A Cursed Place

by Peter Hanington

  He shook his head.

  ‘No, I’ve met a few brilliant people down the years, I’m not one of them. I’m … dogged, I suppose.’ He took another biscuit and dunked it in his tea. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade myself that I could live a different kind of life.’ He looked around Rebecca and Patrick’s living room. ‘That it would be better for me, for everyone if I did that. But I’m beginning to think that maybe I was wrong.’

  Walking back down the side of the Fields, Carver stopped and retied his shoe. There was no sign of the man with the missing dog. Best-case scenario was that the guy had been following him – this was possible but unlikely. The lost dog story was just a ham-fisted attempt to find out why Carver was where he was. They weren’t that interested in him, they were watching the house, watching Rebecca. The question was why?

  43 Harm

  THE HEADLAND HOTEL, HONG KONG

  Patrick took a taxi back to the Headland Hotel; the prickly stink of tear gas was in the air and he was starting to worry that repeated exposure to the gas was affecting his breathing. As the cab got closer to the harbour, he opened the window and gulped air. Eric had promised to keep his ears open for any mention of repairs or repairmen and to read anything else that Patrick found that he thought he might be able to help with. In return Patrick was going to look into the killing of Sammy Kwok and make sure that at least the BBC’s account of what had happened was accurate. He wondered quite when he was going to get the chance to do this, alongside everything else. Perhaps if Viv could spare some more of John Brandon’s time?

  He knew something was up the moment he opened his hotel room door, but it took him a while to figure out what it was. Someone had been in the room – not housekeeping, the bed was still unmade, the curtains closed. Not the maid, but someone, he was sure of it. He went first to the window and kneeling down on the carpet ran his fingers along the hem of the curtain. He heaved a sigh of relief; the memory stick he’d hidden inside the lining – one of Carver’s old tricks – was still there. He opened the curtains so he had some more light to work with and checked the drawers and cupboards; all his clothes and spare kit were as he’d left them as far as he could tell. He’d taken his laptop and the tape recorder with him to the Lennon Wall in his grab bag along with the faxes from McCluskey, so there was nothing to worry about there. Perhaps he was imagining things? He went and stood back by the door and studied the room again. Something was different but what? Then he saw it. The new reporter’s notepad, which he was certain he’d had next to him on the bedside table, was now sitting underneath the wall mounted TV. He picked it up and flicked through the pages. It was blank.

  ‘No harm, no foul.’

  He tossed it back onto the bed, but as he did so, he noticed something. On the top page, pressed into the paper, a scribble, indented only, but … He tore the page out and held it sideways to the light. He traced the indented words and letters with his finger, as clear now as if it had been written in ink – the Chinese characters he’d copied out and underneath that, McCluskey’s fax number and her new Skype address.

  ‘Fuck.’

  44 Search History

  THE NEW FALLINGWATER HOUSE, CUPERTINO, CALIFORNIA

  Fred was sitting on the toilet, scrolling through messages on his mobile phone. One of his development teams wanted a supplementary meeting, they weren’t sure they’d fully understood his last briefing on microtargeting. He sighed, but agreed both to this meeting and to a face-to-face with the bee guy who’d come up with a plan to save Lizzie’s precious bees. Fred had briefly considered letting the hive die, but decided against this. He was interested in what the guy had to say. A Beijing-based client was chasing up a recent request –‘user data relating to recently received messaging application information’. He mumbled something under his breath – not just impatient, but verbose with it. He texted back that his team was scraping the data right now and he should have something for them soon.

  He scrolled through his contacts – down through the As and Bs to C and Christy Newmark. He had her personal and work mobile numbers, home address, Twitter, Facebook, Skype, her Public Square log-in of course. He knew where she was at any moment in time and had even added her tracking information to the map on the mainframe computer where he kept everyone else. He had every piece of information necessary for the moment he decided to contact her. But the time wasn’t right, not yet. He wanted to watch her from a distance for a little longer.

  He put the phone down on the edge of the bath, tore off a couple of squares of toilet paper and leant forward. Opening his legs as wide as his trousers would allow he reached his right hand between his thin, hairless thighs and caught the stool before it could touch water. He brought it back and raised it to eye level for a closer look. Shiny and brown as a polished shoe. Solid as a shoe too – it looked and smelt healthy. He dropped it back down into the toilet bowl and reached for the hand sanitiser and a nail brush. Once he’d washed thoroughly and changed into a new shirt, then he’d call Elizabeth. He’d made her wait long enough.

  ‘Hey Fred, what’s going on over there? Too busy to talk to your wife?’

  ‘Never too busy for that, Lizzie. I’ve just been trying to make sure that the information you want is properly sourced … all present and correct.’

  ‘Cool, thank you.’ She paused. ‘I know you probably don’t approve.’

  ‘You’re right … I don’t. But when does that ever stop you?’

  ‘Most of the time Freddy, but I’ve got a good feeling about this thing.’

  He sighed.

  ‘From what you tell me, this guy’s already cost us over a hundred million bucks. I think we should just write that off and move on.’

  ‘We would’ve had to pay that tax sooner or later, other people would’ve asked questions.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But my main point is that engaging with people like this is good for Public Square. If we can persuade a few of these folk who really don’t like us that we’re not all bad, then it looks good to the outside world. Turning nay-sayers into yay-sayers.’

  ‘God, that’s an ugly phrase. Who came up with that?’

  ‘Julian Drice.’

  ‘He’s drunk all the Kool-Aid hasn’t he? I wouldn’t use that if I were you.’

  ‘You might be right. But doing this kinda thing is useful Fred, it’s educational. You know how my dad loved stress-testing his ideas like this.’

  ‘I understand that Lizzie. But things like this, the Public Square pretend trade union or whatever it is – it all takes time, energy.’

  ‘My time Freddie, not yours. Come on, tell me what we know about this Carver guy.’ Fred already had the file open on his computer screen, a mystifying list of characters and symbols – complete gobbledegook until, with a few key-strokes, he removed the encryption and started reading.

  ‘So Carver’s data set is sub-optimal.’ He scrolled down some more. ‘Sub, sub-optimal.’

  ‘Give me what you got.’

  ‘He doesn’t use much tech. His digital footprint is – small.’

  ‘Like how small?’

  ‘Like baby-bootee small. He’s not with Public Square.’

  ‘Of course not. When do we ever get that lucky Fred?’

  ‘He’s not on Facebook, Twitter or any other social media platform either.’

  ‘Right, I worked out he wasn’t now … but never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Shopping?’

  ‘Looks like he’s a physical shopper.’

  ‘For everything?’

  ‘Almost, he bought one thing from Amazon once.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A poetry book, some poet I’ve never heard of. I’ll send you the details.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She paused. ‘How about his search history then Fred? What jumps out?’

  ‘What jumps out is that you’re trying to make nice with the most boring man in the world. It’s almost all news searches, some classical music stuff …’ He
read some more. ‘A device with proximity to his device was looking for news stories about Public Square’s UK tax liability at the same time as you were making your pitch at the BBC, I’m guessing that was something to do with him. There really isn’t much else Lizzie. Nothing interesting, certainly nothing compromising. Not on his own devices anyway, maybe he uses a white computer we don’t know about, I can get my team to keep looking if you want?’

  ‘Nah. I just wondered if there was something that might give me an inside track, but I’ll go with what’s public knowledge.’

  ‘Public knowledge is he’s a pain in the ass. Disruptive – not in a good way. Hostile.’

  ‘I think you’re underestimating how charming I can be when I want to, Fred.’

  ‘I never underestimate that, Lizzie.’ He paused. ‘How is Jags by the way?’

  Elizabeth switched the phone from one ear to the other.

  ‘Fine, as far as I know, Fred. You talk to him a lot more than I do. I bought him that new raincoat yesterday, like I promised I would …’ The chances were that Fred would know this already. ‘… and I asked him to join me for some dinner. He was looking so hangdog, I took pity.’ Fred would know this too. She had to hope that the fact that he was fishing meant that this was all Fred knew. Jags certainly wouldn’t have said anything. ‘I kind of wish I hadn’t asked him to join me, it was like eating with some kind of animal.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen him eat, it isn’t pleasant.’ Fred paused. ‘Try and sweet-talk this old journalist guy if you want to Lizzie, finish what you need to finish and then hurry back to civilisation will you?’

  ‘I will Fred. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Fred steepled his hands on the desk in front of him. Let Lizzie do what she wanted to do, perhaps she could make a convert of William Carver, Fred had learnt never to bet against her. He took another look at the unencrypted file on the screen in front of him. There were a couple of things that he hadn’t mentioned to Elizabeth. Nothing that would help with her foolish proselytising mission, but all information was important and there were one or two things there in the data of particular interest. Carver wasn’t a worry – a busted flush by all accounts. But some of the company he kept did interest Fred. He checked the time; Jags would have read the FedExed letter by now and contacted the people Fred needed him to contact. The chances were that what needed to happen was happening already.

  45 Crows

  CAVERSHAM, ENGLAND

  McCluskey was washing up after having finished breakfast: a boiled egg and soldiers, half a dozen rashers of bacon and a pot of tea. She liked to clean the teapot straight after using it as the tannin stained quickly and it was a family heirloom of sorts. It had been a clear, cold night and out in the garden a pair of black crows were pecking at the frozen grass, circling the gardening fork that she’d left jammed in the middle of the lawn. The crows strode about in that strange high-stepped way they had. McCluskey noticed that she’d left her gardening gloves outside too; they were draped over the handle of the garden fork. They’d be frozen stiff. She took a sip of tea.

  ‘No.’

  That was wrong, her gardening gloves were on the dresser in the hall. She’d seen them there earlier. She opened the back door and walked out.

  The cat had been cut in half lengthways and gutted. The animal’s skin had been left draped over the handle of the garden fork. Its insides were on the grass – carrion for crows. As McCluskey walked closer, the birds shuffled reluctantly away then took flight, but only as far as the tarpaper roof of the shed. They hadn’t finished this meal. McCluskey lifted the cat gently from the handle of the fork and held it in her arms, cradling it. The animal’s blood stained her blouse and she could taste vomit rising in her throat, but it was not fear she felt. Only anger. She laid the cat’s body down on her kitchen table and sat down. Carver was coming to see her later, primarily to report back on his meeting with Patrick’s girlfriend, but he’d also asked McCluskey if he could have a proper look at what she and Patrick were working on. Carver was back in the game and she could not allow anything to distract him from that. She would bury the cat at the foot of the garden. And when she got her hands on whoever it was that had done this … McCluskey would bury them there too.

  PART FOUR

  Once a new technology starts rolling, if you’re not part of the steamroller, you’re part of the road

  Stewart Brand

  46 Persuasion

  THE YORKSHIRE GREY, FITZROVIA, LONDON

  Carver drank one thoughtful pint and then another. He was considering whether to chance a third when someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  ‘Arghhh …’ He shuffled round on the stool and stared. ‘What the f—? I mean, what’re you doing here?’ Carver glanced around the pub. ‘Are you lost?’

  Elizabeth Curepipe smiled.

  ‘Not lost, no. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to talk and your manager … Naomi?’ Carver nodded. ‘Naomi said that you like to hang out here now and again when you aren’t teaching.’

  It was delicately put.

  ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘Well … can I buy you a drink?’

  She bought a pint of London Pride for Carver and, after some umming and aahing, a half of cider for herself. They found an empty table at the back of the pub and Carver sat down in the heavy wooden chair, facing the wall. When he looked up, he saw that his surprise drinking companion was still standing.

  ‘Would you mind if I sat in that seat?’ She wore an apologetic smile. ‘It’s just that if I’m facing away from the rest of the room then I think there’s less chance we’ll be disturbed.’ Carver mumbled an apology and swapped chairs.

  ‘I should’ve thought. You do seem to attract quite a lot of attention.’ Elizabeth nodded. She had already had to endure an arm around the shoulder, thumbs-up selfie with Norman the landlord, as well as signing several beer mats.

  ‘Way too much attention.’

  As soon as he was sitting where she’d asked him to, Carver spoke.

  ‘So what can I do for you, Mrs Curepipe?’

  Elizabeth had her glass halfway to her lips, but she put it back down on the table.

  ‘Right, of course. Well I wanted to let you know that we’ve done what I said we’d do. I looked into how much tax Public Square UK paid to the Treasury last year. In my view it was ungenerous. We’re already talking to the revenue and in the next day or two I’ll be writing a cheque.’

  ‘For how much?’

  ‘Well …’ She lowered her voice. ‘… this is market sensitive information of course, but between you and me I guess it’ll be a little north of one hundred and thirty million.’

  ‘Pounds?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Carver did the sum in his head; if Public Square’s profits were as reported then this was around about the right amount.

  ‘Fine. Well I’m sure the Chancellor of the Exchequer will be grateful.’ He drank the foam off his new pint. ‘You’re not expecting me to say thank you or something are you? I mean all you’re doing here is paying the tax that by rights, you should be paying.’

  ‘No, of course, I get that. No need for thank yous. But I wanted you to know first …’ She took a sip of the cider and winced. ‘Interesting drink.’

  ‘That’s dry cider. Maybe you’re used to the sweet? I’m sure Norman will swap it for you if you ask him.’ He was pretty sure Norman would do the hokey-cokey stark naked if Elizabeth Curepipe asked him.

  ‘No, it’s growing on me.’ She took another sip. ‘See? The thing is, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I got taken on a tour of Broadcasting House after the news meeting …’ She took another sip of cider. ‘… saw the studios, George the something’s old microphone.’

  ‘George the Sixth.’

  ‘That’s the fellow.’ She smiled but got
nothing from Carver in return. ‘So … I was shown all around the old building, upstairs where all the bosses live. That’s a lot of oak panelling they’ve got going on up there.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen it. Usually when they’re trying to fire me.’

  ‘Why would they want to do that?’

  Carver shrugged.

  ‘I’m not to everyone’s taste.’

  ‘I see. Well, anyway, the Director General showed me round his trophy cabinet …’ William was almost beginning to feel sorry for the poor woman, what a bore. ‘… and I couldn’t help notice that quite a few of those statues and certificates in there had your name on them.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He’d just gotten hold of a new one, looks kinda like the bonnet ornament on a Rolls Royce car. She’s pretty cute.’ Carver knew the award she was referring to although he hadn’t seen it yet.

  ‘That’s some French prize. I’d not heard of it … not until we won it anyway.’

  ‘Your boss had certainly heard of it.’

  ‘Then I guess it makes sense for it to stay there in his trophy cabinet.’ He doubted that this feigned indifference was fooling the woman sitting opposite. He certainly wasn’t fooling himself. The truth was that the longer he’d been away from front-line reporting, the more he found himself thinking about the various awards he’d won. This small silvery harvest was distributed around several trophy cabinets inside Broadcasting House and recently he’d wondered whether it might be nice to have one or two of the prizes on show at home. There wasn’t anyone there to show them to, but nonetheless … Regardless of this, Carver realised he’d quite like to take a look at the new statue and at the certificate that went with it. Hopefully it credited Patrick as well as himself – they’d both done the work. ‘Maybe I’ll take a look next time I’m in the building.’

  Elizabeth Curepipe nodded.