Replica

by Lexi Revellian

  Her bolthole had to be within a mile of that spot, probably a lot less, and most likely along a narrow northbound corridor. How difficult could it be to track her down? He was confident he could do it in under an hour.

  Nick picked up the phone again.

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 26

  Good feeling …

  I was cheerful as I made my way towards the first floor Ladies at eight o’clock that evening. The day had been a successful one; I’d eaten well, earned money, and was confident I looked much less recognizable with black hair (it also helped that I quite liked my startling new look). By my own efforts, I’d got some control over the life I’d been thrust unwillingly into. My hopes were high that a note would await me – goodness, the other Beth might be in the Barbican right now. Not a good idea to bump into her though, in such a public place, so I must be careful – and beware of over-confidence; perhaps I should work out an escape route, just in case, while waiting.

  I exited the building and headed for the underground car park via the stairs in Fore Street. The man in the booth faced away from me, talking to a colleague; the place was deserted. I went to the stack of bricks near where I’d spent my first night on the run, and picked up a couple. Back in the car park, I turned to the right. I took off my hoodie, shoved it in the bag with the camping stove, and hid that and the groceries behind an enormous Rolls Royce shrouded in a dust cover that didn’t look as if it was going anywhere soon. That would save me lugging them about.

  In the far wall was a door; on it, FIRE EXIT with a picture of a running man and an arrow, and PLEASE SHUT GATE. This door only opened one way. I went through, and wedged it ajar with one of the bricks. Beyond, stairs led to a rectangular lake, houses with glass balconies, and another one-way gate. I left that unlocked too, using the second brick. I didn’t expect to need this escape route. Time to go.

  Several people were hanging around the mezzanine, chatting, reading papers or drinking cups of coffee, but none of them appeared to be staking the place out, staring or furtively muttering into phones. They looked harmless enough. I went straight into the Ladies, opened the cubicle door with anticipation and upended the bin. No note was taped there.

  Instant panic rose in me. Why was there no note? Why?

  If Rob had given my letter to the first Beth – and surely he would, if for no other reason than because he’d wonder what was in it – then why hadn’t she written, just to say she was working on a solution even if she hadn’t yet found one? She’d know I was waiting, could guess the straits I was in, would want to help me, wouldn’t she? I couldn’t imagine what was going on, nor think of a way to find out.

  Supposing my letter had somehow got into Sir Peter’s hands? That would explain it. They’d be waiting for me, out there beyond the door, I felt suddenly certain; and I now had to retrace my steps, in the grip of fear worse than anything I’d experienced before, a fear that made me want to huddle in a foetal ball in a corner of the locked cubicle and never come out. I forced myself to unlock the door, and stand in front of the mirror, pretending to do my hair. My face was white and my hands shook. Stay calm, and get ready to run. A middle-aged woman prepared to leave, and I tagged along with her as she turned right, trying to look as if we were together. “It’s lovely and warm after the cold outside,” I said at random, following her towards the staircase. She smiled, a little surprised, but didn’t answer. “Have you come far?” I persisted, sounding like the Queen.

  “Kensington,” she said. Two men from the mezzanine started down the stairs behind us, one talking on his mobile. Oh God.

  “Not too far, then … a very convenient part of London, I always think, Kensington.” My voice sounded quick and nervous. “My aunt’s mother-in-law lived there once. South Kensington. She had a flat near the tube station. Really handy for museums and parks. Not that I ever went there. Islington – where I live – is nearer the Barbican. I come here a lot …”

  She smiled again, a faint reluctant smile, turned decisively and joined a man rising from a bench, clearly her husband. She’d tell him about the mad stranger accosting her with inane remarks. I set off on my own across the cavernous space at a leisurely walk, not daring to glance over my shoulder. They couldn’t be certain it was me, with my hair black. Doors to my right led to the lakeside terrace, no good, only one way out from there. I reached the lifts but was afraid to wait. I pushed open the heavy doors to the stairs, and the moment the men couldn’t see me, ran to the next floor, dodged right, past delicious smells from expensive restaurants, through the glass door into the icy air, and shot up a long ramp leading to the upper level walkways.

  I pelted across Gilbert Bridge, moving too fast to feel the arctic cross wind, pushing past groups of people coming towards me. Before rounding the corner, I looked back. Terrifying – the two men were pounding over the bridge side by side as if in a chase scene from a film, scattering pedestrians. I sprinted along The Postern, ducking between massive concrete pillars a metre wide, hoping they’d think I might hide there, and would slow down to make sure they didn’t miss me. I had to reach Wallside without getting lost, and find the right staircase to get my things from the car park. It was a long way.

  I overshot the entrance, but realized immediately and dashed down the open stairs by the lake, hoping to simply vanish and leave the men searching. Four flights of stairs, green gate at the bottom, brick still holding it not quite closed. Through the gate, let it shut behind me, not safe but safer. One more lot of tiled stairs, level with the lake now. Door to the car park …

  It was shut. Someone had moved the brick. I couldn’t open it, and above me the sound of boots on tiles was getting louder. I cowered by the door, panting. He couldn’t get through the gate or see me, and wouldn’t know for certain I was there. On the other hand, I was stuck, unable to go forward or back. The garden and lake was a dead end. Why hadn’t I thought this might happen? The man had not gone; I heard his voice, speaking low. If he was phoning his partner to go round the car park way, they’d have me. I was cornered.

  I jumped as hinges creaked open. An elderly man appeared from the car park, and I caught the door and slipped through. It banged shut behind me. I ran to where I’d hidden my bags, grabbed them and doubled back past the security booth, up the ramp and as fast as I could down Fore Street towards home.

  No one was in sight when, still palpitating from my narrow escape, I reached the hoardings. I stepped through the gap, picking my way over the timber and breeze blocks in the dark, up the stairs and past the tramp’s territory. I could hear him moving about and muttering to himself, and trod quietly in case he heard me and came out. I longed to get to my flat. Barricaded in, after a meal and some wine, I’d feel better.

  As I got near the third floor, Jarek’s door slowly opened and he appeared, finger to his lips. I froze. Something was up. He beckoned with his other hand, and when I was inside closed the door gently and drew me into the living room. It smelled pleasantly of warm bacon and wood shavings. The cat, curled next to the stove, opened his eyes, stretched a front leg, and went back to sleep.

  Jarek spoke in a low voice, his accent stronger than I remembered. “Is man upstairs. Is something knock over, I listen at door, I hear him go up, softly, softly, then I wait for him to come down, but he does not come down. I think he still there waiting. Perhaps he wait for you, in your flat?”

  “How long has he been there?” My mouth felt dry; my voice was a cracked whisper.

  “Not long, ten minutes maybe.”

  “Did you see what he looked like?”

  Jarek shook his head. “Basically, I hear the bang, then quiet steps, I think maybe is the kids, so I blow out candle and look to see, and I see a light, a torch, and just a shadow. But is not kids. So I watch for you through the window.”

  “Thank you, Jarek.” I stood there, clutching my plastic bags, trying to think.

  Jarek said, “You know who it is?” I nodded. “Is bad?”

  �
�Very bad.”

  “You want to stay here until he is gone? He maybe get tired of waiting, go away.”

  Or he might search the building, burst into Jarek’s flat, hit Jarek and grab me … I couldn’t bear the suspense, not knowing. “Suppose he doesn’t? I’ll go myself. Can you look after these for me?” I handed him the bags containing the camping gas stove, the lock and the food.

  He put them in a kitchen unit drawer. “I give you my phone number.” He fetched a scrap of paper and a pencil, and wrote it down in pointy foreign writing with crossed sevens. “You ring me, I tell you if he go. If I am not sure, I check, he does not look for me, he will not give me trouble. He ask for you, I tell him, no girl here.”

  I edged to the window. No one in sight, and no parked vehicles as it’s all double yellow lines near the roundabout. The block of flats opposite had a small car park, and a watcher might be concealed there. Several of the cars had no snow on them. I imagined one springing to life and screeching after me. I’d go out the back way, past the metal cabin I slept in my first night here.

  “Jarek, I’m going now. If the man follows me, could you try to distract him – ask him what he’s doing, or something?”

  He nodded, and we went to the door. He opened it cautiously, listening, then gestured me out. I hated leaving the safety of his flat for the dark stairwell; I felt my way down, petrified of tripping and making a noise that would alert the man waiting silently above, longing to hurry but unable to. When I reached ground level, I glanced up, and saw the faint light from Jarek’s flat cut off as he shut his door. I was on my own. I scuttled to the shadow of the cabin, and went behind it to the tangle of dried nettles and brambles covered in snow where the loose hoarding is. You had to push one panel and half climb over, half squeeze through; it was narrow for an adult. Normally I used the other gap round the front, but I got out all right, walked down the pavement till a bend in the road, then ran, my feet crunching the icy slush.

  I felt safer once I had passed a barrier across the road, knowing a car couldn’t catch me: but not safe, a long way from safe.

  Replica ~ Lexi Revellian

  CHAPTER 27

  The goods

  Nick waited in the cold shadowy flat, occasionally texting Ollie. From the window he could see the anonymous Ford Mondeo. Sean had rung to tell him about the near miss at the Barbican, and Nick had been hard put not to let his satisfaction show. Three operatives, experienced in conducting ambushes, had been within metres of the target and managed to lose her; that made his earlier failure appear less important. They made much of the fact that she had dyed her hair black, or was wearing a wig, and hadn’t worn the maroon hoodie – as if no one on the run ever tried to look different.

  That meant he still had the chance to catch her himself. Nick had known he’d struck gold when, snooping round the flat’s empty living room, there in the corner was the small gothic bookshelf from the CCTV images. But this lead had so far proved no more successful than the Barbican one, and at two forty-five a.m. he was inclined to call it a day. He would have guessed she’d picked up a man and gone home with him, had not his knowledge of the original Beth made this seem unlikely. Perhaps something had happened to her after all. The police would tell them directly if a body was found. He got to his feet and stretched silently, then skulked down the staircase and went to find Ollie in the car park opposite.

  Ollie’s face was resigned as he reached across and unlocked the car door. “I’m beginning to think the replica doesn’t exist, she’s just a figment of you and Sir Pete’s fevered imaginations.” He started the car as Nick did up his seat belt. “Home?”

  “No, drop me at Beth’s.” Something Fraser said had been niggling him. No harm in checking it out.

  “I dunno where you get the energy from. All I want to do right now is go straight to sleep in a nice warm bed, and hope I don’t dream I’m watching a building.”

  “Not her front door, out of sight round the corner.”

  “You’re up to something.” Ollie shot him a look. “Don’t you ever give up?”

  Nick grinned. “No.”

  As the sound of Ollie’s engine faded, Nick bantered briefly with the watchers outside Beth’s flat, then ran up the steps and rang her bell. After a long wait, a sash window rattled open above him; Beth leant out, saw him and closed the window. A moment later the hall light came on. She opened the door and stood on the threshold in her dressing gown, tousled hair framing her face, eyes sleepy; but clearly happy to see him.

  “What is it?”

  “Can I come in?” She moved to let him past, and locked the door. They walked up the stairs. On the half landing he put his arms round her, pushed her against the wall and murmured, “When it came to it, I didn’t want to wait till Saturday.”

  Beth gazed up at him. “I wondered where you were tonight. Like an idiot, I went over to the van and then it wasn’t you. Your hands are freezing.”

  “They’ll soon warm up.”

  The hall light switched itself off, plunging them into sudden blackness. He breathed in her warm breath, the smell of her.

  Beth murmured, “D’you want a coffee? Hot chocolate?”

  “No, I want you.”

  Sleepy and replete, Nick lay on his back in the dark with Beth snuggled up to him under the duvet, the cat banished to the living room. They talked about this and that. He ran his fingers through her hair, so silky, springy and abundant. It smelled nice, too. Beth stirred and said idly,

  “So why weren’t you and Ollie here tonight? I thought you were doing the evening shift all week.”

  “Pete – Sir Peter had another job for me this morning. Then this evening my sister’s babysitter let her down, so she asked me instead.”

  “How old’s her baby?”

  “Seven or eight months. Luckily she slept the whole time, she’s pretty good. Josh was easy too, it must be genetic.” Lazily, he stroked her back, tracing her spine as far as he could reach.

  “I don’t know anything about babies. I never even did any babysitting as a teenager.”

  “There’s not much to it, keep them fed and clean and don’t drop them on their heads.”

  “You make it sound easy. I find babies faintly alarming.”

  “You said you don’t know any.”

  “True – I’m extrapolating from one, if I’m honest.” Beth raised herself on her elbow, so she could look at Nick while she talked. Her hair tickled his chest. “The receptionist at Rob’s school left to start a family last Christmas – we went to see her afterwards, and her baby didn’t sleep at all and she was having a bad time, poor thing. I think really she’d have liked to return him to the hospital and tell them it had all been a terrible mistake and could she have her life back. He cried most of the time, and when he wasn’t doing that, he gave you disapproving stares.”

  Nick pulled her to him and kissed her. She’d delivered the goods. He got out of bed, gathered up his clothes and started to dress. Beth’s face fell.

  “You’re going?”

  “Afraid so. There’s something I have to do.” He buckled his belt, bulky with its handcuff pouch and taser holster. “The Security Service never sleeps. Well, not as often as it would like, anyway.”

  He finished dressing in two minutes flat, checked he’d got his phone, and turned to Beth. She smiled. Most – no, all the women he’d ever known would have been sulking by now, demanding to know what was so important that couldn’t wait till the morning, berating him for not putting them first, accusing him of treating them like an amenity. In short, being a pain in the arse. Beth seemed surprisingly okay about him turning up unannounced at three in the morning, having sex with her then clearing off.

  She came downstairs to let him out of the front door. On the threshold she said, “Take care, Nick. It was lovely to see you tonight.”

  To his surprise, Nick heard himself say, “If I’m off tomorrow evening – this evening – maybe we could do something? I’ll give you a ring.”


  Beth’s smile in response made him feel good. He set off down the quiet cul de sac to look for a taxi. The guys in the van gave a ragged cheer as he walked past; an urban fox eyed him warily and crossed to the other side of the road. A lone black cab hove into view, amber light on. Nick raised his arm; it made a U-turn and pulled over. He climbed in and gave an address a street away from Beth Two’s hideout. Now he’d got another lead on the replica, could almost feel her within his grasp, victory nearly his, he wouldn’t take the chance he might miss her. He’d spend the rest of the night at the abandoned flat, waiting.

  And first thing in the morning, if she didn’t show, he would go to Thames House to see Trev. Trev was the best. Give him one or two details and he could track down pretty well anyone from his computer; and if that didn’t work, he was brilliant at ringing strangers and eliciting information, posing as an official, a researcher, a relative or an employer. He could put on any accent at will, and like Ollie, he was always believed when he assumed another persona.

  If Trev rang Tollington High, it was ten pounds to a penny he’d get enough information to locate their former receptionist, and sod the Data Protection Act. If Beth Two had got a job as a live-in au pair, that would explain why she hadn’t turned up at the derelict flat to sleep.

  She hadn’t grown five inches, or had multiple facial piercings; but she might well have got a friend of a friend to take her on to look after a baby.