by Nick Louth
‘Virgil, how is Mira feeling?’
‘Under siege. The last occurrence really threw her.’ Virgil explained about the vandalism on the car. ‘I have no idea how they could have found her there so quickly.’
‘What do the police say?’
‘Well, there is some luck. The CCTV gives only partial coverage, but it was good enough to show a woman in light hooded top, puffa jacket and jeans vandalising the car at about 4am. A second camera shows her getting into a silver car, and when her hood goes down she is indeed wearing Qaeggan make-up. But there is no image of the registration number. Still, it does fit with Mira having claimed to see a zombie drive off.’
Jonesy suppressed a laugh, and shook his head. ‘Can’t hardly believe it. Night of the effing zombies.’
‘Why would someone who vandalises a car in the dead of night wait around until the morning?’ Portia asked.
‘Maybe to see the reaction of the victim?’ Thad said.
‘The cops were puzzled how anyone would know that the car is linked to Mira,’ Virgil said. ‘The only identification mark in it is the Parliamentary Car Park pass, which potentially links it to the baroness.’
‘Oh shit,’ said Jonesy. ‘That’s all we need.’ He was looking down at his phone.
‘What’s happened now?’ Portia asked.
‘That girl who drowned last week in Essex? Turned out she was copying Mira’s scene in Village of the Dead.’ He showed the BBC news story to Portia.
…The body of thirteen-year-old Danielle Stevens was found wearing a white nightdress a mile downstream from where she was last seen on the river Roding. Police said they were not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident. A police spokeswoman said that it appeared the girl and her younger sister might have been trying to recreate a scene from the TV series Village of the Dead. ‘It seems to have been a tragic accident,’ the spokeswoman said…
‘Right,’ said Jonesy. ‘Portia, draft us a statement of sympathy from Mira. I want it good to go to the press in five minutes, ten lines max, including a one-sentence soundbite along the lines of “Mira Roskova was shocked and horrified to hear the news of the tragic death of whatever-her-name-was”. I’ll get flowers sent to the family privately in her name, and a big floral tribute to be sent to whatever public place they are laying them.’
‘We also need a “don’t do this at home kids” paragraph,’ Thad said. ‘The lawyers will insist upon it. As far as we can see, any public liability would sit with the programme makers, but we have to get our marker out there.’
‘I’ll ring Mira and let her know,’ Portia said.
‘What’s on her schedule today?’ Thad asked.
‘Nothing until this evening,’ Portia said. ‘Oh, but then it’s a charity gala. I’ll check her diary to make sure we don’t have anything that might seem insensitive.’
‘Get her to wear a black armband,’ Jonesy said. ‘I’ll let Virgil know. Let’s hope she doesn’t get invited to the funeral. It’s hard to refuse, even if it is the wrong sort of publicity.’
* * *
TEN DAYS
Childswicke rang Virgil three days after their lunch. ‘I’ve had a bit of a breakthrough about who Wōdan is.’
‘That was quick,’ said Virgil. ‘I’ve been trying to get that sort of information out of the West London Mental Health Trust for weeks.’
‘Ah, well. It wasn’t from them, or from Broadmoor for that matter. Between you and me I know a rather talkative bishop who is interested in reform and rehabilitation. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know that Wōdan actually goes by the name of William Mordant. Which is interesting, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ asked Virgil.
‘Well, William as we know is Guglielmo in Italian, the Christian name the acid murderer was registered under in Italy. But the surname, well, that’s really quite chilling. Mordant, I mean really.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a little archaic but mordant means caustic, from the French. Mordant wit, and all that. It’s the same word used for the nitric acid that engravers use to etch metal. There was an engraving studio next to Mordant’s place in Murano, which was where he sourced his acid.’
‘A subtle boast by an acid murderer,’ Virgil said. ‘That’s really twisted.’
‘I’ve also got some other news, which you might fear is rather worse. He’s going to tribunal in a couple of weeks.’
‘Tribunal? What does that mean?’ Virgil asked.
‘It’s a review of his continued detention under section whatever of the Mental Health Act. Basically, if he can persuade enough shrinks that all this marvellous art has made him sane and safe, they will let him out.’
‘What!’ Virgil said. ‘Just like that?’
‘Well, probably via a few months in some intermediate security hospital I suppose. But nothing he couldn’t abscond from. In two weeks we could have an acid murderer wandering about the place. Lock up your daughters time, eh?’
* * *
NINE DAYS
Virgil was at Stardust Brands before nine the next morning. What Childswicke had told him was gnawing away at him. But as soon as he stepped into the foyer of MacMillan House, Nelson the security guard called him over, and handed him a package from the fan mail agency, marked urgent.
‘This came in late last night, but I guess no one called you,’ Nelson said.
Following Virgil’s instructions last week, the agency was couriering him anything addressed to Mira franked with a mental health postmark, anything written in copperplate, and anything postmarked Peterborough.
Virgil opened the package and found three envelopes inside. Two turned out to be innocuous fan mail. The third was in very neat handwriting, postmarked Wokingham, Berkshire. Virgil opened it and found a plain postcard with a message in Latin, dated three days ago.
Once in his office he logged on and typed the message into Google translate.
Dear Lydia, you promised me heart and soul and despite your failure to respond I do mean to get them.
Ten days. Once again a reaffirmation of the website counter. Saturday 25 April. Just over a week from today. It had to be the tribunal. It had to be.
Thad came in, still in his overcoat, hunting for coffee in Kelly’s cupboard.
‘Thad, I’ve got to talk to you,’ Virgil said.
‘Sure,’ Thad said. ‘About now will be the only time I’ll have the bandwidth, I guess. We’ve got a helluva week coming up.’
‘I know. I’ve seen the schedule. We’ve got to lighten it up and get her away. She’s in imminent danger,’ Virgil said.
‘Well, I don’t know what we can do.’ Thad led Virgil into his room and logged onto the system. ‘See, she’s almost back-to-back for the next two weeks. There’s no free play to speak of. What exactly are you concerned about?’
Virgil showed him the latest letter, and reminded Thad of the catalogue of graffiti and damage. ‘I think the final straw was someone lying in wait outside the flat where she was staying with Baroness Earl. No one should have known she was there. It’s beyond amateurs, Thad. I know budgets are tight, but she needs more security. I can’t be with her 24/7.’
‘What about the police?’
‘It’s all been logged, and we’ve got a sheaf of incident numbers,’ Virgil said. ‘But the trouble is none of these issues on their own has convinced the Met that there is an organised campaign against her. It’s just vandalism, graffiti and vague threats, even when someone got to her own front door. The Met gave me a PCSO as a contact, that’s how seriously they’ve taken it. A hobby bobby. Contrast that with the Manchester police who send two senior detectives down here to interview her over the Lawrence Wall issue.’
‘Wall was nearly killed. You can see their point.’ Thad stroked his chin. ‘How much of this does she know about?’ Thad asked, tapping the letter.
‘I haven’t shown her the last few. I agonised about it, but it didn’t seem worth upsetting her unnecessarily. But if this guy is for r
eal, then she has to be told soon. And well before next Monday.’
Thad steepled his hands in front of his mouth and sighed. ‘Look. We took you on because we feared a physical attack by Lawrence Wall. Now, I’ve read that Wall is out of intensive care, but they are trying to sew his Achilles tendon back together. He’s on crutches so we don’t have anything to fear in that department. Everything else is kinda peripheral.’
‘But it’s like Jonesy said. Wall’s supporters, Internet trolls, twisted fans amongst the Qaeggan, they are all a threat and seem to know where she is. I’d really like to get her abroad for a solid few weeks.’
‘How can a guy in Britain’s most secure mental hospital possibly get to her?’
Virgil explained about the tribunal. Even though he’d now had a letter from the health trust apologising for any lapses and promising that communication rights would be withdrawn, letters were still arriving with external postmarks. ‘He’s got allies on the outside. If they can post letters, they can maybe do other things.’
Thad blew a sigh. ‘Virgil. Look, you can see the immovable commitments in the next week: Monday 7.30pm, Royal Albert Hall, the Charity Gala for PlanetThirst, where she’s the UN water envoy. Tuesday 12.30pm for the Art with Conviction auction at Christie’s. A five minute introductory speech, for which I might add she is being paid a fortune, followed by a lunch with Ulan Kulchuk and the Bishop of Uxbridge. Then a 3pm helicopter trip to Kulchuk’s estate in Bedfordshire to see new exhibition rooms followed by dinner. Wednesday, lunch with software entrepreneur Erik Hing. Friday 2.30pm funeral of Danielle Stevens, which the family pleaded for her to attend. Oh yes, and on Saturday at three a visit to wounded veterans rehabilitation facility with HRH Prince Harry. Next Monday as you know, we’ve got a meeting with the CEO of Suressence. He’s asked to meet her, apparently there’s no deal without his personal approval, so it’s critically important that she focuses on this. Look, Virgil, you’ll be with her on most of these, and most of them are private with very little public access.’
‘There is at the funeral, Thad, that’s the most worrying.’
‘Okay, funeral aside. I mean, it really would seem a monstrous admission of defeat to just shut up shop and hide her, don’t you think?’
‘Alright, then let’s get in extra security.’
Thad spread his arms. ‘Virgil, the budget’s shot to pieces in light of the cut in the contract value, you know that. I really think you are unnecessarily concerned. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He started to pick up the phone. As Virgil left Thad called him. ‘Virgil,’ he said, hand over the phone mouthpiece, ‘we need her to concentrate in the next week, especially with the Suressence bigwigs. Don’t tell her about the letters, okay?’
Chapter Twenty-Three
SIX DAYS
It was the day of the PlanetThirst fundraiser at the Albert Hall. Virgil had been so busy on the phone to the organisers, and getting his own walk-around security check booked in that he hadn’t had chance to do what he really wanted to. Which was to dig into Mira’s school days. Had she known any of the acid-death girls? Had she ever attended Halliday High School in Clitheroe? She would have been a similar age. The stuff on Stardust’s own website was pretty thin, referring only to the fact she had lived in ‘numerous towns and cities’ across the Midlands and North during her teenage years.
He’d managed to squeeze in a ten-minute water cooler meeting with Kelly, who had made her own checks. Kelly said she’d been right back to the CV and other forms filled out when Mira had joined Stardust in 2012, but under secondary education all that had been entered was: ‘various.’ Stardust had been so keen to get the beauty from Village of the Dead signed up that no one much cared about her casual way with forms. Kelly had also googled the school, and found examination lists for GCSEs and A levels, on none of which did Mira’s name figure.
‘I rang up the school, but they wouldn’t disclose past pupil lists under data protection,’ Kelly said. ‘I also searched the local Clitheroe Advertiser online, in case she’d been in a school orchestra or sports day or something like that. No luck.’
‘Of course, she probably wouldn’t show up anyway,’ Virgil said. ‘With her mother being chased by debt collectors, they would have registered under different names each time they moved. That would also preclude voters’ register searches too. I guess we’ve just got to do it the simple way.’
‘If you ask her, she’ll want to know why. It will only alarm her if she discovers that this stalker in Broadmoor has some chance of getting out.’
‘I’ve got a plan,’ Virgil said, finishing up his coffee. All he had to do was wait.
* * *
It was seven o’clock, and reclining in black-tie in a limo gliding through the West End traffic towards the Royal Albert Hall, Virgil felt like a fraudulent version of Prince Charming. Mira was sitting next to him, checking her eye make-up in a hand mirror. She was decked out in a full-length strapless tulle ballgown, designed for her by Versace, whose iridescent kingfisher and aquamarine tints were designed to bring to mind flowing water. On anyone else it would have looked over the top, a fairytale confection, but not on Mira. Her hair, now platinum blonde, was swept up and curled in the style of a forties movie queen, and her swan neck and shoulders looked almost alabaster. Reclining in the corner of the limo’s leather seats she conferred style, glamour and grace on everything around her. My God you’re beautiful. Virgil had almost blurted it out as he showed her into the car, but she had looked into his face and smiled in appreciation to see the sentiment written there anyway.
PlanetThirst had sent a car to bring her to the event where she was due to give a short speech, written by someone else. Virgil realised these precious minutes alone with her in the car would be the only ones for days. He thought hard, and began obliquely.
‘It’s funny how things affect you when you are a kid. Shocking experiences that sort of change you, know what I mean?’ His eyes slid across to her. She was dabbing at the corner of her eye with a mascara brush, and showed no signs of connection so far, so he continued. ‘When I was twelve, there was this lad in the class who I used to hang around with. He got stabbed and died in the street just a hundred yards from my house.’
‘Did you witness it?’ she asked, still tickling the eye.
‘No, but the blood stains on the pavement were there for months.’
‘That’s awful,’ she said perfunctorily. The other eye was now getting the mascara treatment.
‘Anything like that ever happen to you?’ Virgil asked.
‘Not really. Well, some girls at my school got murdered, on a trip in Venice.’ It was said with such casualness. ‘You probably heard of it. There was a big fuss in the papers.’
‘What year was that?’
‘I really don’t remember. Maybe 2005 or 2006? Something like that.’
‘Did you know them?’
There was a pause. ‘Well, vaguely. They weren’t friends, or anything.’
Virgil considered her answer, so casually spun out. ‘Were they the ones dissolved in acid?’
Mira had her lipstick out now, reapplying it to her full lips, and then dabbing with a tissue. ‘Sadly, yes.’ She gave him a curious searching glance. ‘This is a strange conversation, Virgil? What’s up?’ Finally Virgil plucked up the courage to lay his trump card. ‘Does the name Jonathan Pearson mean anything to you?’
They locked eyes for what seemed like an age. Her huge dark-rimmed eyes glittered in the reflected shop fronts, impossible to read. ‘No, it doesn’t. And I’m getting a bit bored with all these questions. Let me tell you something, Virgil. My school days were dull. I was a plain, mediocre swot, who shuttled from one school to another. I don’t like to think about those times, because I obviously much prefer my life now. I mean, can you see why?’ She spread her arms. Look at me, just look at me. Virgil thought of the advice Colonel Forsyth had offered him: remember which way your eyes should face.
Virgil fled from the intensity of her gaze. �
�I’m sorry.’ But he wasn’t. Not at all.
The evening itself went to plan. After giving the speech, which was received politely, Mira’s job seemed to be standing around looking beautiful next to officials and philanthropists for the photographers. Virgil had learned that no cause exudes so much merit that adding a famous beauty to the picture won’t treble the chance of getting it into a newspaper. The classical concert came next, with the London Philharmonic playing for free, and punters paying fifty pounds a head. At the reception afterwards, Virgil once again noted the portly figure of billionaire Ulan Kulchuk, who steered Mira into a conversation with a group of what looked like Chinese officials. He had to admit, Mira did an excellent job of neither looking bored with the platitudes translated for her, nor alarmed at the close-range ogling which needed no transliteration. It was nearly 11pm when Virgil summoned the car to take Mira on to Ram Dipani’s Belgravia home, seemingly her new bolt-hole. The goodbyes were said, Mira was whisked away, and now he was finally free to take the tube to Kelly’s place. She had promised him a late-night brandy and ‘something to take his mind off the job’. He smiled in anticipation, turned on his phone and checked his messages. There was one from Telegraph journalist Peter Childswicke.
‘Glad you got me tonight,’ Childswicke said when Virgil called back. He sounded a little tipsy, his voice slurring. ‘Bit of a breakthrough on Jonathan Pearson-cum-William Mordant.’
‘That’s great. What have you found out?’
‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of Sir Richard Burbage? Former British Ambassador to Moscow in the 1990s, and now writer of rather overlong spy thrillers. Had a somewhat bibulous evening with him tonight, in which he tried to get us to write a review of his latest plodding potboiler. So I said: quid pro quo, old chap. Told him our suspicions, and he said he did recall that during Yeltsin’s time someone by the name of Jonathan Pearson was posted to the Moscow embassy. He had some vaguely junior role in intelligence.’
