by Philip Cox
‘So did I. She was coming from Canary Wharf to meet me at Waterloo.’
Amy looked at him, puzzled. ‘So why was she -?’
‘At Green Park Piccadilly? You tell me.’
‘I hadn’t realised that. Why were you two meeting?’ she asked.
Tom shrugged. ‘Lisa phoned me that afternoon. Said she wanted to talk to me about something. Said it was important. Said it had to be face to face. I had no idea what it was about; even wondered if she wanted to talk about getting back together. We arranged to meet at Waterloo Station, or rather a coffee shop nearby. I waited and waited. She wasn’t answering her phone, so I went home after an hour or so. I tried her phone again just before I went to bed, and the police answered it. Told me what had happened.’
‘She said it had to be face to face, did she?’ Amy asked. ‘Just like I did?’
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I didn’t want to say that.’
Amy looked around.
‘You okay?’ Tom asked.
She nodded. ‘Sure. I’m okay.’
‘Do you know what Lisa wanted to talk about?’
Amy shook her head. ‘No. Not exactly.’
‘What does that mean? Either you do or you don’t.’
‘What I mean is: I know she wanted to talk about something, but I don’t know what.’
‘You’re still not making much sense. Was she in some sort of trouble? Money trouble? Was it a man? Was she pregnant?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘Something to do with work?’
Amy said nothing.
‘To do with work?’ Tom repeated. ‘You must know if it was; you worked with her, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, we did.’
‘So what was it? Was she whistle blowing or something?’
Amy looked down at the ground, then back up at Tom. ‘In a way, yes.’
‘In a way? You work in market research, don’t you? Surely to God if she was blowing the whistle on something, it wouldn’t get her pushed in front of a train.’
‘I don’t know.’
Tom sighed. ‘Look, we’re getting nowhere. You said something like don’t believe what they say - she didn’t jump. So are you saying she was pushed?’
Her eyes welling up, Amy nodded her head vigorously. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, her voice quavering. ‘I’m saying she was pushed.’
‘But why?’ Tom asked. ‘She worked in market research: why would anybody do that to her?’
‘Because of what she knew,’ Amy replied. ‘She was murdered because of what she knew.’
Chapter Twelve
‘What?’ Tom asked, wondering if he had misheard Amy. ‘What do you mean she was killed?’
Amy said nothing, just nodded. She grasped her shoulder bag closer, as if for reassurance or protection.
‘And because of what she knew? I just don’t get it.’ He looked around; he had not realised his voice had got louder. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said, quieter this time.
‘It’s true, I swear,’ she said. ‘It’s not the sort of thing I would make up.’
Tom gently put his hand on her arm and guided her to resume walking. Now they were on the West Carriage Drive, a bridge which separates the Serpentine from the Long Water.
‘I’m sorry’, he said. ‘Of course I’m not saying you’re making it up. But - but I just don’t understand. The firm the two of you work - worked - for is something to do with market research, isn’t that right?’
Amy nodded.
Tom paused a moment, and then continued, ‘Isn’t that just asking people what type of pet food their moggy likes, or their favourite brand of breakfast cereal?’
She laughed. ‘I suppose that’s basically what we do. Although it’s generally a lot more complex and sophisticated than that. Big firms use our findings to plan marketing campaigns, maybe change their products. So it can be very big business. In some cases, we are talking millions of pounds, or Euros, or dollars, as we do quite a bit of overseas business.’
‘So you are saying Lisa got involved in some sort of industrial espionage, or something?’
They stopped on the bridge, looking out over the water. Tom leaned over, resting his elbows on the railings.
‘I don’t know what I’m saying,’ she said, shaking her head.
He looked up at her. The cold wind was making her eyes glisten. ‘Are you saying,’ he asked, ‘that she came across something she shouldn’t have had, and that there’s so much money at stake that somebody pushed her under a train because of it?’
She said nothing, just looked out over the water.
‘Is that really likely? Really?’
She shrugged her shoulders and started walking. Tom stood up and ran to catch up with her.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m not saying you’re lying or mistaken. It’s just that this sort of thing only happens in books or in the movies, doesn’t it?’
Amy carried on walking, saying nothing.
Tom tried to change tack. ‘She hadn’t worked for your firm for very long had she?’
‘No, not that long. Why?’ she replied, looking over at him.
‘Well, she wouldn’t have been that senior, would she?’
‘No-oo,’ she said slowly.
‘Surely, then, she wouldn’t have been privy to anything that important? Unless by accident.’
‘Suppose not.’
‘Did the two of you actually work together? I don’t mean just in the same office, but seeing and doing the same stuff.’
‘No. She was involved in her client accounts, and I was in mine.’
‘So - she was the only person dealing with her client accounts?’
‘Oh, no - each account is looked after by a team of four or five. An account manager, and three or four others.’
‘Have you got any suspicions? Any clients or other staff members who might not be what they seem?’
‘No, none at all.’
Tom thought for a moment. Their walk had taken them off the bridge, and along the south side of the Serpentine. He paused outside a WC.
‘You okay to hold on a minute?’ he asked.
She looked around anxiously, then nodded.
‘Only be a sec. You’re right out in the open here; nothing’s going to happen. In any case, I’ll be less than a minute. Promise.’
‘Okay.’ She put her hands in her coat pockets and shivered.
Tom ran into the gents. He was as good as his word: less than a minute later he was on his way out. In his haste to get back out to Amy, he collided in the doorway with a man who was on his way in. He froze as he and the man came face to face. He was very tall, more than Tom’s five feet eleven, but his height was accentuated by his thin, wiry frame. He was wearing a dark grey overcoat over a dark suit, matching tie and white shirt. For a moment, Tom’s gaze was fixed on the man’s face. He had longish hair, combed back to just below his collar. It was the colour of the hair which caught Tom’s eyes: it was a brilliant white. Not silver, nor a bit grey, but white. His face was gaunt, and pale. Another feature of his face caught Tom’s attention: his eyes. Rather than blue, or hazel, or brown, or any other commonplace combinations, they were red. Bright red.
‘Sorry,’ Tom muttered, as he squeezed through the doorway, keen to get back to Amy, a little embarrassed at how he had momentarily stared at this man’s face, and surprised, if not unsettled, by the expression on the man’s face. It was one of pure hate and malice, heightened by the two burning red eyes.
Tom hurried back to the pathway and to Amy. He quickly turned back to look at this man - albino, that’s what people like him are called, he recollected. Like the rabbit. No sign of him, though; must have gone into the gents.
Amy was waiting. She gave him a slight smile.
‘Sorry about that,’ Tom said, as they started walking again.
‘Where were we?’ he asked.
‘You were asking about any of her workmates. If I was susp
icious of any of them.’
‘Which you’re not.’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘If you want to get to the bottom of what happened to Lisa; as I do...’
‘I’d like to, yes. If I can.’
‘How about putting our heads together?’
‘U-huh.’
‘You sure?’
She stopped walking and folded her arms, hugging herself. ‘Sure.’
‘You’re still working there, right?’
Amy nodded.
‘Is there any way you could get anything about the cases she was working on?’
‘I don’t know. The stuff she was dealing with might have been reallocated.’
‘Worth a try, though?’
‘Sure. I’ll try.’
‘You’re back at work Monday, right?’
Amy nodded again.
‘Would you be able to try then? Please?’
‘Okay. I’ll try.’
‘Good girl.’ He reached out and squeezed her arm. She didn’t resist. ‘Don’t forget, you’re not in this on your own.’
She smiled. ‘I know.’
‘Give me a call Monday night. Talk about what you could dig up.’
‘No promises I’ll be able to...’
‘I understand. But call me Monday anyway. Yeah?’
‘Sure.’
‘Okay then. Nice to see you again. Talk Monday.’
‘Monday,’ she repeated, and started to walk away.
‘Are you getting the tube back home?’ Tom asked. ‘I was going to walk down to Knightsbridge station.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Haven’t been able to face the tube since - well, you know. I’ll get the bus. Only one change. At Victoria.’
‘Okay,’ Tom said gently. ‘Good luck, then. Speak Monday.’
She smiled, turned away, and started walking in the direction of the bank of bus stops on Knightsbridge.
Tom stood and watched her for a minute, then made his way to Edinburgh Gate, then to the tube station. As he walked, he thought about the implications of what Amy had told him. He always had reservations about the idea that Lisa jumped in front of the train: maybe his reservations were justified.
Being deep in thought, he didn’t notice the man he had bumped into in the WC doorway. The albino paused at the spot where Tom and Amy parted. He looked over at the row of bus stops. He could make out Amy’s figure arrive at the stops. One bus was already there, and a second was pulling up. He looked over in the direction of the tube station: Tom was crossing South Carriage Drive.
He looked once more at the bus stops, then began to walk briskly towards the tube station.
Chapter Thirteen
The streets were quiet that night. Very little traffic, even for this late hour. A faint rumble of traffic from the main road half a mile away. A taxi pulled up a hundred yards or so up the road; a faint bang as the fare shut the door. A night bus passed the intersection a little further up. There was the sound of a dustbin lid falling on the ground: probably a fox. The sky was almost clear: a few wisps of cloud, the flashing lights of an aircraft as it made its approach to Gatwick.
Apart from two or three windows dotted about the streets, all the buildings, residential and commercial were in darkness. Two figures walked down the street, arm in arm, stopping occasionally.
On the third floor of one of the buildings, a digital alarm clock showed 01:05. The light from the clock was the only illumination in this bedroom, except for that from the street lamps.
Jane Kennedy looked over at the clock as Sully rolled off her with a satisfied grunt. She wriggled around under the sheet and pulled her nightshirt back down. She turned the other way: Sully had fallen asleep straight away. She lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling. Now the clock said 01:07.
At 01:09 she heard some talking from the street below. Not shouting: just ordinary conversation. She strained to hear what was being said, but the voices were too soft. She contemplated getting up to look out the window, but the people below moved on, still talking.
She turned and lay on her side and tried to get back to sleep. 01:12.
01:16. No good. She got up and sat on the bed. Sully murmured something in his sleep, moved around a bit, and then ripped off a fart.
Jane was about to say something to him, or hit him, but decided she wanted him asleep. She stood up, and padded into the bathroom. Then into the kitchen, where the oven clock read 01:23.
She reached into her bag which was hanging on the back of a chair, and fished out a pack of Lambert & Butler, and a lighter. She lit up, and sat down on the chair. Picked up the little black lighter and studied it. It had Antigua engraved on it, in elegant gold lettering. She snorted: it had been a present from Sully, on their first holiday together.
That day’s Daily Mail was resting on the table. She reached over and pulled it over. She glanced at the front page, and then started to browse through the paper. Got bored by the time she reached page 7, so closed the paper again.
She looked at the clock - 01:34 - and took a long drag from her cigarette. Stubbed it out in the terracotta ashtray.
She wandered down the hallway, and stood in the bedroom doorway for a moment. Then padded over to Sully’s side of the bed. Stood two feet away from the bed and watched him for a full minute.
Satisfied he was soundly asleep she went into the spare room. Ostensibly a second bedroom, as only the two of them lived in the flat, they used it as an overflow wardrobe come dressing room and storeroom. There was also a small desk and chair which Sully used when he was working from home.
Jane slowly slid open one of the white cupboard doors and knelt down. She moved three pairs of shoes off a pile of magazines. Lifted the magazines to reveal a small black box, A4 size, three or four inches deep. She paused, looked around and listened: she could just about hear Sully snoring. She pulled the cord which switched on the cupboard light. Sat down on the floor and lifted the box onto her lap. She nibbled a thumbnail and opened the box.
She quietly and slowly flicked through the documents in the box. She paused as she came across an old photograph. A photograph of her and Lisa, with their parents. It was taken some ten or fifteen years ago somewhere in France; she couldn’t remember where. A family holiday. Family holiday: how ironic.
She looked closer at the photograph: she and Lisa, arms around each other, laughing hysterically at something.
Jane heard a murmur and some movement from the bedroom. She looked up, and listened out again. Slowly put the photographs back in the box. Closed the box, replaced it, replaced the magazines and shoes, switched off the light, and slowly slid the wardrobe closed.
She walked over the window and stared out. As she looked out over the darkened rooftops, her eyes began to fill.
Chapter Fourteen
Some miles away, the night was anything but still and peaceful. Not in this particular building anyway. Outside the single storey storage building, two white transit vans were backed up to the open doorway, their own rear doors open. Inside, three men were packing goods into cardboard storage boxes, and then sealing the boxes.
A fourth man was standing in the doorway. He was tall, dark haired, with heavy shadow on his face. He wore a dark suit and white shirt, top two buttons undone. No tie. He was smoking a cigarette. His attention was divided between what was going on in the building, and the fifty yard roadway to the main street, which was quiet, except for the occasional car passing by.
‘Are we all clear still, John?’ asked one of the men packing, looking up from the boxes.
John puffed on the cigarette and nodded. ‘So far, so good. Hey, you just worry about the damn boxes.’
‘Nearly done,’ the packer replied. ‘The first van’s almost full; this lot can go in the second. Then we’re through.’
John stood aside while the man loaded boxes into the van. Then he heard something.
‘Wait,’ he said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. The roadway was lit up by the headlamps as a car
turned into the street.
‘It’s not the police, is it?’ the packer whispered nervously.
John peered into the night mist. ‘Don’t think so,’ he whispered back, ‘Oh shit; what does she want?’
The Honda CR-Z pulled up alongside the transit van. Ashley Merchant killed the engine and stepped out.
‘Christ,’ John muttered. ‘Three in the morning and she’s still wearing tweeds.’
The packer sniggered.
‘Carry on,’ John said. ‘I’ll deal with her.’
Still wearing her normal office dress, Merchant marched up to John. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
John looked around: at the interior of the vans; at the almost empty storage area. ‘Seems to be going fine, thanks. Have you come to help?’
Merchant ignored the question. She leaned into one of the vans and ran a hand over some of the boxes. Then walked into the building and looked around.
‘Everything all packed up, then?’ she said to John.
John did not reply. Just stared at her.
She waited a moment, then asked, ‘And they all know the route, and what to do at the other end?’
John took another drag. Slowly. ‘Everybody knows what to do,’ he answered firmly, still staring at her.
She looked around again, and brushed some imaginary dust off her jacket. ‘Well, there’s nothing else I can do here,’ she said, and walked back to the Honda. She stopped as she passed John. ‘Call me when it’s all finished,’ she snapped.
‘Fuck you,’ John replied. ‘I report direct to Mr Fleming. Not you.’
Merchant glared at him for a moment, then climbed into the car. Started the engine, and switched on the headlamps. She reversed a few feet to clear the transit vans, then attempted a three point turn. The roadway, however, was too narrow, probably one and a half standard lanes, and she was unable to make the turn in three manoeuvres. Instead, it took five or six. Because it was dark, John was unable to see but to his amusement he could visualize her frantically turning the steering wheel. He hoped she could see him laughing.
‘Stupid cow,’ he said, to the amusement of the others.
