The Cradle in the Grave (34 page)

He pulls out his wallet and hands me a business card. ‘Since you're so keen on details, get mine right.' Pictures Desk Editor. Big deal. ‘You knew Laurie Nattrass was on the board at Binary Star – you must have known about his connection to Helen Yardley, JIPAC, my wife. You didn't end up working with him by accident, did you?'

I can't deal with this. I push past him and head for my flat, fumbling in my bag for my keys. I let myself in and turn to close the door. Angus Hines is right behind me, so close we're almost touching.

‘This conversation's over,' I tell him. How dare he walk into my home uninvited? I try to use the door to propel him out, but he's too heavy. ‘Fine,' I say, gesturing for him to go on ahead of me. He smiles again, rewarding me for finally seeing sense.

He heads for the lounge, stopping on the way to look at what I've put up on the walls in the hall. As quietly as I can, I step outside, close the front door and mortice-lock it.

I run towards the main road faster than I've ever run before. I flag down a cab and tell the driver my work address. I need access to a computer, and the one at the office will do just as well as the one at home. It's Saturday, so hopefully no one will be in.

Oh my God, oh my God, ohmyGod
. I've just locked the pictures desk editor of a major newspaper in my flat.

In the rear-view mirror, the taxi-driver eyes me hopefully. All I can see of him are his eyes, but that's enough. As a non-driver, I spend a lot of time in cabs, and my instincts are razor-sharp. I'm getting a strong sense that this man has something pressing to tell me about an excellent biography of the Kray twins he's reading. I've already heard all about the bloke who had his smile extended by a knife from several other London cabbies; I don't need to hear it again. As a preventative measure, I pull out my phone and ring Tamsin.

‘Fliss?' She sounds as if she'd given up all hope of ever hearing from me again. ‘Where are you?'

I'm tempted to say ‘Somalia'. ‘On my way to the office. Relax. I'm fine.'

‘You might be fine now, but the longer you—'

‘I need you to do something for me,' I cut her off. ‘You're not busy, are you?'

‘Depends what you mean by busy. I've just downloaded a test thingie from MI6's website.'

‘
What?
'

‘I'm going to take it in a minute, under exam conditions. If I pass, I'll be one step closer to getting a job as an operations officer for cases – that's the official job title.'

‘You mean a spy?' I can't help laughing, and once I start, I can't stop.
I've got a pictures desk editor locked in my flat and my best friend wants to be a spy
.

‘Keep it to yourself, all right? It says on the website that you can't tell anyone.' She makes a dismissive noise. ‘Seems a bit unrealistic, doesn't it? They can't mean
anyone
anyone.'

‘No. I'm sure they mean you can tell whoever you like as long as they're not wearing an Al-Qaeda T-shirt.'

‘Are you crying?'

‘I think I'm laughing, but there's not much in it.'

‘I'm deadly serious about this, Fliss. I spoke to a detective who said I'd make a good chief inspector, and it started me thinking . . .'

‘Why were you talking to a detective?'

Tamsin groans. ‘I know it's against your principles, but will you please buy a newspaper and read it? And when you've done that, come here so that I can not let you out of my sight.'

‘Tam, I need you to go to mine. Have you still got the set of keys I gave you?'

‘Somewhere. Why?'

‘Just . . . go to my flat and unlock the door. Let Angus Hines out, lock up again – that's it, then you're done. It won't take you long. I'll pay any expenses – petrol, cab fare, tube fare, whatever – and there's a slap-up meal in it too, at a restaurant of your choice. Just please, say you'll do it.'

‘Can we rewind to the “Let Angus Hines out” part? What's Angus Hines doing in your flat?'

‘He came in, I didn't want him there, I couldn't get him to leave, so I went out. I had to lock him in or he'd have followed me and I didn't want to speak to him. He's a horrible, selfrighteous bully. He gave me the creeps.'

‘You
locked
Angus Hines in your flat? Oh, my God! Isn't that . . . false imprisonment or something? Kidnap? Fliss, you can go to jail for incarcerating people against their will. What's wrong with you?'

I press the ‘end call' button and switch off my phone. If she wants to let him out, she can go and let him out. If not, they can both stay where they are and have fun disapproving of me.

Maybe I ought to ask my taxi-driver if the Kray twins ever locked a pictures desk editor in their flat, and if so, what happened to them as a result. Except that he's now involved in a phone conversation of his own, which leaves me with no choice but to think.

Yes, I knew Laurie worked at Binary Star when I applied for the job. Yes, I knew about his links to Helen Yardley and JIPAC. I knew he was trying to get Ray Hines out of prison. No, I didn't for a minute think I'd end up being coerced by him into taking on a film about miscarriages of justice involving crib death mothers. If I had, I'd have run a mile; Dad was dead by the time I started at Binary Star, but Mum wasn't.

She still isn't. It will break her heart if I make a documentary that portrays Ray Hines as innocent. Even if Dad was wrong to say what he said about her that day in the restaurant, that's not how Mum will see it. She'll be devastated.

That used to be enough to make me certain I didn't want to do it.

Could I have been hoping, as early as January 2007, to find myself in the position I'm in now?

If I ring my home number and say all this to Angus Hines, will he finally be satisfied and let me make the documentary? I bury my face in my hands.
Oh, God. What have I done?
I should tell the taxi-driver to turn round and go back to Kilburn, but I can't face it. I don't want to go anywhere near Angus Hines ever again.

 

The cab pulls up outside Binary Star's offices. I pay and get out. The outer door's unlocked, so somebody must be in. I push through the double glass doors and slam straight into Raffi. ‘A Felicity on a Saturday?' he says, hands on hips, mock disbelief all over his face. ‘I must be seeing things.'

‘Do . . . do you normally work on Saturdays?'

‘Yup.' He leans forward and whispers in my ear, ‘Sometimes I even work on the Lord's Day of Rest. Don't tell Him.' I wonder if there's something Raffi's scared of, something he's trying to convince himself is nothing. Why else would a person spend the weekend in the office? I decide I'm probably projecting; Raffi looks fine.

‘I'm going to be working most weekends from now on,' I tell him, trying to sound busy and professional. He purses his lips at me.
I should think so too, the amount we're about to start paying you
. Is he beaming the words into my brain, or am I being paranoid? Either way, I feel as if I might as well be twirling a pistol in each hand, wearing a T-shirt with ‘Stand and deliver' emblazoned across it.

‘There's a surprise for you in your office,' says Raffi. ‘Come to think of it, there were a couple of surprises for you in Maya's office, last time I looked.' Before I have a chance to ask what he means, he's gone, the doors banging behind him.

Maya's office door is shut, her ‘Meeting in Progress' sign hanging from the handle. I can hear her and several other people talking over one another. Workaholic freaks, the lot of them. Don't they know what Saturdays are for? Why aren't they curled up on their sofas in their pyjamas, watching repeats of
A Place In The Sun: Home Or Away
?

Someone with a loud voice says, ‘I appreciate that.' I wonder what the ‘that' is. Fag smoke? Is this a secret meeting of the Nicotine in the Workplace Appreciation Society? I decide that whatever surprises Maya has for me can wait until later.

In the office that's either mine, Laurie's or nobody's, depending on your point of view, I find what looks like a small silver robot standing in the middle of the floor. It takes a few seconds for me to read the label that's stuck to it and work out what it is: a dehumidifier. My heart sinks to somewhere in the sub-gut region. A week ago I'd have been delighted, but not now. The timing says it all. Raffi knows this is supposed to be my new office, and he knows it doesn't have a condensation problem. Is the dehumidifier his way of letting me know I'll soon be back in my damp old room where I belong?

I lock the door and turn on my computer. Laurie's sent me an email that says, ‘Revised article attached', and, beneath that, ‘Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless device'. The BlackBerry has contributed more words to the message than Laurie has, and it's never even had sex with me. If I weren't so on edge, I might find this funny.

There is no article attached to the message. Luckily Laurie has sent another email – from his laptop, presumably, once he realised he couldn't append the relevant file to his BlackBerry – this time consisting of no words, only the attachment. I open the article and click on ‘print'. Then I root around in my bag for Angus Hines' business card. I send him an email, answering the last question he asked me as honestly and fully as possible, and explain that I ran away because I would have found it too hard to answer face to face. I tell him how painful it is for me to think about my dad, and that I tend to do anything I can to avoid it. I don't apologise for locking him in my flat, or ask if he's still there or has managed to get out.

Apart from the two from Laurie, the only interesting message in my inbox is from Dr Russell Meredew. ‘Fliss, hi,' it begins. What kind of greeting is that? Isn't this man an OBE? I check the files: yes, he is. It could be worse, I suppose:
Yo, Fliss, what up?
I read the rest of his email. ‘I've spoken to Laurie, who tells me you intend to include interviews with Judith Duffy in the film. He thinks this is a bad idea, as do I. If you want to give me a ring, I'll explain why. I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job – please don't think that – but there's a danger in trying to be evenhanded when it's a case of a bird in the hand being worth a pathological liar in the bush, if you get my drift. I think perhaps we should talk on the phone before proceeding with the interview we put in the diary the other day. My willingness to be involved in your project partly depends on what sort of project it turns out to be, as I'm sure you appreciate. Very best, Russell Meredew'.

In other words, don't listen to my enemy's point of view – just take my word for it that she's evil.

I press the ‘delete' button, making a gargoyle face at the computer, then ring Judith Duffy's home number again and virtually beg her for a meeting. I tell her I'm neither for nor against her – I simply want to hear whatever she might have to say.

I'm about to grab the new version of Laurie's article and leave the office when I hear voices in the corridor that sound as if they're coming closer.

‘. . . either of them gets in touch, please impress on them how important it is that they contact us.'

‘I will.' That's Maya.

‘For their own safety, they need to understand that all activity around this documentary film stops until further notice. It won't be for ever.'

‘And if you find the Twickenham address Rachel Hines gave you . . .'

‘I've told you, I haven't got it,' says Maya. ‘I gave it to Fliss.'

‘. . . or if you remember it . . .'

‘I'm unlikely to remember it, since I never knew it. I was probably thinking about something else when I scribbled it down, and I handed it over without looking at it. Bring me a list of all the streets in Twickenham if you want, and I'll see if any of the names ring a bell, but, aside from that . . .'

‘All right,' says the louder of the two men, in a strong Yorkshire accent. I recognise his voice from the message he left me: DC Colin Sellers. ‘So if we could have a quick look round Fliss Benson's office before we go?'

‘Which one?'

‘She's got more than one?'

‘She's kind of moved into Laurie's old office, but I'm not sure she's finished moving all her stuff yet. And Laurie's not been in to collect his things.'

‘We need to see both.'

‘Laurie's old office is just along here. Follow me.'

What about a warrant?
I want to scream. I leap out of my chair and duck down behind the desk, remembering only when I see its four wooden legs that its bulk doesn't go all the way to the floor.
I knew that. Shit, shit, shit
.

The footsteps are getting closer. I spring up, lunge across the room at the dehumidifier and knock it over. I pick it up, turn it so that the broadest side is facing the office door, and sit with my back pressed against it, pulling my knees up to my chin and putting my arms round my legs, refusing to listen to the voice in my head that's saying,
What's the point? So they won't see you when they look through the glass in the door – so what? In a minute Maya's going to let them in, and they're going to find you, very obviously hiding from them
.

Is there any way I can pretend I'm sitting like this because I'm feeling particularly humid today? I'm sweating buckets; maybe that'll help make the lie convincing.

I hear the quieter of the two male voices say, ‘What's that? An electric heater?'

‘Never seen one as big as that,' says Sellers.