Good Girl Bad Girl

by Ann Girdharry

  By now, Sunni had grown old. Had white hair. Had spawn.

  He wanted to see the result first-hand but the man with no name refused, so the events reached him second-hand - how Sunni collapsed one Saturday evening on his way home, how his wife didn’t get there in time.

  He kept a favourite archive – the prone body lying on the pavement, photographs of the boarded-up house, the crowd outside the crematorium, a press announcement of the death. Revenge tastes sweet and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the past, Marty had been the only person Kal told about the death threats. Her friend studied a photograph of the most recent letter, her frown deepening. They scrolled Alesha's photofile together, the ceiling lights glinting from Marty's earrings as she listened to Kal’s take on Kealy and Scott.

  “What’s going on, Marty? Mum didn’t tell me about the security door and then I find out she didn’t tell me she’s in love. Why the hell not?”

  “And you say this Scott checks out?”

  “I didn’t exactly say he checked out but he wasn’t lying. What he says was right, he was in love with Mum. What Mum felt about him I can’t tell you.”

  “So it brings us back to Alesha’s photofile. We’ve got to find out more. Those people are the key to the whole thing.”

  “I’ll have a chance to get intelligence on Mayor Vankova tomorrow. Assad will be more of a challenge because of the close security around him.”

  “How are you getting information?” asked Marty, “Oh no, don't tell me, you're using your spy tactics, like on your undercover, journalistic assignments.”

  Kal knew Marty didn't like to hear about her more borderline strategies.

  “Please don't tell me, especially if it isn't legal and definitely don’t ask me to join in. On top of my ethics, Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Association won't tolerate any suggestion of disreputable behaviour. I'd be out of a job in a second,” Marty said.

  “I know your code and mine’s pretty similar. Nothing I do is dishonest.”

  “Don't take offence, I admire your work, only you know after my father, I can't tolerate anything the wrong side of the law.”

  Their problems with their respective fathers was something which had glued them together. They were two haunted children, with a taint that made it impossible to lead an ordinary life. Marty was dead against anything with a whiff of illegal, because her father had been a criminal – break-ins, car thefts, the odd mugging. Plus, of course, the horrible way he used to beat up Marty’s mother. It went on for years, before Marty’s mother succeeded in kicking him out.

  “Intelligence gathering is an art,” Kal said.

  Marty shook her head. “All that brainwashing from Khan, all that stuff he rammed into you, it wasn’t right.”

  Marty always called Kal’s father ‘Khan’.

  “It was fun. Like a game.”

  “Most dads take their kids to the park to play. Khan tutored you remorselessly in weird stuff. If it was such fun, why did you keep it all quiet from your mother? It was like bloody abuse.”

  Kal felt her anger rising. They were going over old ground. “I enjoyed it and without it I’d never have made it in my career, not to the front lines.”

  “Enjoyed it? You’re kidding me, right? You were his perfect protégé and he took full advantage. You know, don’t you, that victims of abuse are often in denial? It’s unnerving how blind you are to it.”

  Kal was far from blind, only she could never get to the right answers. Who could know the line between free will and coercion? Especially between father and daughter. She’d agonised over that. Why had it been wrong for her father to teach her? Only, if it had been right, there’d have been no need to keep it secret, would there? Deep down, she knew it was what he taught her that was the problem. And there were dark edges to that which even Marty didn’t know about.

  “Back off, Marty.”

  Marty held up a placating hand. “I can’t help it, I’m sorry. It wasn’t right and you know all the shit and the violence from my father. I was an inner city girl and I didn’t frighten easily, thing is your Dad gave me the creeps.”

  “I know, Marty, you told me before.”

  “Yes, but you never listen. You know I took up martial arts because of my father and not because he encouraged me to do it like Khan did you, no, because my Dad was an aggressive man who led a life of crime and it was my brother, Vince, who took him on if he ever came back to the house to menace my mother. I vowed I'd learn to stand up to my father ready for the time when Vince wouldn't be there. That drove me to train hard.”

  “Yes, and you were talented and dedicated. No one worked harder than you.”

  “Except perhaps you. I did it because I had to and I’ve never told you this but I’ve always wondered if part of you always did it because you had to.”

  Only Marty would have the guts to say that and only Marty could get away with it.

  “You’re wrong.”

  Wisely, her friend remained silent.

  Kal stared out the window. Her father had dark eyes and black hair and handsome Indian looks. Just looking at him you’d never spot anything wrong. He'd been exacting with her and he'd expected her to follow his instructions to the letter. And like Marty had known as a child, David Khan wasn’t a man you’d disobey.

  When Kal turned back from gazing into space, Marty looked her straight in the eye.

  “Did it occur to you Alesha’s disappearance could be connected to Khan?”

  It came like a punch in the stomach. Kal fought to keep her voice steady. Denial was the only option.

  “I doubt it. He’s been dead for years. Let's drop it, Marty, and concentrate on the photofile.”

  Marty nodded slowly and Kal interpreted it as a sign of reticent acceptance and certainly not of agreement.

  “Of course,” Marty said, “and remember, I'm on your side.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Marty folded her arms. “Okay, so your mum's smart, there’s no question about that, so she was on to something. We need to figure out what as soon as, and this man here,” Marty stabbed with her finger, “Assad. He’s a tennis fan. He joins the rich and famous to come to the Wimbledon Finals every summer.”

  “Got any ideas how I can meet him?”

  “No, but one of my team used to work private security for his wives. I’ll put the two of you in contact.”

  It took a moment for Kal to pick that up. “Hey, wait a minute, you said your team. You got promoted? You never brag about your achievements, Marty.”

  “Oh, didn't I say? I’m heading up Specialist Electronics with lead responsibility for detection of all devices, meaning identification of any bugs and bombs.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Marty leaned to look out the window. “The man tailing you is the other bad factor. There's no one there at the moment, I'm sure of it. I can't see anything odd and my senses tell me all is as it should be. “

  “I probably put him off in the alley.”

  Kal knew neither of them were convinced about that. She quickly tapped the keyboard to select a subset of photographs.

  “Scott, Kealy, Vankova, Assad and then there are three remaining I've no names for. They're all taken in London except the Indian man in the last picture. Judging from the background, I'd bet that one's taken in Kolkata, India.”

  “That’s the same place as Calcutta, right?”

  “Yup, only they changed the spelling from the old colonial name to Kolkata. And look at this.”

  Kal selected a portion of Selena Vankova's shot and zoomed in on the occupants of the car. Mayor Vankova was about to take the front seat. In the passenger window in the rear of the car, a face stared straight at the camera. Kal blew up the image as much as she could.

  Marty leaned forward, her dark eyes fixed on the screen. “What the hell's going on there?”

  The rear passenger was a young girl with Indian looks and though the computer enhancement blu
rred her features, her eyes were two huge orbs.

  “Nothing about this is right.” Marty said. “That kid looks scared out of her wits. Shit, Kal, this is bad. Very bad.”

  Kal bit her lip. She agreed. She more than agreed. She’d seen desperation in a child’s eyes before. At the camp numerous times, and when she’d held the hand of a child who’d witnessed the butchering of his entire family. The look was unmistakable and it pierced her like a hot knife.

  Marty pushed the chair away from the desk. Its wheels clattered across the floorboards. “Send me copies of the three unknown mug shots and I'll ask around at work first thing.” Marty’s voice was grim. I guess you’re not going back to your place, Kal, so you’re sure you don't want to stay over at mine?”

  Kal shook her head. “I prefer to stay at Mum’s. I should be here in case she comes back or, you know, someone makes contact.”

  “All right, but make sure you close up tight,” Marty said. “I know you're capable and very independent, in fact, too independent and it can get you into trouble, so for goodness sake call if you need me.”

  Then Marty insisted on checking all the windows even though the apartment was seven floors up. In the hallway, Marty patted the door.

  “This is top of the range. I've a bad feeling about all of this – we’d better damn well make sure to keep in close contact.”

  ***

  With closed eyes, Kal sat on the edge of the bed. Marty had been right, she’d been the perfect pupil, though only because as a child she’d adored her father, and a word of praise from him made her happier than anything.

  When the awe of childhood fades away, it can leave behind ugly patches, and the more you scrutinise them with the eyes of an adult, the larger and larger they can get, eating up the wonder of the early years. Until it’s all turned bad and wrong. Like debris left on the shoreline, the sand around it washed smooth by the sea. From a distance, those lumps look like scattered driftwood and it’s only when you walk up close, you see it’s parts of a dead body.

  They made many visits to the concrete bunker hidden in the countryside. Deserted. The security fence and main door mysteriously open for them to enter. The bunker quiet save for their echoing footsteps on the gritty floor.

  The first time Kal clamped her hand over her nose to block out the damp, harsh smell and she hated it. Her father saw that but she carried on adjusting her stance, willing her arms to relax, resettling her shoulders, squeezing and resqueezing the trigger as her father encouraged her and coached her. She loathed the acrid smell of the after-shot and the smack of the bullets penetrating her ear-dampers. Then, after each series of shots, the whine of the motor as it propelled the target close up for their inspection.

  David Khan took her to that firing range for the final time a few days after her twelfth birthday. After months of visits, her aim and expertise finally pleased him. That’s when he’d extracted her promise to continue when she was older and he’d given her the name and address of the only place where he’d allow her to do it.

  As normal, he’d given no further explanation, and as usual, Kal asked no questions. Then four weeks later her father died.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kal stood at the entrance to the National Gallery. A line of columns stretched the length of the elevated facade, creating a frontage like the Greek Parthenon. She leant her hand on the cool stone of one of the columns. That night, her mother’s voice called to her again. Except Alesha’s voice had become weaker. When Kal awoke, the frantic feeling of searching stayed with her, and she could feel it now, making her shaky inside. She rested her forehead on the smooth stone. Keep going, she said to herself, stay on track and make the encounter with Vankova pay.

  The raised entrance of the National Gallery gave practically a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of Trafalgar Square below. A light drizzle fell and Kal scanned the crowds criss-crossing Trafalgar Square. All the way from 701 to here, she knew someone tailed her. It had been impossible to pick them out in the crowded underground. Whoever it was had expertise. Now they’d be mingling with tourists in the square. A drop of rain ran inside her collar and Kal shivered and tucked herself into the shelter of the pillars. Being stalked messed with your mind. Mental strength could give one opponent the edge, she knew that. Play the game, she told herself, keep it nice and steady. Kal took a cool breath and brought up her camera, zooming in on the four lion statues at the base of Nelson’s column.

  Dressed in a dark trouser suit covered with a fluorescent, cycling vest, Selena Vankova pedalled to the steps. The Mayor of London liked to vaunt her green credentials by arriving at official functions on public transport or, like today, by bicycle. Vankova attached her bicycle and sprinted up to the terrace. The fourth most visited Art Gallery in the world, the National Gallery hosted a posse of media for the opening of a Special Exhibition. Kal trailed behind with the assembled press. Wrangling a place at this event had taken one phone call, thanks to her inside contacts.

  Vankova removed her vest and helmet, shook free her dark brown, bobbed hair and turned to address the crowd.

  “Today's event marks the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Special Exhibitions Wing. As a lover of Art, I'm keen to promote London ever further as a world-class, arts venue.”

  Vankova’s navy jacket and trousers belied someone who’d just pedalled the streets. Not a hair was out of place. In her late forties and trim, Vankova had an innocent appearance and her neat hair and blue eyes added to her air of openness. According to the press, Selena Vankova’s china doll face hid a woman of masterly strategy, the first woman and the youngest person to be elected Mayor of London. Vankova spoke with the enthusiasm of a good orator and she rattled on about the significance of the Van Gogh Special Exhibition opening today. Already, a long queue formed for the public opening.

  Once the Mayor finished, the entourage of senior staff and press shuffled inside. They were around twenty in all and they’d receive a private tour of a selection of Van Gogh's works, so Kal judged her chances of wrangling a conversation with Vankova as high. They continued at a slow pace, Vankova in the lead, chatting with the gallery manager.

  Despite its polished look, Vankova's internet site was jammed full of promotional shots that were predictable and static. The absence of dynamism would be easy to remedy and it would give Kal a way in.

  They reached the exhibition hall. With a high ceiling and doctored acoustics, the space gave the impression of grandeur and the guests began speaking in hushed voices. The group clustered around Vankova as the gallery manager started a commentary on the first of the masterpieces and Kal tagged along at the rear, clocking the Mayor’s body language and observing her mannerisms.

  Once they'd studied three of the paintings, Kal broke away from the group and crossed to the middle of the room where there was a plush, octagonal couch. Shrugging off her jacket, she tugged down her dress a couple of centimetres. Today, she’d chosen a purple velvet number, short and tight, teamed with knee length, black boots – a conservative choice, just right for the occasion. Kal took out her laptop, at the same time listening to the gallery manager as he detailed the major, tragic events in the artist’s life. In a few clicks, she loaded up the shots she'd taken so far, intending to wait for a chance to bring the screen over to Vankova. Only she didn't need to. As the others trotted to the next painting, Selena Vankova detached from the group and came over.

  Vankova shook her head lightly before she spoke, so that the heavy, bobbed edge of her hair swished from side to side. An orchestrated move, Kal thought, to make her appear younger and less sharp.

  “Good morning, have we met before?” Vankova asked.

  Kal saw deep in the woman’s eyes that she questioned herself at the same time. Kal stood up, keeping her attention on the Mayor. When Vankova first spoke, a shadow had crossed her face. As if she almost recognised Kal. That look had been followed by something much heavier, something like concern or worry, or perhaps suspicion. How could that be? And the tiniest s
uggestion of a contraction had started below the Mayor’s left eye. Vankova must have had a tic for years and trained herself out of it. Only a deep seated uncertainty would bring that back.

  “No, I don't think we've met,” Kal said.

  Vankova said a few polite words about the exhibition. That was just filler because all the while Kal saw the Mayor scouring her memory for the time and place where they'd crossed. The more Vankova searched, the more the tiny muscle under her eye strained. Finally, it gave in and twitched. Kal read the message loud and clear - underneath her poise, Vankova was thrown off-balance.

  Kal lifted up the laptop. “Here are some shots I took this morning - you arriving in a rush with the rain spraying from your front wheel, you speaking to the woman in the queue and the two of you laughing, then a shot of water running down the mane of the lion statue overlaid with Van Gogh’s signature. You see how easy it is to capture movement and dynamism? Images like this mirror your energy and enthusiasm as Mayor. Wouldn’t they look great on your publicity?”

  Vankova glanced at the screen and then at Kal.

  “Are you pitching for a job? What's your name?”

  “I'm freelance so I'm always looking for interesting employment.”

  She'd already worked it out. Vankova had met Alesha. The contact with Alesha must have been brief and that, coupled with the generation difference between mother and daughter, had confused her.

  As Kal smiled, the gallery manager came over, checking his watch.

  “Selena, will you be rejoining us? We don't have long before I need to open to the public.”

  “I'll be with you in a moment, give me a couple more seconds,” Vankova said.

  Kal’s assessing eyes didn't leave Vankova’s face. Time was running out, and the chances of tempting the Mayor into a private meeting to discuss publicity seemed slim. The woman’s suspicion would be a barrier. No, she needed to get some juice right now, to squeeze Vankova and see what came out.