Dead Girl Walking (47 page)

The air felt thick and muggy as we stepped back outside the police station, denying us the sensation of release you sometimes get when you escape from a place that’s made you feel claustrophobic. Heike looked wrung-out, like somebody had taken her and squeezed until all the colour and joy were drained from her whole person.

‘You look like you could use some serious coffee,’ I said, hoping she would agree rather than pour herself into a taxi and retreat into solitude.

‘How about a drink?’ she replied.

I looked at my watch. It was only five to eleven.

‘Is it not a bit early?’ I suggested.

‘We’re in a fucking rock band, Monica. There’s no such thing as early.’

‘Can I offer you a dram?’ Mairi asked, getting up from the table.

They had finished the wine about ten minutes ago, and though he could see another bottle on the worktop he had been glad that she had thus far made no moves towards opening it. It was getting late and he had a big day tomorrow. Plus there were, of course, other reasons.

Mairi was opening a cupboard, ducking so that the door didn’t hit her head because she had so little room to manoeuvre inside the tiny kitchen. Parlabane reckoned that with a stretch she could have reached it without getting up from the table.

Fucking London. Maybe at some point it would send a hint to the government that people living in half-million-pound broom cupboards was a sign that they were concentrating too many resources in one place, but successive administrations had proven impervious to such signals.

He had recently heard some chinless Tory fuckpuddle say that London was a world-class city being held back by the rest of the UK. Parlabane had reckoned that if he poured all his money and efforts into fitting out his toilet he could almost certainly have himself a truly world class shite-house. Obviously there would be little in the way of cash or other physical resources for the development and upkeep of the living room and the kitchen, etc … but if anybody asked, he could tell them he had a world-class bog and it was just a shame the rest of the house was holding it back.

She held up a bottle of Bowmore.

‘I think I’ve had enough of Islay,’ he said. ‘Plus you’ve an early start.’

‘That’s true,’ she decided, putting the bottle back. ‘Might be wisest if we both called it a night.’

Mairi had said she would cook him dinner to say thanks for everything, but she had ended up running late and still had to pack for her flight, so she’d phoned out for pizza instead. He wasn’t complaining: it was good pizza, and she was doing him a favour anyway by having him here tonight when she was off on tour in the morning.

He was crashing with her in Hoxton as he had to be in central London the next day. It was not so much a meeting as a secret rendezvous, necessitated by him fast and unavoidably approaching the jaggy end of the Westercruik Inquiry.

His contact had called two days ago.

‘You know who this is?’

His phone hadn’t registered the number and she didn’t identify herself, but he recognised the voice instantly.

‘Yes.’

‘I need to see you. Same time, same place. Same day as our first meeting.’

She knew someone might be listening, which was why she gave away nothing. They could follow him, and they very well might, but for all they knew they’d need to follow him for days. Was it worth those kinds of resources? He knew
he
wasn’t.

Mairi stuck their plates in the dishwasher and led him into the shoebox of a living room, piled everywhere with CDs and band T-shirts. There was a two-seater couch, its edge so close to the telly on the wall opposite that the ‘remote’ control was a misnomer.

‘It’s snug, but I’m told it’s comfy,’ she said. ‘I’ll just get you some sheets.’

She went off towards her bedroom, leaving him standing next to the turntable on which she was playing
Damage
by Jimmy Eat World. He picked up the album sleeve, not having had such an object in his hand for years, and glanced at the once-familiar sight of a twelve-inch vinyl disc spinning beneath the stylus arm. It took him back to his teenage bedroom, to Donald’s teenage bedroom: listening to songs, talking about gigs, and all the time distractingly aware of the trendy wee sister who was through the wall festooned on her side with Depeche Mode and Tears for Fears posters.

He wondered if Mairi had looked out this record specifically or whether it was just what she’d felt like playing. Either way, it definitely wasn’t an overture towards romantic intentions. It was an entire album about the break-up of a relationship, one that had given him a sometimes melancholy and sometimes defiant solace throughout the final days with Sarah.

It was on side two right then, probably the most poignant number: a song about a late-night drunk phone call suggesting they could still make it work, when deep down the caller knew they couldn’t. It was called ‘Please Say No’.

Mairi returned with a set of cotton sheets pressed between her hands.

‘I didn’t think you’d be needing a duvet,’ she said, in reference to the fact that it was about eighty degrees in there, even with all the windows open.

Their hands touched as she passed him the bundle. She looked up from the sheets and into his eyes.

‘Mairi,’ Parlabane began, but she put a finger to his lips before he could go on.

‘I just need to ask: does it change anything that I’m no longer employing you, and you no longer have to feel responsible for me?’

‘It’s not that. It’s not about you at all. It never has been.’

‘I know. It’s about Sarah,’ Mairi stated, nodding in a way that suggested she had always known this and was pleased to see he was catching up. ‘If you kiss me now, if you admit you want somebody else, then you can’t keep telling yourself it’s not really over with her.’

He gave a sad smile by way of confirmation that she was right.

‘You don’t want her back, Jack. Part of you thinks you do, but you don’t. Part of you believes that if you get her back it means you’re still the man you used to be before it all went wrong. It means
you’re
back. But the problem was that she never wanted that guy. I liked who you were when I was fifteen and I like who you are now.’

She squeezed his hand and he felt himself melt.

‘Trust me on this,’ she whispered. ‘Parlabane’s back.’

They were moments from a kiss, but some emergency reserve of willpower allowed him to seize control before he was dragged under.

‘Mairi, this is not the time to start something. You’re off to America with the band tomorrow, and you’ll be gone for, what? A month? More? A lot can change in that time.’

She sighed, conceding the point.

‘It was going to be less, but after everything that’s happened I thought I should keep a close eye.’

‘Tell you what. When you come back from the States, if you still feel the same way, then we’ll talk.’

‘Sounds annoyingly sensible. But I’ll settle for that over nothing. It’s a deal.’

‘Of course,’ he added, ‘this is assuming I’m not in jail…’

We were sat on a low and comfy couch in a basement bar Heike liked, a place that was already serving at this hour because it also did coffee and food. So I could tell myself this was an early lunch, although I’d have to order something more solid than another bottle of Dead Pony Club.

Heike had gone quiet, looking blankly past the table towards some unknown point: possibly ten feet in front, just as possibly ten days behind.

‘I can’t get her out of my mind,’ she said eventually. ‘Hannah, I mean, or Anezka rather: both versions are equally tragic. I relived Hannah’s death over and over for days, and what I’ve learned doesn’t change how I feel. She wasn’t who she pretended to be, but I liked her. Whoever she really was, it burns to know how she was chewed up and spat out by those people.’

‘Her and how many others?’ I said.

‘That’s why I don’t want her to be forgotten. I’m going to ask McLeod for her full name. She was the inspiration for “Gods and Mortals”, though I’m going to rework the lyrics. When we record it, I’d like to include a sleeve note dedicating the song to her memory. We can’t tell anybody why, other than that she was a victim of sex-trafficking, but if it’s on the next album then her name will be written somewhere it will be seen around the world. Better than some anonymous headstone – if she even gets one. I mean, if that’s okay with you,’ she added.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘But why are you asking me?’

‘Because it’s your song too. My lyrics, but the music was a collaborative process. You ought to be credited.’

She was looking intently at me, slightly worried. It was almost like she was afraid I’d refuse.

I thought carefully about what to say. Thanks seemed obvious, but maybe wrong, as the point wasn’t that she was giving me this, was it?

‘It’s very much appreciated,’ I said.

‘It’s only fair. Especially as I’ve decided to credit Maxi too. Not fifty-fifty like his lawyer is demanding, but he never expected to get that.’

‘You’re giving him a share, even after … well, I know that turned out not to be him, but he was the one who tipped off…’

‘I spent a lot of time thinking about things while I was hiding out at Flora’s place. When I was forced to contemplate losing everything, it gave me a different perspective upon what I had and what really mattered. Maxi did play a big part in the songs he claims, even “Dark Station”. Partly for reasons of self-defence, I had kind of blinded myself to how things were between us in the past. I missed him while I was hiding up there: not the wanker he turned into, but the guy he was, and the guy he was deserves his cut.’

She took a sip of beer and giggled, the first happy sound I’d heard from her since I couldn’t remember.

‘I missed everybody. Mostly I missed you, though,’ she said, giving an apologetic little smile: no angle, no agenda, no assumptions.

‘I missed you too,’ I replied. ‘It was horrible not knowing where you were. But it was more than that: I missed the person
I
am around you.’

‘I’m sorry about everything I put you through.’

‘Don’t be crazy,’ I protested. ‘What
I
went through?’

But Heike put a hand on my arm and dropped her voice, stressing that she needed to be heard.

‘Yes, what you went through. I never meant to let myself get close to you, because right from the off I wanted it too much and you weren’t available. But we got forced together like we were driven by the swell. Christ, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say, apart from that I didn’t want you to get hurt. I want to explain, but this is so hard for me. Part of me hoped you would work it all out with Keith while I was gone. Then I could tell myself I’d done the right thing by pushing you away, but here you are and I still don’t know how you feel about me. About … us.’

I was reeling, grateful I was sitting down on this big soft couch. Emotion and instinct were already at odds, my desires muted by a fear of flying too close to the sun.

All I could do was try to be honest.

‘I know what you mean about us being driven by the swell,’ I told her. ‘But my worry is that it was only circumstances that drove you towards me, and I’m wary of where that leaves me now that things are less crazy.’

‘Oh, it will always be crazy, one way or another. But no matter what happened between us, I wouldn’t kick you off the tour, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’d let you stay on the bus, at least until the next town.’

‘Joking apart, that’s it precisely. We’re about to start a two-month tour of the USA, with all the stress and pressure that goes with it. I don’t think, under those circumstances, that a relationship between us would be a good idea.’

Heike took a long drink of her beer then let out a sigh, sounding resigned.

‘Probably not a good idea, no,’ she admitted, slumping back on the couch.

I slumped back too.

A couple of moments later, our feet touched under the table. I couldn’t say whether Heike reached to mine or I to hers; maybe they just kind of brushed halfway.

He kept his head down as he entered the gardens between Temple Place and Victoria Embankment, ever mindful of drawing attention to himself and in particular to who he was meeting. This was where she’d first told him about Anthony Mead, and where they had hatched their conspiracy to expose him.

It wasn’t long past nine but it was already shaping up to be very hot. There were about a dozen under-fives running about the place, shrieking joyfully as they evaded the clutches of the nursery teachers who were trying to slap some suncream on them. None of them looked like they worked for the Met or the MoD.

He glanced towards the spot where they had always sat. She was there, but she was not alone. Trying not to overreact, he reminded himself that it could be a perfect stranger sharing her bench, but all of his instincts told him otherwise, and when his contact spotted him, her worried expression confirmed it.

She was sitting next to another woman: ten or fifteen years older, soberly dressed and exuding authority. A quick scan of the gardens revealed two men in close proximity: two men he hadn’t even seen until they wanted him to.

There was no point in turning back. They already had his source, and it wasn’t like he would be able to give these people the slip. He maintained his direction and his pace, slaloming some of the nursery kids before arriving at the bench.

‘I didn’t give you up,’ he stated. It wasn’t going to make any difference to the outcome, but it felt important to tell her this.

‘She knows you didn’t,’ replied the older woman. ‘Kendra, you’re free to leave now,’ she added.

The woman he had only known as Kay got to her feet, giving him a helpless but apologetic look. She didn’t say anything, just walked away with a hesitant gait in the direction of the river.

‘What’s going to happen to her?’ he asked.

The woman eyed him with a penetrating but inscrutable gaze. This was no cop, he guessed, but an altogether more exotic and dangerous species.

‘A less noble individual might have enquired as to what
she
gave up about
you
.’