The Victim

by Max Manning

  Gem felt a stab of embarrassment, and her cheeks burned. Maybe she had sought solace in alcohol, but who could blame her? What hurt the most was Drew suggesting that it was getting out of control.

  She lifted the empty mug and waved it at him. “Actually, when you’re ready, another tea will be perfect.”

  Drew tilted his head to one side and smiled benignly. “If you really want vodka, I’ll make you one, no problem. I’m trying to think what’s best for you, that’s all. Still, if you want vodka…”

  This is getting patronizing now, Gem thought, but she didn’t want to start an argument. She didn’t have the strength. “No, honestly, forget it. Forget the tea too.”

  Drew leaned forward and touched the back of her hand gently. “You know the police are going to arrest this man soon, don’t you? He’s made a big mistake confronting you in the street like that. If he’d kept his head down, he probably would have had a good chance of getting away. Not now.”

  Gem wasn’t convinced. London was a place where you could disappear easily if you wanted to, especially if you were used to lurking in the shadows. Apart from that, there was something about this man, something she couldn’t explain, but she’d looked into his eyes, and he was no ordinary carjacker.

  “Do you really think the police will catch him soon?”

  Drew nodded. “I do. Maybe then you can decide whether you want to go back to work or not. It’s up to you, but I’d be happy if you took a less demanding job or didn’t work at all. I’ll never force you to do something you don’t want to. I trust you to make the right decision. You’ve been through such a lot. The way you stood up to that carjacking was amazing, but now that he’s stalking you, I don’t want you taking risks.”

  Gem had heard him talk about her taking risks by working late so many times before, and it had almost always ended up with them shouting at each other. Eventually, she’d storm off threatening to pack her bags and leave, again, while he crossed his arms and shook his head in despair.

  This time, there would be no argument. Instead of feeling that he was trying to stop her achieving what she had worked so hard to achieve, instead of dreading the thought of not being true to herself, Gem wondered if maybe he had a point.

  “It’s just so embarrassing feeling so scared,” she said. “According to the newspapers, I’m the Warrior for Women, the woman who stood up and fought back. When I saw him in the street today, I felt terrified and helpless. I don’t understand why he’s doing this to me.”

  The Reporter

  Subterfuge had never been Matt Revell’s forte. Undercover journalism, setups, and stings were not for him. He liked to stick to what he was good at. The face-to-face stuff, the confrontations. His success in these situations wasn’t down to aggression. Far from it. He’d discovered early in his career that he had the ability to avoid appearing to be accusing, judging, or condemning the person being ambushed.

  Revell sat at a table opposite the bar, nursing a pint of beer and pretending to be reading something on the screen of his phone. The thrill of chasing a big story coursed through his system like a chemical stimulant. If he succeeded in finding the man who had attacked Gem Golding before the police did, it’d be the biggest success of his career so far. The mere possibility of seeing his name printed above such a sensational story gave him an adrenaline rush.

  He’d chosen to sit next to the largest of the pub’s two windows because he could see out onto the street and get a good view of everybody who walked through the door without having to turn his head. The lunchtime rush had ended, and the place was emptying fast.

  Revell checked the time on his phone. He had no idea what the man he was waiting for looked like, but he’d bet a month’s wages that he wasn’t among the customers already lined up along the bar. They had all bought themselves a drink, and none of them showed any interest in what was going on around them.

  At exactly five minutes past three, the door opened, and a lone man stepped inside, his narrow shoulders hunched, hands deep in his trouser pockets. Instead of approaching the bar, he stood in the middle of the room and looked around, checked his watch, and scowled.

  Revell made a show of peering out the window, then returned to pretending to study the screen of his phone. He knew instinctively that it was the person who had identified himself during their telephone conversation as Finch.

  Finch screwed up his narrow face and walked slowly to the bar. The lone barman, a floppy-haired surfer dude, grabbed an empty beer glass and smiled. Finch shook his head. After a final scan of the room, the man who’d been expecting to be bought several pints of beer and sell a story to a reporter made for the door.

  Revell stood up and followed. This was the hard part. He hadn’t a clue where Finch was heading, but he had to track him, preferably without being spotted. Finch had suggested meeting in the George in Stratford, and Revell hoped that meant it was his local pub. Out on the sidewalk, he spotted his target striding north along the bustling Broadway thoroughfare.

  Finch moved at a surprisingly brisk pace. The street was bustling with shoppers, and Revell had to weave his way through the crowds to keep him in sight. He soon found himself uncomfortably close to his target and dropped back. The reporter had made it clear to Duffield that he believed the best way to handle the negotiations would be to keep it simple, but the news editor had been adamant. If they wanted to keep the price of the story down, they couldn’t let the contact hold all the cards.

  Revell slowed as he found himself stuck behind two women wearing colorful flowing robes and headscarves, both pushing strollers. It took him a second or two to squeeze past them, but that was long enough. Finch had disappeared.

  Revell swore under his breath but kept walking. The only way Finch could have vanished so quickly would have been by darting into one of the stores. He pressed his face up against the window of a coffee shop. The place was busy, but there was no sign of Finch. He moved on, checking out a discount shoe store, followed by a betting shop. Then he struck lucky.

  The shop sign, in bright yellow lettering, read Donna’s Kebabs. A girl in her late teens stood behind the counter. She wore a dark-blue overall-style jacket and a sullen expression. Behind her, an inverted cone of brown meat glistened with fat as it turned slowly on a vertical rotisserie. On the other side of the counter, perched on a wooden stool, tapping away at his cell phone, sat Finch.

  Revell stepped inside, smiling broadly at the girl. She yawned loudly. Without taking his eyes off his phone, Finch snapped, “For God’s sake, Sharon, serve the man a kebab. He’s hungry. Your customer service skills are nonexistent. I’m seriously considering sacking you for gross incompetence.”

  The girl opened her mouth to protest, but Revell silenced her with a raised hand. “It’s okay. Don’t worry, I’m not here for food,” he said. “I’m from the Daily News. Here to see your boss.”

  Finch looked up, his eyes narrowing. “You were supposed to meet me in the pub. What’s going on?”

  “Yes, sorry about that. Something came up. Couldn’t be helped.”

  The little man slid off the stool and tucked his phone in his jacket pocket. The top of his head was level with Revell’s chin. He tilted his head back to look the reporter in the eye. “How did you know where to find me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He worked it out himself. “You followed me here, didn’t you? Sneaky fucker.”

  Revell laughed at the insult. The fact that he now knew about the kebab shop put the Daily News in a much stronger bargaining position. Finch was sharp enough to work out for himself that it’d be difficult to pull out of the deal and threaten to take the story elsewhere.

  In those circumstances, Revell suspected that his bosses would almost certainly decide that the right thing to do, in the interests of public safety and justice, would be to inform the police that they knew someone who claimed they had information about the identity and whereabouts of a
wanted man.

  “Well, I’m here now, and we still need to talk, don’t we? The paper is excited about your proposition, and I’ve got a lot of questions. And a lot of cash.”

  Finch shot a glance at Sharon, who had suddenly perked up. “All right, all right,” he said. “I’m not talking about anything here though. Let’s go back to the George. I’m dying for a beer.”

  Revell and Finch sat facing each other at the table by the window. To go with his pint of beer, the kebab shop owner had demanded a cheeseburger and double-cooked fries from the bar menu. He picked the burger up with his fingers and took a large bite, chewed it quickly, then washed it down with a mouthful of beer.

  “Very tasty,” he said. “But it’s going to cost you more than this if you want what I’ve got to sell.”

  Finch still had bits of burger debris in his mouth, and Revell could see it swilling around when he spoke. The reporter picked up his pint and took a sip. “We’re willing to pay a fair price for your information, but I can tell you now that you’re living in a fantasy world if you think you’re going to get ten thousand pounds or anywhere near it.”

  Finch lifted his beer to his lips and gulped it down until the glass was empty. “Get us another one, will you, mate? I find it hard to concentrate when I’m thirsty.”

  Revell stared across the table, thinking how much he’d like to tell the obnoxious weasel to go fuck himself. Instead, he smiled. “Of course,” he said. “You have a good think about what you might consider a realistic payment. You’ve also got to understand that you won’t see a penny until you convince me that you aren’t bullshitting, that you really do know who this carjacker is and where we can find him.”

  Revell paid for the beer and slipped his wallet back into his jacket pocket. Over at the table, he could see Finch gnawing at the remains of the burger. He picked up the drinks and carried them over.

  Finch grunted his satisfaction, took a long drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You took your time, mate,” he said. “I thought I was going to be the first man ever to die of thirst in a pub.”

  Revell didn’t bother to pretend to be amused. He pulled a newspaper cutting from his pocket, unfolded it carefully, and flattened it on the table. The security camera image of the man who’d attacked Gem Golding was grainy and dark. Next, the reporter produced a glossy version of the e-fit created by the police based on Golding’s description of the attacker. He placed that on the table too.

  “You say you can tell us who this man is? You know his name and where he lives?”

  Finch looked at the images, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “I know exactly who that evil bastard is. He owes me money, so like I said, I’m going to need paying before I give you details. It’ll be a bit like compensation, won’t it? To show you I’m not a greedy man, I’ll drop the price to five thousand pounds.”

  Revell shook his head slowly. “What part of London does he live in?”

  “Around here. Not far from here at all. That’s all I’m saying until I see the color of your money.”

  Finch was about as trustworthy as a snake in a sleeping bag, but Revell sensed he was telling the truth. The thought made his heart beat harder. “The most I’m allowed to agree to is one thousand pounds.”

  Finch snorted and swept his right hand across the table, knocking the e-fit onto the floor. “That’s nowhere near enough, no way,” he said. “Are you kidding me? You must think I’m an idiot. I’ll tell you something for nothing. This man you’re after is a nasty piece of work, an animal. No, worse than that, he’s a fucking psycho. I’m putting myself in danger just sitting here with you.”

  Revell bent over, picked up the e-fit, and placed it back down next to the newspaper cutting. He knew Finch would try anything to push the price up.

  “I’ll go to fourteen hundred pounds, but that’s my limit,” he said. “You get seven hundred of that up front and the rest once we’ve got our story and this so-called psycho is in police custody. You can take it or leave it, but I have to warn you that if you decide to back out, I’d have to seriously consider telling the police what I know anyway. It’d be the right thing to do, in the public interest.”

  Finch screwed up his face as if he’d just detected a bad smell, a combination of desperation and calculation in his bloodshot eyes.

  “I get half the money right now, you say? It’d have to be in cash, no checks or bank transfers, if you want me to even consider dropping that low.”

  Revell kept his face straight, but that was the moment he knew he had Finch hooked. He lifted a hand to his chest and tapped the pocket where he kept his wallet. “I can make that happen for you, no problem. But I’m going to need something more to convince me that this is going to be worth my while and that you’re not pulling some kind of scam.”

  Finch picked up a leftover piece of burger bun, studied it for a few seconds, rolled it between his grubby little fingers, and let the crumbs drop to his plate. “I know it’s the man you want,” he said. “I’d recognize that bastard anywhere. He lives in the apartment above the kebab shop, and he owes me a month’s rent. He’s taken too many liberties with me, taken advantage of my generosity too many times.”

  Revell wanted to jump up and punch the air. For a split second, he considered running around the pub whooping like a madman. Instead, he nodded sagely and pulled out his wallet.

  26

  Surrender

  Gem the Victim

  Gem Golding was already sitting at her desk catching up with her emails when her boss arrived and walked into her office. Before she could speak, Melanie stepped close, bent over, and hugged her tight.

  “You know, I think you’re doing brilliantly,” Melanie said. “I really don’t know how you are being so brave.”

  “I’m fine as long as I keep busy,” Gem said. “Just fine.”

  After Drew’s death, Gem had taken a few days off before insisting on returning to work. There’d be no funeral until the police released the body, and she dreaded the idea of spending long days at home, surrounded by reminders of what she’d lost.

  Melanie dropped her expensive handbag on the desk and placed her hands on her hips. “I’ve got meetings all day today, but like I said before, if you need to talk, then don’t hesitate to call my cell, and I’ll do my best to make some room in my schedule. Ignoring grief doesn’t do anyone any good. When you’re feeling up to it, maybe a night on the town would be a good idea. We haven’t done that for a while.”

  Gem allowed herself a half smile. Melanie’s solution to most problems was a night out and more than a few glasses of wine. “I’ll think about it. At the moment, keeping my head down and working hard is definitely helping me cope. It’s giving me focus and structure, and that’s just what I need.”

  Melanie picked up her bag. “That’s all well and good,” she said. “But please don’t overdo it. There is no need. And by the way, honey, everyone loves the new hairdo. You know what they say. A new look, a new you.”

  When her boss closed the office door behind her, Gem went back to the task of clearing her emails. Thank God for Melanie, she thought. She was the only one of her colleagues who spoke to her about what had happened to Drew. She assumed the others found the subject too uncomfortable.

  Since returning to the office, she had regularly been the first one in and the last one to leave, often still busy at her desk when the cleaners turned up. Her mother had instilled a strong work ethic in her from a young age. After school, when all her homework had been done, she’d been encouraged to study a little longer. Gem remembered sulking as a thirteen-year-old after being told to put her phone down and read an extra chapter of her history textbook. “You may be close to the bottom of the pile right now, Gem,” her mother told her, wagging a finger to drive her point home, “but you’re worth so much more. It means you’ve got to work harder than everyone else to get where you want to
be. It’s as simple as that.”

  Jan Golding had been right. She’d raised her daughter on her own and had done a pretty good job of it. After Gem and Drew had gotten together, her mother had sold her two-bedroom west London home and moved to a village in north Wales, close to where she’d spent her childhood. Gem loved the fact that her mother enjoyed telling her new friends that her daughter worked in the big city in the glamorous world of public relations.

  Gem closed her emails and leaned back in her chair. Drew was gone. He was never coming back. Life had promised so much before they were both touched by evil.

  The police had warned her that they wouldn’t be releasing the body in the near future. She didn’t know how she was supposed to react, but the last thing she expected was to feel relieved. She wasn’t ready to think about funeral arrangements. When the time came, the responsibility would fall on her because Drew had no family.

  He’d never spoken in detail about his time in foster care, but he’d used it to tease her whenever she tried to talk to him about growing up as the only child of a single mother. At least you had a parent, he’d say. You were part of a family. Consider yourself lucky.

  Gem checked her watch. She had an appointment with a prospective client in half an hour. Focusing on work had been the right thing to do. Drew would want me to be strong and move on, wouldn’t he? She’d been terrified, confused, and passive during the attack, but it would be the aftermath, her reaction to Drew’s death that counted. She wasn’t going to crumble. That would mean that the killer had won. Drew had always talked about the law of the land. How it applied to everyone. She’d often mocked him for being pompous when he went on one of his rants. The law isn’t funny, he’d say. It’s sacred. The law must be upheld, and those who break it must be punished.