I mutter something and we look out of the windscreen at low hills and a horizon starting to clot with rain. She says, ‘They might not take you back to the farmhouse.’
‘No. Not necessarily.’ But I think of Shoesmith’s slogan: Specify, program, beta-launch, full launch. And test, test, test, test. I can’t see Shoesmith, Henderson and the gang hitting the start button without one final round of testing. And they need me for that. Need me, if I’m still part of the team.
Susan follows my train of thought. She’s an IT type herself. She knows how these things work. She picks up her phone, gingerly, the way an Egyptologist handles papyrus. ‘You don’t have to go back. These things are always voluntary, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you OK if I call Adrian?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
I’m vaguely aware of Susan as she calls Brattenbury. Vaguely aware of what she says. But not really. The green-gold hills melt into a blackening distance and the first glimmer of lights. I’m going to spend the evening with Buzz. And today, perhaps, I found a wedding dress.
42
I have what will be my last court appearance for a while. Greater Manchester Police have completed their investigation into the ‘stabbing’ and have accepted my self-defence story. South Wales is still charging me with fraud, but are about to accept that I am not a flight-risk and do not need to be held in pre-trial detention.
Winterton tells me that he thinks the CPS will have difficulty overcoming my self-protection defence and may prefer not to even try. ‘We’ll present you as a victim,’ he says. ‘Of domestic abuse. Of organised crime. Even the police. Juries don’t like convicting women at the best of times. I think we’ll be OK. If we can, we’ll get them to drop charges completely.’
I still don’t like him, but he’s a decent barrister.
I phone George Noble, my immigration lawyer. I want to know if my recent legal complications are going to be an issue for the New Zealand authorities.
He says, ‘You’ve been charged? What with?’
I tell him.
‘And Greater Manchester Police wanted to question you in connection with what, exactly?’
I tell him.
‘Ah.’
‘Is this going to be a problem?’ I try to sound like a citizen wearily outraged at small-minded bureaucrats.
‘I’ll make some calls,’ he says and we hang up.
That same day, we get news from the Dyfed Powys Police. A girl’s body has been found, tangled in dock leaves and stinging nettles in a wet field margin. Death was by gunshot to the back of the head. Face beaten to a pulp to make identification difficult. But the body was put together with a MisPer report, and DNA comparisons identified the corpse as belonging to Tania Lewis, a student and occasional waitress from Llanybydder, near Lampeter.
Tania: usually shortened to Nia.
Llanybydder: definitely not in the arc of land where we think the barn and farmhouse lies.
The victim: the waitress who sorted out cigarettes and clothes for me. Who was nice to me. Who showed kindness.
The family: said that she was given occasional waitressing gigs by a conferencing firm who did corporate events. The conferencing firm was for real – based in Aberystwyth, does about a million pounds in turnover – but the gigs that came from Tinker were always shrouded in secrecy. The person who made the arrangements, Henderson at a guess, had said that there was a large corporate software deal being arranged. The deal-makers were working in secret because of past attempts to hack the organisations involved. Nia had been made to sign a confidentiality agreement, was picked up by a car with darkened windows. ‘A limo, very posh,’ the grieving father said. Nia never knew where she was taken, but had heard mutterings about Tregaron. She was paid well and looked after, so never really cared. She liked the thrill of being in on something big, however marginal her role.
Tregaron: another place nowhere close to the arc of land which has drawn our scrutiny.
The corpse: not just been badly beaten. Someone had used a stick to penetrate her, roughly. The girl’s vagina and uterus were badly damaged. The pathologist was neutral on whether the harm was done pre- or post-mortem, but our working assumption is that the injuries were added post-mortem to make the assault like a random sex-crime, not a cold-blooded murder. Although no semen was found to be present, it often isn’t, even at quite violent rape scenes.
Given the data we have, and a few further guesses, I think what happened was this. Tania Lewis was recruited as a waitress from an area remote from the farmhouse itself. She was given false information about the location. Normally, she did her work, was paid well, was driven back. On this occasion, however, my arrival gave her two things to gossip about. One: my scene with Henderson. Two: when she went for clothes, she found herself driving, or being taken, to Ebbw, which isn’t close to Tregaron at all. Both of those things could have been explained away. Neither of them would have sent Lewis to the police. But Henderson – or one of his colleagues – decided that the risk of loose conversation was nevertheless too great and tied off that loose end in his own inimitable way.
In short: my actions at the farmhouse triggered Nia’s death. That knowledge plucks at me – it can’t not – but I don’t feel guilty, or not really. Henderson is the killer. My own role was close to incidental.
But the corpses are stacking up. Hayley Morgan: an accident, almost. Saj Kureishi: a violent punishment. A warning. Nia Lewis: the snipping of a stray thread. The erasure of a minor error.
And Roy Williams? Corpse or prisoner? I don’t know. I do see Katie Williams, who comes up to the Altrincham house specially. She cries a lot. Asks questions, most of which I can’t answer. I tell her that I’m sure we’ll get him back. Tell her that we have the best people on the job. How much Jackson and others respect her husband.
‘Oh I know,’ Katie interrupts. ‘Roy always told me you were special. I mean . . .’
She hesitates, wondering how much truth is acceptable in this context. I spare her the embarrassment.
‘You mean, I’m a bit weird, but good at my job. That’s OK. I am a bit weird.’
‘Mr Jackson told me that you were in the place where they’ve got Roy.’
‘Yes. At least we think so.’
‘And it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t . . .?’
‘No. It was very nice. Very tidy, very clean. Quite luxurious really. And these people aren’t animals. They wouldn’t hurt someone for no reason. And we aren’t going to give them a reason.’
‘Thank you.’
Katie cries again. There’s something about her peaches-and-cream complexion to which tears are very suited. Raindrops on roses.
When she’s about to leave, she makes a little speech. Preprepared, I think. ‘If you see him, tell him . . .’
However much preparation went into that speech, her sobs spoiled it. But I get the gist. She loves him. Always has, always will. Admires him so much. He’s been such a good dad. Such a good husband. If I weren’t almost incapable of tears, I’d be crying too. I rub her back and get kitchen towel for her eyes.
I watch her leave and stand waving till her car vanishes round the bend.
Call Brattenbury. Ask, ‘Do you have enough on Henderson to secure a life sentence?’
He starts to bullshit me, but he knows me well enough by now to know that I don’t do well with bullshit.
I interpret. ‘Basically, we’ll press for a conspiracy to murder conviction. We might get it or we might not.’
‘That’s about right. We’ll get him on a humungous fraud charge, though. A twenty-year stretch, minimum.’
I don’t say much to that, but I come away with another item for my to-do list. Secure enough evidence on Henderson that we secure a conviction for murder. The death of Tania Lewis demands nothing less.
And finally, my Manchester visit is due to end. Buzz and I are to go out for our final evening here. Italian food
. Candles. Carnations. Waiters with giant pepper grinders. We say all the right things to each other, but the pull of separation is already on us. I’m too much Fiona Grey, too little Fiona Griffiths. I try to unscramble my head, but find it hard.
Buzz as usual is patient. That unfathomable patience.
At the end of the evening, I slip my engagement ring off and give it to him.
‘This’ll be the last time,’ he says.
‘Yes.’ I don’t know if that’s true, but I agree anyway. ‘Thank you for letting me do all this.’
I wave my hand. A gesture that mostly includes check tablecloths and Mancunian diners, but is intended to mean the entire Fiona Grey adventure.
‘That’s OK, love. I think you were right. It was something you had to do. Get it out of your system.’
One of those optimistic Buzz beliefs: that doing this is another solid step in my confident progress towards Ms Normal. I try to feel whether I’ve got anything out of my system, but I get confused between Fiona Grey and Fiona Griffiths and just say yes and look down at my hands and feel muddled.
At ten this evening, a patrol car will take me back to Cheadle Heath. Early tomorrow morning, I’ll be released from detention and permitted to return to Cardiff. My passport has been seized and I’ll have to report to the police every week, but I’ll be a free woman once again.
Free to re-enter the world of Fiona Grey.
But I’m not just going back. I’m going deeper.
43
I find Henderson as he emerges from the osteopath’s. There’s a flight of stairs coming down. A black painted door facing onto the street. And I’m there, just outside the doorway, sitting on a bit of dirty sleeping bag, folded double. I’m smoking a joint. He doesn’t see me as he emerges and he almost kicks me as he tries to stop himself falling.
‘Hi, Vic.’
‘Fiona.’
He’s instantly wary. Doesn’t know how I found him. Is worried that there are cops or cameras watching.
‘You don’t seem very pleased to see me.’
‘It’s always nice to see you.’
His eyes flick left and right. Checking sightlines. Checking for white vans that might hide surveillance squads.
There’s nothing there. Nothing except the video feed which will already have noted his presence, but which he certainly won’t be able to detect just by looking. That and two armed officers in plainclothes. I haven’t been able to pick them out, so I’m sure Henderson won’t be able to.
The armed escort is part of my deal with Brattenbury. Given the risk that Roy Williams may have given up my name under torture, Brattenbury only consented to let me return if I was within reach of police marksmen at all times. Previously, I only got the full treatment when I was meeting Henderson or one of his buddies. Now, it’ll be constant. Brattenbury tells me that only the Queen and the Prime Minister are as heavily guarded as I now am.
I’d prefer to travel light than travel this heavy, but I don’t make the rules. And either way, and perhaps for the very first time, I think we’re one step ahead.
‘How did you find me?’
I tell him the truth or close enough: that I was scared of Henderson, that I wanted a friend of mine to know who he was, that I asked Gary to spy on him that day at Quintrell’s house.
Henderson searches back to the day in question. ‘A homeless guy? Beard, shopping trolley, cider bottle?’
‘That’s him. Gary. He’s not always on the booze.’
‘Go on.’
‘He sells the Big Issue.’ I gesture out onto the Hayes, where Gary is probably busy flogging his wares right now. ‘He said he’d look out for you.’
‘How long have you been here?’
He indicates the doorway with distaste.
‘Three days so far.’
Three days: the truth. Three days, twenty-two ciggies, four joints. Five attempts to move me on. Eleven inappropriate sexual advances.
‘Did you tell any of this to the police?’ He means my knowledge of Gary’s researches, not my life on the street.
‘What do you think, Vic? Have you had the cops up your arse?’
Henderson – lightweight summer jacket, chinos, pale blue shirt – stares at me grimly. He’s calculating the security risk of all this. Trying to work out what my reappearance means, whether it holds a threat for him.
I don’t know the outcome of those calculations, but his face clears and he says, ‘OK. Fiona, have you had lunch? Do you know the Old Radnor Castle?’
He names a gastro-pub a few hundred yards away. I nod. I know it. Never been inside.
‘Right. We’ll meet there, but let’s just make sure it’s only the two of us, OK?’
He gives me a complicated route to follow. Tells me to have my phone with me, as he may ask me to change course. I do as he instructs. At one point he does phone, tells me to double back on myself. I do, then after thirty seconds, he repeats the instruction and I double back on my doubling back.
There are people on the street – shoppers, tradesmen, delivery guys, business types – but I avoid their eyes. A big screen under plane trees on the Hayes is showing highlights of what is meant to have been a successful Olympics. Women in lycra doing remarkable things. Men in Union Jacks and tears.
I’m on my hands-free and follow Henderson’s instructions. His obedient servant, as ever.
When I get to the pub, a waiter wants to take my coat. He also looks at my bit of sleeping bag and thinks about offering to put that somewhere, but decides against. I fold the material up so it’s as small as possible. Try to keep the least dirty bit facing out.
I walk over to where Henderson is waiting for me. I’m about to speak, but he raises a finger to his lips, and starts scanning me with his RF scanner.
‘Anyone ever tell you you’re paranoid?’
He finishes his sweep, then answers. ‘I’m not in jail. You’re not in jail. Anna is in jail. She wasn’t paranoid enough.’
I sit down.
I gesture at the sleeping bag. ‘I lost my room.’
‘You’re sleeping rough?’
‘No. I’m back at the hostel. One of the guys lent me this.’
It’s true. When my room was searched, my cannabis plants were found and confiscated, and the landlord terminated my let. I miss my studio flat, but I think I prefer the hostel. It’s been my favourite thing about this year.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I don’t mind.’
A waiter brings us fishcakes and salsa verde and a beet and pea-shoot salad and chips. The whole thing is served on a piece of blue slate.
‘I ordered for you,’ says Vic.
I start eating chips with my fingers, then think I should probably wash my hands first, so go to the bathroom and clean up a bit.
Vic is on the phone when I return. I stand a few yards back, waiting for him to finish. When Fiona Grey waits, she usually looks at the floor and doesn’t fidget much. She seems more peaceful than me. I think she’s happier.
When Vic is done, he signals it’s OK for me to come over. We resume our meal.
I thank him for the lawyer. He thanks me for keeping my mouth shut while in detention. Thanks me too for wiping my hard drive before leaving Western Vale. ‘That was smart thinking.’
I shrug, in a de-nada-ish sort of way.
We eat a bit.
We’re both, I think, trying to figure out where we stand on the lust front at the moment. After almost four weeks in Manchester, and seeing Buzz almost every day, my body isn’t as screamingly hungry for touch as it was. All the same, I think there was more to those dust devils than just missing Buzz. I have the thought, Fiona Grey wants Vic Henderson. It’s Fiona Griffiths who wants Buzz. There’s a neat logic to that thought which appeals. And it has some truth, I can feel it. If I go into my Fiona Griffiths part, I can feel Henderson recede, until he’s little more than a pale blue shirt, a summer jacket, thinning hair and intelligent eyes. If I move into my Fiona Grey place, he st
rengthens again. I become aware of the dark hairs peeping from his open neck, the pattern of blue in his eyes, the quick movement of his fingers. I don’t have to be in that place for long, before I feel the tug of something stronger than myself.
I try to damp it down. To stay away from those thoughts.
He eats his fishcake with a fork only. ‘I haven’t forgotten that I owe you a weekend away.’
I don’t respond, so he tries another tack. ‘You lost your room. What about your cleaning job . . .?’
‘They’ve given me seventeen and a half hours a week. I’m hoping to go full time again soon.’
‘That’s city centre stuff, is it? The way it was before?’
‘Yes. I’m on early mornings again.’
He wants to know more. Which offices I clean. What access I get. What my shift pattern is.
I answer him, or start to, but then break off. ‘Look, Vic, it doesn’t matter. I’m OK, all right? I just wanted to . . .’
‘Yes?’ I think he wants to hear me say something about him. How I can’t contain my passion any longer. That sort of thing.
I say, ‘My emigration. It’s still on. My immigration lawyer, Noble, says that criminal charges aren’t necessarily a no-no, just so long as they don’t lead to anything.’
‘That sounds fair.’
‘But he says it’s more work. It’s a more difficult case.’
‘He wants more money?’
I nod. ‘And I need to show I can be self-supporting. Money in my bank account.’
‘How much?’
‘Twelve grand. I’ve already got some money of my own and it’s cheaper in the hostel.’ Because he doesn’t instantly respond, I add, ‘Our original contract said you were going to pay me twenty-two, plus the lawyer. I haven’t had nearly that much. Then you said you’d double it.’
Vic’s gaze closes on mine. His mouth is slightly parted. Behind his eyes, there is the rapid movement of calculation.
He says – whispers, rather – ‘Fiona, can you give me ten minutes?’
The Strange Death of Fiona Griffiths (DC Fiona Griffiths) Page 28
