Choked dipb-4

by Tania Carver

  But she knew it wouldn’t last for long. The feeling would only be temporary. She would fill up again. The emotions inside her would need another outlet. They had to. What had happened to her was so huge, such a seismic shift in her life, that there would be no alternative.

  She just hoped she would be able to cope.

  Love Will Tear Us Apart.

  She scrambled for her bag, thrown carelessly on the passenger seat. Began pulling things out, littering the cramped interior. She found the phone, held it to her ear, answered the call.

  ‘Hello … hello … ’ Her voice high, shrill. She swallowed hard, tried to cap the desperation rising inside her. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Good girl.’ The voice again. That same voice.

  Marina said nothing. Waited.

  The voice said nothing either.

  Marina had to break the silence. ‘Where is she? Where’s Josephina?’

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘I want to talk to her. Hear her voice … ’

  ‘Not yet. You’ve still got … there’s something you still have to do.’

  Desperation welled. A wave of impotent rage swept her body, her legs and feet tingling, her toes curling. ‘But … please, let me talk to my daughter.’ Silence. ‘Please … ’

  More silence. She heard a rustling in the background. Muted voices, hushed tones. Nothing she could make out. Then eventually: ‘Not yet. You still have something to do for us.’

  Marina felt the tears threaten once more. She didn’t know if she had the energy to cope with them. ‘What … Tell me and I’ll do it.’ Her voice defeated.

  ‘Put this into your sat nav.’ It was a postcode. ‘Now go there. You’ll be given instructions.’

  She tried to reassemble her thoughts. Regain her training. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked. ‘Look, let’s talk. What’s … what’s your name?’

  The voice gave a bitter laugh. ‘Don’t try all that psychological profiler bullshit on me. You can forget that.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Just go.’

  She no longer had the strength to argue.

  ‘And the same rules apply. No police. No one else. No traces. You’ve done well so far. Don’t spoil it now.’

  ‘And then … and then can I see my daughter?’

  ‘If you’re a good girl and you do what we want.’

  ‘Please, don’t … don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. Please … ’

  The phone went silent.

  Marina had never felt more alone in the world.

  She placed the phone on the passenger seat, perched on the summit of the mountain of debris she had taken from her bag. Put the car in gear, left the car park.

  Kept one eye on the phone all the time, just in case it rang. Willing it to ring while she drove.

  It didn’t.

  16

  It was another characterless corridor in another hospital. Mickey Philips should have been used to them by now, but he wasn’t. And in a way he was quite thankful for that.

  Over the years, from uniform to plain clothes, he had sat in countless plastic chairs drinking awful brown liquid, and staved off boredom by reading and rereading posters full of stern advice. Advice he forgot instantly in the relief of leaving the hospital. But now, sitting in another plastic chair, nursing another plastic cup of unspecified brown liquid, all those years came back to him.

  Waiting for car crash victims to come round and see what parts of their anatomies, their minds, they had lost in the process. Having to tell them they were lucky to be alive. Seeing the look in their eyes saying they didn’t share his opinion.

  Waiting for women whose husbands had turned their homes into war zones and used them as punchbags and target practice to come through surgery. Seeing if the latest tactical round of tough love had made them brave, given them the courage to press charges and break away to a new start, end the war and win the peace. Or left them wilting and broken, giving their nominated murderer one more chance, because he really did love them.

  Waiting while injured children were opened up and operated on, watching every single solid belief the parents had built up about the world and their place in it shown up for the lie they were. Their life’s guarantee torn up and no one to complain to about it.

  Mickey had sat there every time and hoped their heartache wouldn’t infect him. But this time was different. This time he was the grieving friend, the anxious relative. Looking up every time a nurse or doctor walked past. Asking them what was happening, knowing he would only get an answer when there was one to give. Knowing he had to wait like everyone else.

  And it was his boss. His boss. Getting in this state about his boss. He couldn’t believe it. Then he thought about it, and could well believe it.

  Phil Brennan was more than just a boss to Mickey. Where others in the force had seen only a bull-headed borderline fuck-up, Phil had seen something special and given him a chance. And Mickey hadn’t let Phil — or himself — down. Or he had tried his best not to. Phil had encouraged him, nurtured him. Brought out things in him he didn’t know were there. Made him the best DS he could be. And feeling valued, working as part of Phil’s MIS team — the Major Incident Squad — for the first time in his career, his life, Mickey had felt like he truly belonged. So to Mickey, Phil was more than his boss. He was one of his own. Closer than family.

  The double doors at the end of the corridor opened. In strode a stocky, compact man. Red hair, red face. Early forties. Wearing a weddings-and-funerals suit, but under duress and clearly uncomfortable in it. He looked like a retired rugby player but one who could still surprise with a quick burst of speed or a bout of aggression.

  DCI Gary Franks. Phil’s — and Mickey’s — new boss.

  He reached Mickey, stopped.

  ‘So, what have we got, then?’ His Welsh accent as vivid as his red hair. ‘How’s our boy?’

  Mickey stood up, ditched his plastic cup in a nearby bin, grateful to be relieved of the pressure of drinking it. ‘Still the same. In surgery.’

  ‘Chances?’

  Mickey shrugged. ‘Pretty good, they say. If they can … you know.’ His features darkened. ‘Better than his father’s.’

  Franks nodded. ‘Bloody waste. His father gone like that, his mother hanging on … Any word on the daughter?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The words seemed reluctant to leave Mickey’s mouth. Forensics are on the scene. They’re thinking if she was right near the blast, it could have … ’ He trailed off.

  Franks nodded. ‘But they’re not sure.’

  ‘They’ve got uniforms on door-to-door. She’s prioritised. If anyone’s seen her, they’ll find out.’

  ‘And Marina?’

  Mickey had opened his mouth, about to tell him what had happened, when DC Anni Hepburn arrived. Out of breath, perspiring. Chest rising and falling rapidly, her dark skin covered by a thin sheen of sweat. Mickey, despite the situation, couldn’t help stealing an admiring glance at her. Or several. She caught them. The sides of her mouth flicked up in response, then it was back to work.

  Mickey and Anni had been dancing around each other for months. Both of them clearly attracted to the other, neither wanting to make the final push. In case something were to go wrong and a good friendship — not to mention a great working relationship — was lost. But the attraction was there. It crackled in the air between them like invisible static.

  ‘Just the person,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Sorry, got here as quick as I could,’ said Anni, taming her breathing.

  Franks turned to her. ‘Marina?’

  Anni looked at Mickey, as if unsure whether to continue. Mickey returned the look. She had no choice.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Anni said.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ said Franks. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Anni. Cautious.

  MIS didn’t have a good history with its recent DCIs. But Franks, blunt and straightforward, honest to the point of offensiveness, seemed dif
ferent. He had been brought in to give stability, to ground the team. He hadn’t been in place long, but they had all taken to him. Even started to respect him. And the respect was mutual.

  Franks gave her a look that would have terrified the Pontypool front row.

  ‘She’s taken my car.’

  Franks frowned. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She told me she was going to the loo, and off she went.’

  ‘And you just let her go.’

  ‘What could I do?’

  He kept staring. Mickey could see Anni becoming uncomfortable. ‘What state was she in?’ he asked.

  ‘How d’you think?’

  Franks didn’t respond.

  ‘But she’s one of the team,’ Anni said. ‘One of our own. Maybe she’ll come back.’

  ‘You think it’s likely?’ asked Franks.

  ‘I’m going after her,’ said Mickey. ‘I just called in here to see if there was anything she’d left that I could pick up. But there isn’t.’

  ‘And she hasn’t contacted either of you?’

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘There was one other thing,’ said Mickey.

  The other two waited.

  ‘An eyewitness at Aldeburgh. The guy who stopped Marina going back inside the cottage. DS James from Suffolk said he told her that when Marina was trying to get back to the cottage, she started shouting, “What have I done?”’

  Silence. Franks looked at him long and hard.

  ‘“What have I done?” You sure of that?’

  Mickey nodded.

  ‘It could mean anything,’ said Anni. ‘Perhaps she blamed herself, thought she’d, I don’t know, left the gas on or something.’

  ‘Did she mention that to you?’

  ‘No,’ said Anni. ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘“What have I done?” … ’ Franks was again lost in thought. He looked up, back at his two junior officers. ‘You’ve both worked with her longer than me. What d’you think?’

  ‘You mean you suspect her?’ said Anni. ‘You think she’d deliberately blow her own family up?’

  Franks shrugged. ‘Would she?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Definitely not.’

  Mickey agreed.

  Franks nodded. ‘Running always means guilt.’

  ‘Not always, sir, just usually,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Ninety nine per cent of the time,’ said Franks. ‘In this case, it’s the only thing we have to go on. And since she’s not around, we can’t ask her.’ He looked up and down the hall. Mickey watched his eyes, his face. Got the impression that Franks shared his feelings about waiting in hospitals.

  ‘Right. This is still Suffolk’s call and we can’t be seen to be treading on their toes. They’re looking into what happened at the cottage, they’re looking for the daughter. But … ’ Franks pointed at Mickey, ‘I want you looking for Marina. And even though it pains us to admit it, with no one else in the picture and her doing a runner, it looks like she’s got some serious questions to answer.’ He turned to Anni. ‘Stay here for now. See what you can get from Phil Brennan or his mother when they come round.’

  The three of them fell silent. No one daring to substitute ‘if’ for ‘when’.

  ‘I’ll call this … DS James?’

  Mickey nodded.

  ‘James, right. See if he can question the witness again. Find out anything else.’

  ‘She,’ said Mickey.

  ‘What?’ said Franks.

  ‘She,’ said Mickey again, swallowing. ‘DS James is a woman.’

  He was aware of Anni’s eyes on him. He didn’t dare look at her.

  ‘She it is,’ said Franks.

  He looked off down the corridor, then back to them. ‘Somewhere down there,’ he said, his voice rumbling, ‘is an operating theatre. And in that theatre, surgeons are trying to save the life of one of my best officers. I haven’t been here long, but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognise good coppers when I see them. That’s what you all are. Bloody good coppers. And I can’t afford to lose any of you.’

  Mickey and Anni said nothing.

  ‘So get out there and find out who did this. That explosion was deliberate. We’re looking for a murderer. And I’m going to make sure that whoever they are — and I mean whoever — is caught and punished. They made a mistake. They targeted one of our own.’ He placed his hands on both of their shoulders. ‘Our own. And we’re not going to stand for that.’ He straightened up. Dropped his hands. ‘Off you go.’

  He didn’t have to say any more.

  They turned and went.

  17

  With its pitched roof, bland colour and rows and rows of tiny, barely opening windows, the hotel looked like a prison. All it needed was brick walls and razor-wire-topped fences surrounding it.

  The female voice of the sat nav, calm, clear and unruffled, announced that Marina had reached her destination. She pulled the car into the car park, turned off the ignition. Waited.

  While she was driving, she had started to entertain the hope that her journey would lead to something different. An end. Being reunited with her daughter. Going home once more. She knew this hope was forlorn, that there was no real chance of it happening. Whoever was doing this wouldn’t let it happen yet. But once the idea had started to form, the rational part of her mind hadn’t been able to stop it. It had grown and grown until, following instructions, she had pulled off the A120 into the car park of the anonymous chain hotel. And then realised that she wasn’t going to be reunited with her daughter. Not now.

  Not ever.

  That thought struck her almost physically. Razor-sharp knives plunged right through her flesh, scraping bone. No. She couldn’t think that. Wouldn’t allow herself to think that. If she did …

  No. Don’t.

  And then there was Phil, lying unconscious in a hospital bed. She yearned to be near him. To hold him, hear his voice. Something else she might never do again.

  She thought of phoning the hospital, finding out how he was. Her fingers even made it to the keypad. But she stopped herself. They might trace the call. And she would never see her daughter again. They might still be watching. And she would never see her daughter again. So she didn’t do it.

  She checked the sat nav. Hoped — that word again — that she had entered the postcode wrongly. Taken a wrong turn, made a mistake. No mistake. This was where she was supposed to be.

  The hotel had been well chosen. At the intersection between the A120 linking Essex to Hertfordshire and the Braintree turnoff, it sat by itself, the surrounding area undeveloped. A beacon of blandness in a desert of nothing.

  But, from the road above, easy to spy on. Easy to watch.

  She looked out of the window, scanned the car park for anyone suspicious, anyone she could claim as her nemesis, her reason for her being there. It was virtually empty. The hotel was mainly used by business travellers stopping over. Tourists would never venture there. Especially not on a Good Friday evening.

  Sodium lamps were coming on, giving the car park a hazy, crepuscular feel. The cars were dark, shiny blobs against the encroaching darkness, insects gathered together to sleep.

  She sighed. Thought of her husband. Her daughter. Felt like her insides had been scooped out, burned hollow by acid.

  Love Will Tear Us Apart.

  She quickly grabbed the phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You got here all right? Traffic was good?’

  In such a short space of time she had come to hate that voice. Mocking. Laughing. Toying with her. Her hand began to shake as she gripped the phone. ‘Where is she? Where’s my daughter?’

  ‘She’s safe. For now. As long as you do what I … ’ An intake of breath. A pause. ‘ … what we tell you to.’

  Anger rose once more in Marina. Impotent. Hot. ‘What? What d’you want me to do? Tell me. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Get a good night’s sleep first. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

  ‘What?’

  The voice sig
hed. Like it was explaining something really simple to someone even simpler. ‘Rest. Sleep. We want you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow.’

  ‘How can I sleep? With all this going on, with what you’ve … you and my daughter … ’

  The fire went out of her. She felt suddenly tired. So tired, it was an effort to even hold the phone to her ear.

  ‘Finished? Good. Go into the hotel, get a room. There’ll be plenty free, it’s Easter. People will be at home with their families, asking why everything has to close early and the telly’s such shit just because Jesus found himself on the business end of a bit of botched DIY. And wait for the call.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘I’m still here,’ said Marina.

  ‘That’s the spirit. We’ll all get on so much quicker if you toe the line.’

  Marina felt as though lead weights were holding her down.

  ‘Have dinner. Sleep. Breakfast. And a shower. I’d recommend a shower. Then tomorrow the work starts in earnest.’

  Marina sighed. She could feel bars all round her. Everything was a cage.

  ‘And Marina … don’t think about escaping. Or phoning your cop friends for help. Or telling anyone in the hotel what’s going on. We’re watching you. All the time.’

  The line went dead.

  She threw the handset down on to the passenger seat. Not in anger, just resignation. Then picked it up again, put it in her bag.

  She got out of the car, crossed to the hotel.

  Ready for a sleepless night.

  18

  The gym was one of a dying breed. The men inside it too.

  Its doorway was down an old, decaying street in Bethnal Green, east London. The surrounding streets had fallen to creeping gentrification, as moneyed next-generation trustafarian bohos and City workers alike made like urban explorers and bought up property. This street had staved off those advances, but crumbling brickwork and increasing rental costs meant that it too would soon be gone. And the gym, its bare brick walls running with condensation, its stripped wooden floors suffused with decades of sweat, would be gone too. An ad agency, perhaps. A marketing company. A coffee shop.