Someone To Save you (22 page)

Shirley held out a hand. ‘I want to thank you for saving the lives of my grandchildren, and trying to save my daughter.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, shaking hands.

‘But,’ she continued, maintaining the grip, ‘I will stop at nothing until Alison is back where she belongs, safe with her family. And if I find that you are responsible for what has happened, or are keeping something from me, then I swear, your life won’t be worth living.’

Sam watched in contemplative silence as Shirley Ainsley left the office.

24

Sam called Paul Cullen the second Shirley Ainsley had left his office. There had been no significant developments in the case. Or at least none that he was willing to disclose. The girl who had claimed to be Alison Ainsley had yet to be identified, despite police checks using the missing person’s database and an alert to homeless charities and shelters around London. No-one had reported anyone missing who matched her description. A post mortem had confirmed that she had died from drowning, but there was also the damage to the back of her head, thought to have been caused by a blow from the bridge as she jumped. They had estimated her age at fourteen or fifteen. There were no distinguishing marks, and she hadn’t been carrying any ID. Cullen assured Sam that they weren’t about to give up, and would put in serious man hours to identify her. It seemed he was as determined to explain what had happened as Shirley Ainsley, although he was cool when Sam relayed her suspicions – merely repeating the mantra of not ruling anything out.

Sam pushed away thoughts of the train crash, and headed up to ICU to check on Sophie. She had definitely improved since the last time he had seen her. Although still sedated, the colour had returned to her cheeks and she just looked like she was in a peaceful sleep. If a heart were to become available she would have a chance. But it would need to come soon. And if it did, he would be there; ready to do whatever it took. Sam sat there for a while, amid the electronic beeps and artificial breaths coming from the half a dozen patients who were currently being cared for on the unit. Of those, about half would not survive long-term – those were the cold hard statistics. But he would be damned if Sophie became one of them. A passing nurse gifted him a smile, which he returned.

‘Are Sophie’s parents around?’

‘Her mum was in earlier,’ the nurse replied, as she scanned the notes of the adjacent patient – an old women with severe burns who Sam had learned had set herself on fire by falling asleep in bed with a lit cigarette in hand. She was wrapped in what was in essence hi-tech cling film, to give the skin chance to heal as much as possible. The poor woman was still heavily sedated, and knew nothing yet of her experience. ‘I’ve not seen Mr Jackson for a few days now.’

Sam was surprised. Tom, the epitome of the dedicated dad, hadn’t missed a day before now. ‘Really? Any idea why?’

The nurse shook her head, replacing the patient notes back into the holder on the end of the bed. ‘Didn’t like to ask his wife, you know, in case it was personal. I thought maybe he’s away on business. He hardly left her side in the first few days Sophie came up here.’

Sam pondered on that. Being away with work was an unlikely explanation, given that Tom Jackson worked at a local employment advice centre. Maybe he was sick. He made a mental note to give him a call.

Louisa sat through the team meeting without really hearing a thing. Her mind was somewhere else, thrown back in time by recent events. She was in the car travelling to Anglesey, four friends packed tightly into Marcus’s rusting white Ford Fiesta, alongside the rucksacks, tents, food and drink. Full of high spirits, laughing and joking about everything and anything. Exams were over, and a great summer lay ahead. Cathy was squashed next to her in the back, her blue eyes shimmering with excitement. In the front was Marcus and Sam. It was the last time they had all been together, happy.

The meeting finished, and Louisa made a hasty exit, desperate to get out of the hospital. She felt uneasy now, walking down the corridor, half expecting to see Richard Friedman standing outside her office, wearing that chilling half-way-to-insane smile. But of course there was no-one there; Richard Friedman wouldn’t be able to hurt her any more.

She closed the office door and glanced up at the clock. It was just before five, and she could legitimately leave for the day. But first, she went about clearing her desk of the recently opened post, binning the junk mail and filing the rest into the various drawers of her desk. It was when she opened the bottom drawer that she saw the envelope, marked with her name.

She just looked at it for a few seconds, fear rising from her gut. Who had placed it there? Fighting back the anxiety, she grabbed the envelope and tore it open with trembling hands. As she read the single typed sentence she brought a hand over her mouth, trapping in the horrific realisation that Richard Friedman knew much more than she had realised.

She gripped the letter, staring at the words in disbelief and shock, wanting to destroy it there and then. But she resisted, instead stuffing it into the bottom of the drawer, underneath a half-foot high pile of musty papers.

He must have put the letter there before he died. Somehow he’d got into the office and left this for her, a mocking message from beyond the grave.

She held her head in her hands, trying to control her breathing. He was gone now, and everything would be alright.

Everything would be fine.

Unless he had told someone else what he knew.

She pulled out her mobile and pressed speed dial 1.

Sam stood just before the ticket barriers at a busy Waterloo Underground Station, deciding whether to go through with what he had planned. He felt Marcus’s letter in his jacket pocket as the rain-soaked night time commuters hurried past. To his left a family with two small children, a boy and a girl of about six, scrutinised the tube map on the wall, the dad tracing a finger towards their destination. On his right a dishevelled man in his early twenties navigated the oncoming torrent of people, picking discarded tickets from the floor, looking for one that might get him onto a train. The girl who called herself Alison, had she done this too, to survive on the streets? Sam looked beyond the barriers.

Northbound would take him back home.

South would take him somewhere altogether different.

He decided that it was now or never, taking the tube south and jumping onto a bus that his rapid research on the Internet back in his office had told him went within a few minutes of the address given in Marcus’s letter. During the bus ride, peering out at the passing, darkening South London streets, his nervousness began to grow. It had been fifteen years without contact, at least on his part. How would Marcus react to seeing him? How would he react? What would they say?

And then the more serious question.

Was Marcus really innocent?

The bus travelled deeper into what was relatively unknown territory for Sam. Like a lot of North London residents, south of the river wasn’t visited often. The bus was now in one of the city’s most deprived areas. A never-ending series of decaying flats lined the road, their contents spilling out onto balconies in a way that revealed the overcrowding within; washing, bicycles, prams, furniture.

Sam exited the bus and walked the remaining few minutes through the scented, bustling streets. He felt uncomfortably out of place here. The residents on the streets were a rainbow mix of ethnicities, most notably Somali but also Caribbean, South Asian and Chinese. There were very few white faces, and certainly no-one in a suit. Not that anyone gave him a second glance. The sense of alienation was obviously all in his mind.

He reached the flats where Marcus lived. He hadn’t been expecting to see a palace, but the state of the building which Marcus now called home was still a shock. Its drab, grey, battered concrete exterior exuded destitution. Several of the windows were boarded up. He checked Marcus’s letter to make sure he hadn’t got the wrong address. He hadn’t.

Now he was here, so close, the anxiety rose. He entered the ground floor landing, which was too dark to be comfortable, lit by a single yellow strip light. A cocktail of alcohol, urine and cleaning solution pervaded the air. He decided against the lifts, instead heading for the stairs. Flat 136, Marcus’s, was on the third floor. He didn’t meet anyone as he climbed the concrete steps. But as he went to push at the door to the third floor, it was kicked open at high speed.

Sam fought back the urge to say something as he narrowly avoided being struck in the face by the swinging door. He watched as the man who had burst through, a heavily-built skin head wearing a tightly fighting white t-shirt, stomped down the stairs without any acknowledgment or apology.

Shaking his head, he passed through the still vibrating door and emerged onto the third floor. As at ground level, the lighting was terrible. But at least the smell was better. He followed the numbers until he reached flat 136. The wooden green door was badly damaged in several places, revealing the inner part of its structure. It looked like someone had taken an axe to it.

Sam stood there for a moment, staring at the number, with his hand raised in a paused knocking motion. Maybe he should have called rather than just turning up out of the blue. He had decided to arrive unannounced because he thought the less warning Marcus was given, the more honest his reactions might be to his questioning. But now he wondered whether the element of surprise would just make things harder. There was also the possibility that Marcus wouldn’t even be in.

But it was too late now.

He knocked three slow knocks, stepped back and took a steadying deep breath.

Sam heard movement from behind the door.

Followed by the sound of gunfire and smashing glass.

25

Sam wanted to run. But he had no idea where the shot had come from, so any movement might have brought him face to face with the gunman. Instead he flattened himself against the wall by Marcus’s door, staying as still as his body could manage. He stood there, trying to slow his breathing, pushing away the fear without success. Looking one way then another down the corridor, no-one had been brought out of their flat by the commotion. The place appeared deserted. But Sam knew that it wasn’t. Someone was in Marcus’s flat. He had heard them.

Deciding to make a move, he fought the urge to flee and instead knocked again on the door; this time, lightly. Again he heard movement. So he knocked again.

This time the door moved open slightly.

Desperate to get out of the corridor and reach some kind of shelter, Sam instinctively pushed at the door and moved through the opening.

Sam closed the door quietly behind him. ‘Marcus?’

The room was in darkness. The curtains were drawn on the far side, but he could see what looked like glass on the floor at the base of the window. The shot had come from, or been aimed from here. He thought about turning around now, but it was too late to retreat. Sam moved tentatively inside, his breath held. There was a light coming from behind a door on the left, and he could hear water running. He moved over to the door and knocked, his heart thumping against his rib cage, as if the organ was trying to break free and escape.

‘Marcus?’

Sam reached for the door knob then paused, fearing the horror that might lurk on the other side. He could hear his own breathing and feel the blood pumping in his head.

‘Marcus, are you in there?’

He pushed the door open and saw the bath. The cold water tap had been running for some time, as the water lapped close to the rim, threatening to spill over. Instinctively he went to turn it off, but as he reached for the tap someone moved up from behind the door and kicked the back of his knee-caps, bucking his legs and sending him crashing into the bath. Grabbing the back of his hair they plunged him into the ice cold water, holding him firm as he struggled for life.

Jody knocked hard and fast at the door and waited impatiently for Locky to appear, all the time looking around in case she had been followed. It had been like that in the days since she had first run from Locky’s place – always on the move, from hostel to hostel, convinced that they were on her tail, just a few steps behind.

So why come back here?

Why not get as far away as possible and start again?

She considered the questions, her thoughts then turning to whether Locky was alright – she had left him at the mercy of those men. But just as her concerns grew, he answered the door with his customary Irish stoner swagger.

‘Jody.’

Unlike all those other times, he didn’t immediately stand to one side and let her in. Instead he blocked the doorway. He sported two black eyes, and his nose looked to have been broken.

‘Shit, Locky, are you okay?’

He nodded unconvincingly, glancing nervously up and down the road. ‘Look, Jody, you’ve got to leave.’