Twenty Twelve (22 page)

Carole-Ann’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Kasia? Tommy? Since when are we on first-name terms with witnesses and terrorist suspects?’

‘All I’m saying is it narrows things down.’

‘You already told us this,’ said Carole-Ann. ‘Twice.’ She shook her head at him, the beads in her hair making a gentle jangling sound, like a wind chime on a summer’s night. ‘When did you last eat, Clem?’

‘What?’

‘Have you eaten anything today?’

‘Yeah. No.’ Clem raked his hair. ‘Maybe.’

Carole-Ann put a hand on his arm. She wore a thick silver band on her thumb.

‘You need food, right now.’ She led him to the door. ‘I will call you as soon as we find anything.’

His stomach growled. He’d assumed the gnawing nausea was stress or guilt or whatever. Thinking about it, it could just be plain old hunger. Somehow the thought was comforting. ‘Now you mention it, sausage and beans could really hit the spot.’

She shooed him away and he headed across the road to a Turkish-run caff where everything came with chips. Back in the day this had been a favourite haunt of the team. Happy times taking the piss over steaming mugs of tea. Then a couple of the gang left, wanting a proper life with a family, a mortgage and a dog. He’d mocked at the time, calling them lightweights. Then another couple of them died, caught up in some undercover operation that went tits up. Clem had squared it away. Things like that happened in MI5, all part of the deal.

‘Long time no see, boss.’ The now grey-haired owner greeted Clem with a wide, warm smile. ‘You don’t come in often enough.’

Clem patted his stomach. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

‘What do they know?’ The owner wagged his finger. ‘My father smoked all his life, ate a yarimca every day. You know what this is?’

Clem shook his head.

‘Deep-fried dough. Lived to eighty-three. What can I tell you?’

Clem chuckled and ordered shish kebab, chips and salad. His consultant would at least approve of the cucumber. As he waited for his food, he looked around the tables full of young people. Some of them would be working for the service. He probably passed them every day. Like Krish, they all seemed unlined and unscathed.

His mobile rang as the owner slid a plate under his nose, the smell of spiced lamb and fried potato tantalising. ‘Carole-Ann.’

‘Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you’d want to know,’ she said.

Clem eyed his food longingly, a chip between his thumb and forefinger. ‘What have you got?’

‘Krish thinks he’s found out what Frasier was up to.’

‘I’ll be right back.’ Clem turned to the owner of the café. ‘Can I get my order to go?’

The old man laughed. ‘Where do you think you are? San Francisco?’

‘I wish.’

Clem peered over Krish’s shoulder, so close he could smell the young man’s aftershave. It was one of those androgynous ones that supposedly worked for either sex and smelled of soap and lemons. Sometimes Clem thought he belonged to another century.

‘What on earth is in there?’ Carole-Ann pointed to the paper bag clutched in Clem’s fist. ‘It smells revolting.’

‘Kebab and chips,’ Clem replied. ‘And salad.’

Carole-Ann wrinkled her nose.

‘What can you tell me?’ Clem patted Krish on the back.

‘I checked and double checked those three.’ The younger man pointed to the computers at his feet. ‘Memory, history, hard drive, you name it, but there was nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ Clem asked.

‘Well, obviously there was something. Hundreds of people use the café and access the internet on these PCs,’ said Krish. ‘But there was nothing important. No patterns. Nothing to interest us.’

‘So why am I here?’ Clem rubbed his stomach, desperate for food.

Krish tapped the PC on the desk in front of him. ‘Because this baby has an interesting story to tell.’

‘I’m in no mood for
Jackanory,
son.’

‘Excuse me?’ Krish had clearly never even heard of
Jackanory
.

‘Clem, would you just let Krish finish?’ Carole-Ann said.

‘Fine.’

‘Okaaaay . . .’ Krish spoke slowly, unsure of himself, until Carole-Ann gave him an encouraging nod. ‘Until a few days ago, this computer was used every morning at five past nine like clockwork. That would give our suspect time to arrive, order his drink, then get to work.’

‘Can we be sure it was Tommy?’ asked Clem.

‘Not one hundred per cent,’ Krish responded.

‘But it would be one hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t him,’ said Carole-Ann.

Clem liked facts and hard evidence; he didn’t like supposition, although he’d been forced to do a lot of it today.

‘Assuming it was him, what was he actually doing on the net?’ asked Clem.

Krish smiled. ‘That’s where it gets really interesting. Our suspect logged on to the same website each day.’

‘What website?’ asked Clem.

‘Looking for ladies dot com.’

Clem coughed hard. ‘Come again?’

Krish tapped some keys and the computer came to life. ‘It’s a chat site where guys go to look for women.’ The graphics were bright as photos of blondes with glossed pouts and large breasts filled the screen.

‘Don’t you have to pay for those kinds of sites?’ asked Clem.

‘Free month’s trial,’ Krish replied. ‘He signed up as a temporary member, called himself Darth Vader.’

Bloody hell. Clem needed to sit down. ‘Who did he chat to?’

‘On the first day, he’s deluged by offers of company,’ said Krish. ‘But the girls soon work out that he’s not offering hard cash. Look.’ Krish handed Clem a printout of an exchange that had taken place at the end of June.

Hi Big Boy
We like to give all new members a warm welcome, DV. So do you want to come and play?

Do you want to be my girlfriend?

You don’t waste any time, do you? I like a man who knows his own mind.
How about we have a little chat, then work out some business?

I really want you to be my girlfriend.

‘It goes on like that with a couple more girls’, said Krish, ‘until this one arrives.’

Krish handed up another printout of the profile page of a girl calling herself Petal.

‘Is this real?’ Clem drummed the picture of a pneumatic brunette with the tip of his finger.

‘Nah,’ Krish replied. ‘Cut and pasted from the internet. The thing with Petal, though, is that she’s not put off by our suspect’s cack-handed attempts; she just plays along.’

Clem held out his hand for the latest sheet.

I like
Star Wars
. Which is your favourite?

Return of the Jedi
.

Oh I love that one too. Hans Solo is so cool.

Will you be my girlfriend?

Well we do seem to have a lot in common. And I do need a boyfriend. Why don’t you tell me some other stuff you like?

I have to go now.

Well make sure you come back here tomorrow and I’ll have an answer for you.

‘Let me guess,’ said Clem. ‘Petal becomes Tommy’s girlfriend.’

Krish nodded. ‘Within a couple of days they’re swearing undying love for each other and planning a date.’

‘Tell me they don’t meet up.’

‘Sorry.’ Krish shrugs. ‘Here’s the conversation.’

Clem’s hands were shaking as he read the last communication between Tommy Frasier and the person grooming him on the net.

I can’t wait to see you. I am going to bring chocolate and sweets. What sort do you like?

My favourite is Mars Planets.

Oh I love Mars Planets.
I think we were made for each other.

Can I kiss you?

Only if I can kiss you first.

Clem screwed up the paper and threw it across the room, unable to stomach the sick manipulation. ‘Do we know where they met up?’

‘Outside Stratford tube station,’ Krish told him.

‘There will be CCTV,’ said Clem.

‘On it.’ Carole-Ann was already moving back to her desk.

A heap of hands and faces push against the row of jail cells. All trying to catch a glimpse of the new boy
.

‘Fresh meat!’ someone screams. ‘Fresh meat.’

There’s a roar as every prisoner on the landing starts hollering and whistling and banging their cups against the bars
.

Isaac hesitates. He knew this was going to be real bad. The judge up at the courthouse didn’t even look up from his stack of papers as Bert asked for bail. Bert could have been ordering a cheeseburger and fries for all the mind the judge paid. And when he sent Isaac to juvie pending trial the look on his lawyer’s face said it all
.

‘Go on, boy.’ The jailer behind Isaac nudges him in the back with a baton. ‘Don’t be shy.’

Isaac takes a step onto the landing, his head hanging like a kicked dog, trying to avoid eye contact
.

‘Meat, meat, meat,’ someone chants
.

Isaac concentrates on putting one foot ahead of the other, carrying his blanket and tin cup. He hears someone to his left hawking up good, then feels the wet slap on his cheek. Soon everyone joins in and spit rains down on him, landing in his hair, on his clothes, on his skin. He turns away and edges to the balcony. A net is strung across to stop folks from throwing themselves off. God help him, he knows it’s a mortal sin and all, but right now, he can see why a body would want to kill himself
.

At last he is at his cell door and steps inside, grateful when the door behind him clangs shut. Then he sits on his bunk and breathes
.

Hours pass and the lights go out abruptly. Isaac lets his eyes grow accustomed to the shadows. When the moon was low, it could grow real dark in the farmhouse. Isaac was never afraid. He’d listen to the wind in the trees and the coyotes howling. Tonight, there are noises from all sides as the other boys shout out
.

‘New boy, y’all better watch your step. I’m a-coming for you, ya hear me?’ one screeches
.

‘Not if I git there first,’ shouts another
.

And they laugh while Isaac shivers on his bunk
.

‘Looky here, I got something for you, new boy,’ shouts the first boy
.

A plastic bag flies through the air, whipping through the bars of Isaac’s cell door. It lands at Isaac’s feet with a plop
.

‘Present for y’all, new boy.’

Isaac gags. He can see through the bag that there’s a great big turd inside
.

‘Quiet,’ another voice rings out
.

The boys grumble
.

‘I mean it. The next prisoner to make a sound loses all privileges for a week.’

Isaac’s heart thumps in his chest. Mama always said you couldn’t trust anyone in a uniform. ‘They got their own agenda,’ she warned. Maybe she was right, but at this moment Isaac is glad to see the prison officer at his door, baton in his hand. If his agenda is to make everyone hush up and to keep Isaac safe, then that’s okay by him
.

‘You all right, son?’ The officer nods at the bag, stinking on Isaac’s floor
.

‘Yes, sir.’

The officer gives a tight smile and relief pours over Isaac
.

‘Tell me something, son,’ he says
.

‘I’ll try, sir.’

‘Is it true that you’re a cop killer?’

I wake when the plane jolts, smacking my head against the window. I don’t remember drifting off and, without thinking, I lift my hand to rub the injured spot and my fingers probe my scalp for a lump. I sit bolt upright and thrust my hands in front of my face. I’m not dreaming. My wrists are unbound.

‘Calm yourself down, Jo.’ Ronnie’s own hands rest loosely on the controls. ‘You’ll give yourself a heart attack.’

The rope has been cut, the ragged ends dangling at my elbows. I untangle what’s left, throw the remnants at my feet and massage the welts in my skin.

Ronnie has her lips pressed together, the knife in her right palm. ‘Can I trust you, Jo?’

‘That’s a strange question with that pointing in my direction.’

‘I used it to cut the rope,’ she says. ‘But I could have used it to cut your throat.’

‘You still could,’ I say.

She wags the blade at me. ‘At last you’re starting to see sense.’

The plane drops and my ears pop. We are sinking through the sky.

‘We’re coming in to land,’ Ronnie tells me.

The descent is steep and we almost plummet, a side wind buffeting us and my teeth grinding. The wings shudder and the sound of clanging metal fills the cockpit.

‘Gonna be a bumpy one,’ Ronnie shouts above the noise.