21.

On Monday, my phone vibrates a silent alarm at 3.55 a.m., but I’m already awake.

I leave the room dark and slip out to the bathroom. Have a shower and get dressed in the bathroom. When I come back, it’s 4.08 and I flip the lights on. My giant velour armchair squats like a hibernating bear. In the narrow space between armchair, wardrobe and kitchen area, I creep around putting on coat, hat and scarf. There’s not much food kicking around, but I eat something anyway. I’m out and onto the street by 4.13.

It’s a cold day. Directly overhead the sky is clear, but the streets are wet and a mass of inky cloud rides at anchor over the Bristol Channel.

I walk south. Lamplight softens the blackness, but the pavements are poorly lit and I’m well wrapped.

There’s not much traffic. Whatever is there moves at the edge of the speed limit, or just a little more. I’m not particularly good with car makes and models, but I put any obvious commercial vehicles to one side – vans, milk floats, lorries – and pay attention to the rest. Try to keep a log of them using three letters from their license plate. Silver Volvo HGM. Burgundy Corolla SSW. Repeat each identification in my head before dropping it from attention and turning to the next vehicle to pass.

The city is quiet. Just my walking feet and these passing cars. A burr of engines, a splash of tires. From somewhere beyond the Mynachdy Road, you can sense the river and the darkness of Bute Park. A deeper silence, owl-haunted.

When cars approach, I turn my head as though shielding my eyes from the headlamps. I walk fast, but I walk fast anyway. At some point, I’m not sure when, it starts to rain again. A gentle drizzle.

By the time I’m approaching the bridge over the railway line, I think maybe I’ve got this wrong. Perhaps they’re less careful than Brattenbury thought. Or somehow know about my cleaning job.

As it turns out: neither.

A silver Audi TT drives north, on the far side of the road. I catch its number plate as it passes. Silver Audi RBO. There’s a hesitation in its movement, as though its driver touched the brakes briefly on seeing me.

I do nothing. Just walk on.

At this point, the road has a raised central reservation and cars can’t simply do a U-turn. I don’t look round, but I do hear the car speed up, then brake hard. I’m guessing it’s making a turn by the Texaco garage. Sure enough, the same car, driving slowly now, passes again. Silver Audi RBO.

I keep on walking.

The car drives ahead and out of sight. It can’t do anything else, not really. Vic’s boys won’t have the resources to arrange a multi-vehicle surveillance given no notice at all, long before dawn on a Monday morning. And in any case, those things are hard to manage at a time when there’s virtually no traffic, virtually no pedestrians.

I cross the bridge and go on walking.

The Audi is parked up ahead on Blackweir Terrace, lights off. I walk straight past it. Want to glance into the windows, but don’t.

Walk on until I’m out of sight of the car, then stop. Prop my bag on a low wall and root around for tobacco and cigarette papers. Roll a ciggy, then walk on, smoking.

My cigarette ploy wasted a minute, maybe more, so the Audi gets its timings a little wrong. Passes me again before it really wants to. It goes past the left turn onto Colum Road, so I take the turn and start walking south towards the university buildings. I’m moving faster now, almost running.

A few moments later, I hear a car enter the road behind me.

I bolt into Colum Drive, a dead-end, as it happens, but unless you know this area you might not know that. Press myself against the doorway of the first building I come to.

The Audi follows me into the cul-de-sac, then realizes its mistake, but also realizes it’s too late to make amends. It stops abruptly, tires losing traction briefly on the wet road. When the car stops, it feels very still indeed. A composition in black, silver and glass.

I step out from the doorway and approach. Tap on the car window. After a brief hesitation, the glass descends.

There’s a woman at the wheel. Forties, maybe. Blonde. Shoulder-length hair held back in a grip. Blue woolen coat worn over a dark jumper.

I kick the door. Hard. I’m wearing boots and kick hard enough to dent the panel.

‘Who the fuck are you? What the fuck are you doing?’

‘I’ve been … look, sorry, I’ve lost someone. I thought you might be her.’

‘You’ve lost someone?’ I kick the door again. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m … um … Alison.’

I almost feel sorry for ‘Alison’. I don’t know what her role in the whole set-up is, but I’m pretty sure that motorized surveillance isn’t her particular sphere of excellence. I guess she was assigned to this chase just because she happened to be closest.

‘Alison? And who have you lost, Alison?’

‘Look, it was a mistake, OK?’

‘Who have you lost? You said you’d lost someone.’

Alison hesitates and, to help her make up her mind, I kick her car again. Not the door this time, but the rear panel. It wasn’t a particularly good kick, but every dent is another four hundred quid on a car like this.

She loses her patience. ‘Can you stop doing that?’ Her voice is shrill. She gets out to look at the damage and, I guess, keep me from doing any more.

‘Yes, if you stop fucking stalking me.’

Kick.

While we’re having our version of a catfight, a man walks past. Jeans and waxed jacket. Something carried under his arm.

‘You ladies all right?’

A car rides down Colum Road behind us, illuminating our faces. We stare briefly into the glare.

‘Yeah, we’re all right,’ I say sulkily.

The man goes. The car goes.

Alison looks at her Audi with disbelief. ‘Jesus,’ she says. ‘Jesus.’

‘Just leave me alone, OK?’ I look at my watch. ‘You’re making me late.’

‘Late for what? I can give you a lift if you like.’ Alison sees a way to rescue something from this shambles. ‘To make up,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

Our stand-off prolongs itself for another moment. Her peace-making and my suspicion grapple in this rain-softened darkness.

I throw my cigarette into a puddle. Sulkily tell Alison she can drop me at the top of Fitzalan Place.

Get cautiously into her car, which smells of leather and new carpet. I sit in my wet coat and keep my bag on my lap. I don’t put my seatbelt on and a red warning light disapproves of my recklessness. Something pings.

Alison drives smoothly. Puts her indicator on, even where the junctions are completely clear. The wipers silently clear the rain. Her face is slightly illuminated in red.

‘You’re up early,’ she says, trying again.

I don’t answer.

We pass through the silent university buildings, the grey stones of the National Museum. My beloved Cathays, the police HQ, is just a couple of blocks away. I’d love to catch even a glimpse of it, but don’t let myself stare.

When she drops me, I say, ‘Look, sorry about your car, yeah? It’s just that stuff freaks me out.’

On the other side of the road, there’s a knot of people in dark coats. The orange stab of a cigarette.

‘Meeting someone?’ says Alison.

She really, really isn’t very good at this.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I’m meeting friends.’

I cross the road. Eight women. Nine including me. It’s four fifty-five and my cleaning day is about to start. Over the road, the Audi sits there, hazard lights blinking, as Alison phones through the results of her morning adventures.

Who are you, Alison? I wonder. I’m fairly sure I’m about to find out.