Birdkill (28 page)

Kelly leaned back as the waitress placed his coffee on the worn wooden table. ‘Thanks, love.’ He sipped it and winced at the heat. ‘Listen, Mariam. You’re a good kid. Here’s some advice from an old man. Drop it. Very drop it. Double drop it. www.drop.com. Like a stone. Walk away.’

‘I’ve got the proof, it’s all documented. I need to get an answer to an email I sent to an old pal in Lebanon and I’m done. Sell it for me, Kelly. Sell it to someone they can’t get to, the Sidney Morning Herald or the South China Morning Post.’

Kelly stared at her in mystification. ‘What earthly good will that do you?’

‘It’ll escalate; you know it will. You keep the syndication fees; I don’t want them. But sell the story. I’m writing it up, I’ll have it to you in a couple of days.’

‘It’s too hot. Seriously. Alan Potts, you remember him?’ She nodded. ‘Well he’s not answering calls. That’s not really a very good sign.’

‘Come on, Kelly. They can’t get away with this. Killing innocent girls, creating monster children? It’s a horror movie and it’s being done with taxpayer money.’

‘Look, I’ll put in a couple of calls, but no promises. There are too many dead bodies around for my liking. And I’m in no rush to join ‘em. Not even for a Lebanese babe.’

‘You’re making me blush to the roots of my curly little hairs.’

‘I’ll bet I am and that. And look, stay away from Clive bloody Warren.’

‘What the fuck has that got to do with you?’

‘He’s a spook, love. You’re sleeping with the enemy. And he’s having you followed.’

‘I know that. He’s got a protection team looking after me.’

Kelly beamed at her and she wanted to punch his knowing leer out. ‘Is that what he told you? Protection? You’re being followed, watched, traced.’

Mariam sprang to her feet, her sudden movement making Kelly sit back, blinking. She pulled her bag onto her shoulder. ‘Get lost, Kelly.’

She strode out of the café, pulling her mobile out. She called Robyn but her friend didn’t pick up. She called Clive.

‘Frizz.’

‘Seriously, find another nick name. Look, I need a hand. Can you meet me at the Mayview Clinic in an hour?’

‘The Mayview? What for? Why do you want to go there?’

‘To find out some stuff, why else?’

‘Yes, but not there. Let’s meet up and talk about this, Mariam. You can’t just rock up somewhere like that.’

‘’Course I can. Coming or not?’

‘I’ll meet you, but not there.’

‘Clive, the Mayview’s the key to this whole programme Hamilton’s working on. It’s where he’s murdered dozens of women.’

‘That’s an outrageous charge and you can’t prove it. Meet me first.’

‘Where?’

‘At my office.’

‘I don’t know where that is.’ The admission made her feel stupid. How much did she really know about Clive Warren? Kelly’s little bearded face came to mind.

‘That’s okay. I’ll have you brought to me.’

The line cut and Mariam stopped walking, staring at her mobile screen. What kind of high-handed arrogance would even approach what he had just said to her? She was still standing, fuming when a man touched her arm. ‘Mariam? I’m Jake. Come along with me and we’ll get you sorted.’

She was about to protest, but he had guided her gently to the black sedan which had pulled up silently beside them. She folded herself into the open door and the dark leather interior before the words reached her lips or any impulse her muscles.

Warren’s office was in a leafy square near Belgravia, a curved terrace of Georgian buildings backing a pillared colonnade. Stone steps led up to a black painted doorway with a brass plaque on it proclaiming this to be the headquarters of
Adad Holdings
.

The door gave to an expensive, airy entrance hall lined with glass-fronted shelving, a complex white chandelier above and a cream and blue Persian silk rug below, laid over the white marble floor. The shelves held little pieces of ceramic, figurines and other
objets
, some of which she fancied had once graced museums in Iraq.

‘This way, ma’am.’ Jake smiled. She ignored him, her gaze held by a pair of beautiful brown Himyarite cylinder seals, figures of men and animals cut into the shining surface. Above them an alabaster bust of a woman, clearly ancient and likely Mesopotamian.

‘Ma’am?’

She tore herself away and followed him through into the next room, a starkly minimalist reception room with dazzling white studded sofas and chrome floor lighting arcing behind them. The coffee table bore a small heap of large format books, the topmost Taschen’s complete Breughel.

Jake left her and she dumped her bag on the sofa, wandering to peer out of the window at the square below, turning away to examine the Breughel winter scene above the fireplace. She was struck by the feeling Warren left little to chance and did nothing without reason.

A side door opened and a petite Asian woman entered. She wore a simple black dress with a gold brooch and black high heels. ‘I am sorry to keep you waiting. Let me take you to Clive.’

Mariam almost surprised herself with the heat of her reaction.
Clive is it, bitch?
She ensured her answering ‘Thank you.’ was accompanied by a demure smile. She hooked the strap of her bag and walked through the door the woman held open. The office was Spartan and expensive, a wooden floor, low shelving and a white desk with a Mac and Anglepoise lamp. The walls and ceiling were all Arctic white, ornamental coving on the ceiling and sculptural flats on the walls.

Warren stood as they entered. ‘Can we get you a coffee?’

‘Thanks. Double expresso, two sugars.’

‘Koyuki?’

‘Certainly.’ She backed out of the room. Warren gestured to the rightmost of the chrome and white leather chairs set in front of the desk. Mariam slung her bag onto it.

‘For a start, what the fuck was abducting me all about?’

He laughed, walking from behind the desk. ‘Oh, come on. That was hardly an abduction.’

‘Just your goons bundling me into a big car and hauling me to your lair. You had them bring me to you, did you?’

He reached for her and she slapped his hand away. ‘You arrogant, presumptuous
fuck
.’

‘Come on, slow down a bit.’ He held his palms up. ‘It was supposed to be fun.’

‘Suppose you start telling me some of the stuff you haven’t been telling me? Who Clive Warren is. Why you have priceless Iraqi seals in your bloody hallway, for a start.’

‘I collect art. You know that from the house. I’ve made good money; I won’t pretend I haven’t. I was in military security, now I do private stuff. You know that, too. What else is there to know?’

‘You buy Breughels. That’s hardly ‘good money’, is it?’

‘I invest. What gives, Mariam?’

There was a knock on the door and Koyuki drifted into the room holding a cup and saucer in both hands, presenting it to the desk in front of Mariam with a bow. She pressed her hands together and left.

‘Okay, so I’m impressed. You’ve got a pretty Asian secretary and a Mayfair office with Breughels on the wall. Is that what you wanted to get across, or is there another level of macho crassness you want to lay on me?’

   He let his hands fall to his sides. ‘Look, this isn’t going so well. I didn’t mean to piss you off, just to give you a surprise. I take it all back.’ The muscular shoulders slumped. ‘If I still can.’

He was crestfallen and she softened but her anger still smouldered in her. ‘So can we stop pissing around and get down to the Mayview?’

‘I’m not sure that’s such a great idea, Frizz.’

‘Actually, would you mind not calling me that? My name’s Mariam.’ The words hit him like a blow and his jaw hardened. She’d said it now. He turned from her to face the window.

Mariam sat on the left hand chair and sipped the coffee. It was good, dark with a liquorice pungency. Robyn and she would sip expresso with that observation and then attempt unison with ‘And a hint of charred caramel!’ before collapsing in laughter, usually to the bemusement of anyone unlucky enough to be in the company of two people to whom the whole world is a private joke.

He was in a suit, grey flannel. His open-neck shirt was white and the button holes were lined in black stitching, which she thought was a touch Lebanese to be honest. A little bit
de trop
for Mr Art Collector and Man of Taste and Discernment.

She had become too anglicised. Time to go home and sit in the Bekaa drinking good wine and talking bad politics. Forget this charming Brit and his muscles. Why did he have to pull the whole alpha male thing right now, when it had all been so peachy?

She let her cup down on the saucer with a clink, a cue for him to turn to her. Which he did.

‘The Mayview?’ It was an offer of a future, but on her terms. She astounded herself with the confidence of the gambit, truth be told.

His arms were crossed which was, in the scheme of things, not good. ‘I honestly don’t get what you’re trying to achieve. If you want to piss off a load of important and dangerous people, that’s the way to go. What are you after, here,
Mariam
?’

‘The truth. The story. The public interest. A lot of dead mothers who didn’t deserve to die. A load of children who weren’t meant to be raised as lab rats but who are trapped in a borstal for over achievers. A bunch of soldiers, your brothers at arms, who are dead today. Needlessly.’

‘What’s behind all that good stuff, then? Self-aggrandisement? Or revenge?’

She balked, the coffee cup halfway to her lips. ‘For what?’

‘America. Colonialism. Orientalism.’

‘You’re out of your tiny fucking mind, right?’ She had let this oaf inside her. She had given herself to him. It shamed her, made her feel cheap and dirty. He’d seemed like something wonderful and charming and here he was, powerful and smug. Stupid, as stupid as any politician she’d come across. The worst of them. She knew, in that moment, he didn’t love her or feel for her. It was suddenly in her mind as a pure, clear certainty. She had been a piece of business. Kelly was right.

‘Fuck you.’ She acted on sheer impulse, the gesture itself futile and childish, but she struck out at him with the tools at hand. She flung the expresso cup at him and he ducked, his reflexes pin-sharp. The little cup smashed into the window behind him and starred it. The remains of her coffee splashed across the grey suiting and she exulted in the ruin of his wealthy businessman’s uniform.

Mariam grabbed her bag and strode out, kicking the door shut behind her. She ignored the startled Koyuki in her little black dress. Striding through the entrance hall with its looted treasures, she tried to ignore the hot tears stinging her eyes and streaking her cheeks.

SIXTEEN

A Death in the Family

Mariam sat in the waiting room of the Mayview Clinic, her bag across her knees. There was a mild antiseptic smell in the air mixed with some sort of artificial pine scent. It reminded her of the cleaning materials aisle at the supermarket.

The walls were pastel pink, the woodwork all picked out in white. There was a table with leaflets about fertility and ante-natal care, different forms of childbirth and helpful notes for Dads. She was alone. The clinic hadn’t seem terribly busy and had given her a walk-in appointment straight away.

She had told them she wanted to talk about pregnancy. Yes, she had insurance. Would Dr Foster himself be available? Oh, lovely.

She had a reasonable dossier on Bill Foster, a lot of it derived from the citations on his Wikipedia page. He was ex-army, exemplary service record. Came out in his early forties and went into general practice at Queen’s, obtaining his CCT in obstetrics. Somehow fell into enough money to buy a Harley Street practice lock stock and barrel. Never looked back. His partner was Lawrence Hamilton, but the Mayview website made no mention of that in its meagre ‘about us’ section.

Mariam picked up her mobile. For some reason she couldn’t get
Dr Foster went to Gloucester
out of her head
.
She messaged Robyn.

A fresh-faced young nurse came in, shapely in her blue uniform and curly-haired. She had little blushes on her cheeks and would make a nice doll, actually, if she’d only been porcelain. ‘Ms Shadid? Mr Foster will see you now.’

Of course, a consultant. We’ve moved beyond being a mere ‘Dr’. Mariam slung her bag over her shoulder and followed the girl, who was wearing nice, sensible flat shoes. She’d have hated nursing. The hours, the patients.

‘In here, if you please.’ Mariam steeled herself to meet Foster and found herself staring at a blood pressure meter on a trolley. ‘Take a seat.’ She read Mariam’s hesitation. ‘We do triage on all first time patients, particularly if they’re not a referral. This will only take two seconds.’

Mariam sat and submitted to the indignity of being strapped up and having her finger clamped. The thing hissed and she felt the pressure around her arm increase in waves and then release with a long exhalation.

‘That’s lovely. Just get your height and weight.’

She jotted notes on a clipboard, smiled at Mariam and led the way out and down the corridor. She knocked on a door to the right and beckoned Mariam in.

Foster looked older than Mariam had thought he would, his hair was thinning on top, brushed over and quite white. His upper lip protruded slightly and his chin was tucked back, which made him look a little weak. His eyes were heavy-lidded, a fleshy nose completing the sense of a man with Appetites to sate. Perched on that nose was a pair of rimless half-lensed glasses.

She was wondering how women would give this man their trust when he smiled and held out his hand and all became clear. His face lit up and she was aware of a sense of benevolence and care about him. She took his warm, dry hand and felt herself squeezed gently, a man holding back his strength out of deference to her femininity.

‘Good afternoon, Ms Shadid.’ The deep voice was melodious. ‘Please, take a seat.’

‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’

‘That is no problem at all. We sometimes have cancellations and I always appreciate the serendipity of being able to turn that little frustration into a convenience for a patient.’