Blood Red City

by Rod Reynolds

  Suslov looked at him, deep lines in his forehead. ‘This is not a negotiation. I’ve told you what I want, now you go and fucking get it.’

  CHAPTER 16

  The café was halfway down Camden High Street, the walls decorated in a swirl of beige and brown that might have been of-the-moment half a decade before, but now passed only for dowdy. The table next to hers was empty but the people who’d been there when she sat down had left their plates and cups on a tray, and two flies were circling above. One landed on a dirty spoon that had a film of coffee on it. Lydia picked the tray up and carried it over to the counter, then went to sit down again.

  She studied each woman that came in, only a vague idea of what she was waiting for. Stephen had passed her the officer’s name, Sam Waterhouse, and contact number, and they’d spoken once, a brief conversation to arrange the meeting. Waterhouse told her she’d be wearing black jeans and a green blouse.

  Her phone rang in her bag. She took it out and didn’t recognise the number. She answered it, distracted, watching another customer come in off the street.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Lydia Wright?’

  She craned her neck to get a better look at the new woman ordering at the counter, seeing the colours she was looking for. She started to get to her feet. ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is Anna Kershaw, we spoke. I’m the nurse?’

  She took a couple of steps towards the counter, searching for a sign of recognition. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Premier Dental. When you came in yesterday.’

  Paulina Dobriska. ‘Yes, sorry, of course. Anna – I didn’t get your name then. Is this about Paulina?’

  The woman at the counter took her coffee and came towards her now, raising her hand in greeting as she approached.

  ‘Yeah, I wanted to talk to you,’ the voice on the phone said.

  ‘Have you heard from her?’

  ‘No. No, look, can you speak now? Is this a bad time?’

  The woman stopped in front of her and Lydia mouthed sorry, gesturing to the phone at her ear. ‘Actually I’m just in a meeting. Can I call you back in a short while?’

  ‘Well … I’m on my break at the moment so it’ll have to be after work.’

  ‘Okay, great. Can I get you on this number?’

  ‘Yeah. But, actually, I’ll call you.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. Please do, try me anytime.’

  The line went dead.

  Lydia slipped her phone away. ‘Sam?’

  The woman held out a hand. ‘Hi.’

  She shook it, pulling a sheepish expression. ‘Always goes off at the worst moment.’

  ‘That’s okay. Shall we sit down?’

  Waterhouse unzipped a rucksack to take a notebook out. She kept the bag on her lap and opened the pad in front of her, flattening the spine with her palm.

  ‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Lydia said. ‘You’ve dealt with Bill Roundler in the past?’ Roundler had been the Examiner’s crime guru since before the website even existed.

  ‘I’ve dealt with Bill in a professional capacity over the years. Not so much since I left.’

  ‘Left?’

  ‘The force.’

  Lydia shifted around in her seat. ‘Sorry, I thought you were…’

  ‘Still serving? Is that what Bill told you?’

  ‘No, he … Another colleague of ours got your details from him. I just assumed you were still with the Met.’

  ‘Not for a while. I still have contacts though; I did fifteen years.’ She clicked her pen. ‘What is it you need doing?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out if someone’s been reported missing.’

  ‘Right. And you’ve tried the press office, I assume?’

  She nodded. ‘I don’t know much about her. Name, employer, that’s about it.’

  ‘Is this someone they’d classify as high risk?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s complicated.’

  Waterhouse drew two lines across her page. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you do know.’

  Lydia hesitated, torn between telling everything and keeping the story close. ‘It’s better to keep it simple. Her name is Paulina D-O-B-R-I-S-K-A. She hasn’t shown up for work since last Thursday.’

  She finished writing it down. ‘A name like that should be enough on its own, but you don’t have a date of birth or an address?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where does she work?’

  ‘A dental clinic.’

  Waterhouse looked up at her. ‘I can’t do my job without some kind of context.’

  ‘Why? With respect, if you’ve got the name…’

  She set her pen down, breathing in. ‘What I do relies on trust. I need to retain that trust and to do that, people need assurances. Not specifics, but my word that, for example, I’m not about to divulge sensitive information to a journalist. Bill understood that. So for me to give my word in good conscience … You understand?’

  Lydia looked away, gathering her thoughts. ‘She may have witnessed a murder. I can’t say for sure.’

  ‘If she was a witness?’

  ‘No. If it was a murder. At the very least, a violent assault.’

  Waterhouse’s expression hardened. ‘If she’s a witness to a serious crime, it sounds like you’re talking about someone in danger. You said she was not high risk. Unless you’re thinking they’ve got her stashed away already?’

  ‘Stashed away? As in, a safe house?’

  ‘Protective custody. And if that’s the case, there’s no way I’m going to reveal anything that could compromise…’

  ‘I’m not asking you to compromise anything. The British Transport Police are looking into it, all I want to know is if this woman’s safe.’

  ‘The BTP? They’re a law unto themselves. That’s an entirely different problem, and outside of my scope.’

  Lydia rubbed her face. ‘But if she’s missing, chances are it’d be reported to the Met, right? Or they’d know.’

  Waterhouse studied her a second, then nodded. She took a sip of her coffee and set the mug back down. ‘This is a professional matter, yes?’

  ‘Of course. Why do you…?’

  Waterhouse shrugged it off. ‘You seem very invested.’

  ‘I’m worried she’s in real trouble. I don’t know how fast the BTP are moving on this and if they don’t get to her quickly…’ Lydia looked away, tugging at the pendant on her necklace. ‘Believe me, if you tell me the police have already got her, whatever the circumstances, I won’t push for anything else.’

  ‘You’d be wasting your time if you did.’ It sounded like a rebuke, but she softened it with a smile as she turned to a fresh page in her notebook. ‘I think we should start at the beginning. I guess Bill didn’t talk you through my fees then, either?’

  The girl came down the slide, jumped up and went around the climbing frame to the steps on the other side. Stringer watched her go, at least the fifth time in a row she’d done it, hopping each time. He let that thought drag him away a moment as he tried to remember if she ever walked anywhere; when he pictured her in his mind, she was always hopping or jumping from place to place, never walking; too much energy in her legs for anything as straightforward as that. And always laughing as she did it. He watched her cross the wobbly bridge now, shaking and rippling its chains as she jumped up and down, so much life in her that her little body couldn’t contain it all. He broke into a smile just watching her.

  ‘Don’t see that very often,’ his sister said, staring at him as he looked on.

  He shrugged. ‘She’s something else.’

  ‘It’s not as endearing at five in the morning, promise you.’

  He thought about his version of five o’clock in the morning – yesterday parked on a dead side street near the North Circular, working his way through a pair of stolen phones. Trampling his own red lines. ‘I’d live with it.’

  Abi turned away, following the girl’s progress towards the slide. ‘You’re quiet today. Even for you.
’

  ‘Tired.’

  ‘That’s all it is?’ He didn’t need to look at her to know the expression on her face.

  The girl came running over. ‘Mummy I found a ladybird!’ She held her finger out. ‘Look, Uncle Mike.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said, bending closer. ‘What’re you going to call her?’

  ‘Sienna Jessie.’

  ‘Her two friends at school,’ Abi said.

  ‘Well Sienna is my friend and Jessie is my friend too, but sometimes she’s actually not my friend and that’s okay.’

  Stringer gave an exaggerated nod to show the explanation had made it all clear. ‘Make sure you take care of her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Well … because she’s little.’

  She made a face like she didn’t understand.

  ‘She needs your help,’ he said.

  But his niece had already turned and hopped off. She shouted over her shoulder, ‘I will!’

  Abi leaned back against the metal bench. A rubbish bin next to her was overflowing.

  ‘Why don’t you go to the other playground?’ he said, nodding at it. The one they were in was on a scrap of waste ground between a car park and the mainline coming out of Euston.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s too posh there. The mums wear diamonds bigger than my bedroom.’

  ‘Better than this dump.’

  ‘Ellie likes it here.’

  Checkmate. They both looked over at her, losing her balance as she tried to do hopscotch and keep the ladybird on her finger at the same time.

  ‘I spoke to Mum,’ Abi said.

  He nodded.

  ‘She’s doing better. The doctor’s got her blood pressure under control again.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘She’s still got to lose the weight, but she knows that.’

  ‘The diabetes?’

  ‘It’s all linked. When one’s under control it helps the other, so…’

  ‘Is the old man helping?’

  She looked at her fingers, tangling them. ‘In his way.’

  He watched her as a train flew by on the tracks, filling the silence. She had the old man’s eyes, a resemblance he hated, even though he shared it. But where their father’s projected coldness and a lifetime’s disaffection, Abi’s spoke of rectitude. ‘I honestly think he’s trying,’ she said when the noise subsided.

  He grunted, nodding once. ‘Does she need more money?’

  She shook her head, not looking at him.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘You do enough.’

  ‘I can get more if you need it.’

  ‘Things are going well, then?’

  A boy running across in front of them lost his feet and crashed to the ground. There was a moment of silence, shock on his face, then the cries came, piercing.

  Stringer was halfway to his feet, but a girl who looked about the same age as Angie Cross came over and scooped the boy up. He dropped onto the bench again. ‘I don’t want Ellie to go without anything, okay? I know what schools are like…’

  ‘You know about schools?’ She flashed a disbelieving smile. ‘You’re wearing a suit in a playground…’

  ‘I see the news, I know it’s expensive. You won’t ask for yourself, okay, but she’s different.’ Talking the way only families did – covering the same ground every time they saw each other, as if it’d never come up before.

  ‘She’s fine. The last lot covered her uniform and shoes.’

  ‘You’ll get more anyway. But I mean it, about her.’

  She put her hand on his forearm. ‘Is there something I can help with? A problem shared…?’

  He shook his head. She kept staring at him a moment longer before she gave up.

  He got to his feet and walked across to where Ellie was waiting by the swings. ‘Got to go, kiddo.’ He picked her up and held her, and she flung her arms around his neck.

  ‘Not yet!’

  A swing came free and he slotted her into its seat. He pulled her forward to get her started, but didn’t let go. Abi came up behind him. ‘Be a good girl for your mummy, okay?’ he said.

  ‘Let go!’

  He lifted the swing higher, still holding it, drawing a giggle. ‘Okay?’

  She nodded her head, up and down. ‘Push me!’

  He lifted her to the top of his reach, held her there. ‘Promise?’

  She nodded again, jiggling with laughter. ‘Promise!’

  He let go, watching her swing backwards with her head rolled back.

  He turned and squeezed his sister’s arm. Those eyes again, the juxtaposition that always worried him: how she looked like the old man but took after their mother in all the right ways – kindness, patience, fairness. He looked like their mother, but couldn’t lay claim to any of those virtues; the fear that he was his father’s son on the inside. ‘I’ll call you.’ She covered his hand with her own before he moved away.

  He checked the time and dug the car keys out of his pocket, his mood ebbing again as Ellie’s laughter faded from earshot. He came through the playground gate thinking about Andriy Suslov and Lydia Wright and the men at her flat. Wrestling with what the outcome would’ve been if he hadn’t been there. What it still might be if he did nothing.

  CHAPTER 17

  The call came just as Lydia was stepping off the bus at Tottenham Hale. She recognised the nurse’s number this time. ‘Hello? Is that Anna?’

  She couldn’t hear the voice on the phone, the roar as the bus pulled away drowning out the nurse. ‘Hold on…’ She crossed the concourse to get away from the road and turned her back on the traffic, a two-pinter of milk dangling in her free hand. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, hi, I’m here.’

  ‘Sorry about earlier, thanks for calling back. You wanted to talk?’

  ‘Well … thing is, if I talk to you, is it unofficial?’

  ‘What do you mean? Off the record?’

  ‘Yeah, but – like, can I get in trouble?’

  ‘With who?’

  ‘With the police. If there’s something happened.’

  ‘No, you can’t get in trouble just for talking to me. If you want to be off the record, that’s fine. But if you know something about Paulina, you should tell the police too…’

  ‘It’s not like that. I tried calling her brother – after you came in and I never heard back from her. The office phone keeps a log of all the calls, so I went back and found his number.’

  ‘Okay. And what did he say?’

  ‘He answered speaking Polish. When I told him I wanted to check on his sister, to see if she was any better, he said, “Who?” So I said to him, “Paulina?” And he hung up.’

  Lydia clamped the phone to her ear with one shoulder so she could push her bag straps back in place on the other. ‘Right.’

  ‘And I thought maybe I just got him at the wrong time, so I tried again earlier and it goes straight to voicemail.’

  ‘That’s … Have you tried Paulina since?’

  ‘Same. Always voicemail.’

  She turned around, trying to decide what to do. ‘Anna, have you got an address for Paulina? I spoke to the police but they can’t help much without one.’

  ‘Well that’s what I was asking about. Getting in trouble.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘If I gave you her address?’

  ‘You can give it to the police.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Look, I’ll come and meet you and we can go to the station together.’

  There was silence on the line. A thin cloud covered the sun, like a gauze over a light bulb.

  ‘Anna? What do you think?’

  ‘I was hoping there was … Do you pay for tips like that? I’ve got it with me.’

  Money. Not nerves, not fear, making her hesitant – just basic greed. Lydia closed her eyes before she spoke. ‘Tell me and we can work something out.’

  Lydia went straight there. She almost talked herself out of it, the idea of turning around two hundred met
res from her door and trekking to Whetstone making her balk. But she knew she’d just end up dotting about the flat like a fly, and that overcame her weariness.

  She called Tammy just before she went into the station.

  ‘Lyds?’

  ‘I’ve got her address.’

  ‘Who? Paulina?’

  ‘Yep. I’m on my way there now. It’s in Whetstone, want to meet me there?’

  ‘Bloody hell, how did you manage that?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’ She checked her watch to gauge how long it would take, surprised to realise impressing Tammy still lit her up. ‘I reckon I’ll be there in about forty minutes.’

  ‘Shit – I can’t, I’ve got my nephew tonight for my sister.’ As she said it, Lydia heard a child saying something in the background. ‘Have you tried calling her?’

  ‘Always goes to voicemail,’ Lydia said.

  ‘Yeah, same as me. Look, be careful, all right?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I’m done. I’ll text you the address; can you pass it on to the police? If there’s no sign, they’ve got to start looking for her.’

  Tammy said something away from the speaker, the nephew vying for her attention. ‘Yep, of course. Talk to you in a bit.’

  It was a fifteen-minute walk from the Tube to Dobriska’s address, down one of those long residential roads of 1940s terraced houses that seem endless when you don’t know where you’re going.

  Lydia pushed through a stiff gate to go up the path. There were two front doors facing each other at a forty-five-degree angle – a cowboy builder’s way of turning one doorway into two when the house had been converted into flats. She rang the bell for 65b and waited.

  No one came to the door. She opened the letterbox and called hello. She let it flap shut and stepped off the path onto the grass. Net curtains obscured the view into the front room, but she could make out a bed and a desk, no sign of anyone in there. She stepped back and looked at the upstairs window, but nothing was moving.