his travels without warning. Then he followed her. And her father was adept at melting into the background.

  He followed her on her way to school, or on her way out of school, or watched her at the library, or shadowed her as she took a trip to the park. The game was for her to know.

  It made her sick in the pit of her stomach. Her friends wondered why she was always so jumpy. Some days it was impossible to eat. Her throat got so restricted she could hardly swallow and a couple of times she’d choked at school lunch. One time the lunch monitor gently probed as to whether “Everything was all right at home?” Funny thing being, Kal somehow got used to it. Learned to bend her will to her father’s game. Learned how to succeed and please him. After years of it, she recognised a funny prickling at the base of her neck whenever her father chose to survey her in secret. Yes, always trust your instincts - it was the number one rule.

  The red bus carried on down Wimbledon Parkside, its rhythmic roar and fade heading into the distance. Kal swept the pedestrians a second time and came up with nothing. So she took a deep, cooling breath and continued in the direction of 701, all the while sure she'd been observed and, more importantly, that someone still watched her.

  Now Kal slowed her pace, and a couple of times swivelled to glance quickly behind and catch someone in the act. All that earned her was strange looks from passers-by. One stroller-pushing mother even crossed the road to avoid her. Kal knew someone was there. The question was, who and why? Keep alert, intruded the voice of her father, continue, and let it play out in its own time.

  Kal stared straight ahead and kept on walking.

  ***

  At 701, she discovered the forensics team packing up and on their way out. A blonde woman pulled off latex gloves.
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  “Good afternoon, Ms Medi, I’m the Head of the forensics team. As requested by Detective Inspector Spinks, we’ve surveyed the apartment. Imaging has verified there are no unexplained blood stains. We've taken samples from each room and DI Spinks will be the first informed should we isolate further information, for instance from this.” The woman held up the letter sealed in a plastic bag.

  “Right,” Kal replied.

  The woman paused, making a space for Kal’s questions. When Kal didn’t provide any, the forensics woman jump-started into instructions.

  “Like I said, we’re finished here, so we’ll leave you in peace. The technical team will arrive later to impound the computer. I got a call to say they’re overloaded, so I’ve protected the hardware. Please don’t touch anything before they arrive.”

  “Of course not.”

  Three other team members filed out and Kal closed the door behind them. Jettisoning her shoes, she ran into the lounge to her mother's work station and, in one motion, ripped aside the layers of plastic film covering the keyboard, screen and hard drive box. She could imagine the blonde woman’s shocked response. Yes, well, they lived in different worlds and in Kal’s world, following the rules never got you anywhere.

  Click, click. The computer took a few frustrating seconds to kick into action. In a blaze of blue, the screen sprang to life and asked for Alesha's password. Kal typed in '19Supertramp79'.

  'Incorrect password' the machine responded.

  Damn. She’d been so sure. The computer would give her two more chances before it locked down.

  Inventing new passwords had started out as an after school game when her mother typed up her articles in the evening. Alesha had been a fan of music from the nineteen-seventies and nineteen-eighties. Kal would pick a different album each week, and Alesha would use the album date and artist to create a new password. Of course, her mother had changed the tradition a long time ago, but finding the postcard wasn’t a coincidence. The adrenalin rush was making it hard to concentrate. Kal’s hands were shaking. She took a slow breath in and let it out deliberately long and even. As the last of the air escaped, she realised her mistake. The year should be entered the other way around. '79Supertramp19'.

  Bingo. The computer flickered and up came Alesha's desktop. Kal’s eyes fell on a small icon in the corner of the screen. Her pulse jumped. The file was named, 'For Kal'.

  Chapter Six

  The file contained seven sets of photographs. Each set was of a different person – six men and one woman. Kal searched for an explanation. She scrolled down and froze. She knew that woman. It was Selena Vankova, the newly elected Mayor of London.

  In some of the sets the main figure hadn’t been captured fully on-screen. In none were the subjects looking directly at the camera. Kal licked her dry lips - these shots had been taken covertly. Why had Alesha left this information? She must identify these people quickly.

  Kal recognised nothing about the man in the first set. In the second set the subject had been caught full-face. Something about him seemed familiar. He wore a striped shirt and a flamboyant, red tie and strolled down a central London street. In the background, she recognised Oxford Circus underground entrance. At that junction, Oxford Street intersects Regent Street, where Sarah's company, Capital Towers, had its head office. Yes, that was it, he was the Chief Executive of Capital Towers and Sarah's boss. Kal found his name on-line - Alistair Kealy - a top, London mover and shaker.

  Fifties, distinguished looking with greying hair, the Arabic man in the third set looked familiar too. Dressed in traditional-style, white, flowing robe, he sat outside a cafe and appeared to be drinking an espresso. Judging by the background, this was central London too. Kal’s stomach gave a lurch of apprehension. She pulled up a search of the capital's most influential businessmen and, as she suspected, found his photo. He figured at the top of the list - Farouk Assad. The internet described Assad as an oil magnate who owned half the real estate in the capital. A cold feeling lodged in her stomach. Alesha hadn’t been investigating the scum of the capital, she’d been tracking the elite. That ring of top politicians and businessmen who had so much power and influence they could do what they liked. Or thought they could. Did her mother have dirt on the big guys?

  Kal found no names for the remaining sets and a quick trawl of her mother’s files and emails drew a blank. Kal swore under her breath. Her mother had left a trail of breadcrumbs for a reason. Whatever it took, she must continue with Alesha’s investigations.

  She pushed away from the keyboard. Crossing to the bookcase, she caressed the wooden elephant carving. Her mother had brought it home after one of her early assignments in Africa. It had been the first of many trips. During that phone call at the refugee camp, had Kal’s split-second decision to stay been only to do with her will to drive change? Been motivated by the face of a dying child, by lack of medical resources and the slide of whole communities into tragedy? Or had it also been a sideswipe for all the times Alesha had left Kal to run off on assignment? Payback for the childhood evenings spent alone and all the end of term events attended by her grandmother instead of her mother? Kal closed her eyes. Tears prickled the back of her lids. Had the phone call been a call for help? She should’ve come sooner. She should have dropped everything and come running. People with so much power were deadly dangerous. If anything had happened to her mother, she’d rip her own skin off.

  Kal wiped at her eyes. Part of her wanted to go straight out and track down her targets – Mayor Vankova, Kealy and Assad - but that was stupid. She needed to be more clever. They’d all have protection. They’d all have layers and buffers around them. She needed to get up close and personal and wheedle her way in without them even knowing she’d tried. Yes, she could do that. She’d be very good at it.

  Darkness had fallen. Kal leant against the window and looked down seven storeys to car headlights occasionally sweeping along Wimbledon Parkside. Londoners were always on the move, at any time of night or day there’d be cars driving this stretch. Just as Kal turned away, the nape of her neck chilled. Goosebumps prickled her arms. She stood perfectly still.

  Opposite the apartments, yellow lighting shone from a deserted bus stop. When she first stood up, hadn't someone been standing to the side of the shelter, out of the pool of light? Hadn’t there been a shadowy impression of a figure standing alone? And now there was no one.

  No bus had passed and both pavements remained empty. In blackness, the Common stretched for miles the other side of the main road. Was her mind playing tricks? No, certainly not. She stared at the pool of light. Someone could still be there, crouching in darkness at the edge of the Common. Reaching to the side, Kal flipped the light switch, plunging the lounge into darkness. Someone was watching the apartment.

  Her first national kung fu championship. The adjudicator called her name and Kal walked across the mat, the crowd fading into the background, her opponent a figure in the distance. Halfway across she felt a sudden lightness in her arms and legs as if she floated. It was the inner competence her trainer talked about – a twilight where physical reactions come faster than thought. Where years of hard work and sweat finally paid off with mastery.

  From that moment, Kal knew she had the ability to defend herself. Against anyone.

  Kal scanned the street. Whoever was watching didn’t want to be seen. Had they watched her mother? Should she go after them? Go down there now and force them to talk? No, said the voice in her head, wait until the watcher shows their hand. Kal stepped back and let down the blinds with a clack.

  On her way to the spare bedroom, she passed by the front door. After clocking the security door earlier, she’d given no reaction to Sarah and decided not to report it to Spinks. Now, Kal inspected the door and frame. Made of steel, with three deadbolts, it’d been cleverly designed to appear normal. A slow run of her hand down the frame revealed the perfect machine finish, and it wasn't its cold touch which sent a shiver down Kal’s back. Clearly, her mother had felt in
danger.

  Chapter Seven

  Kal snatched a couple of hours sleep at the end of the night. A sleep disturbed by dreams in which her mother’s voice called out and the more Kal searched, the more the sound grew faint, as if lost in the mists. When Kal awoke, she felt shaky, part of her still trapped in a nightmare landscape, searching for Alesha.

  The last time she’d seen her mother, Alesha had been rushing. As usual, rushing to go on assignment. Kal thought of Nannie’s postcard. Their last visit to the bluebell grove had been too long ago. They should have taken care of that. Made a space for it. She hoped Alesha picked the postcard because it reminded her of time together. No pressure, no tabloid deadlines, no urgency. A space amidst the rushing. Or had she chosen the card just because it was the only one to hand?

  Kal hunted in the kitchen and found her mother’s herbal infusions. Inhaling the minty steam from a peppermint tea, Kal pattered to the lounge and reclined on the settee against the three corner cushions. She sipped her drink and shook off the night’s bad dreams. In the street below, London crawled to life, and the traffic built from a few straggly cars and bikes, to a medium flow.

  Her muscles demanded their usual workout. Even on location, she fitted in at least one hour of tough exercise every morning. Today, that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Instead, under the hot jets of the shower, Kal mentally prepared herself. She must fabricate meetings as soon as possible with Kealy, Assad and Selena Vankova. She wanted to see their faces up close, hear the intonation of their voice, smell and taste their reactions and dig and duck and dive until she had the information she needed. Whatever it took.

  With her camera bag slung over her shoulder, Kal headed out. She grabbed breakfast at a bagel stall and, joining the populace of the capital swarming to work, she took the underground to Oxford Circus.