28.

Back at Amina’s place, I find my balance again, or sort of.

I clean. We play with Asad. I fret about whether Tinker will come and find me or not.

One afternoon, the thirteenth day, I walk down to the railway station. Drayton, the area where Amina lives, is not lovely, but at its best it has a quiet suburban charm. Almost villagey. Ice cream vans and privet hedges. Quiet roads and dads who wash their cars at the weekend.

There’s a phone box there, an old-fashioned thing. I use it to call Buzz, a breach of procedure.

Buzz answers. Says, ‘Babe, are you OK?’

I say yes, as I always do, then, ‘Buzz, when we can – I mean, as soon as it’s safe – can we do something weddingy together? Maybe look at dresses or, I don’t know, venues?’

‘I’m not meant to see your dress before the big day.’

‘I know, but can we anyway?’

He says yes. He always does.

I say, ‘And Buzzman, can you do me a favor?’ I ask him to print a good color photo of Henderson off from police records and leave it for Gary at the hostel. ‘Say it’s from me. And that I’ll be in touch.’

‘Who’s Gary?’

‘A homeless guy. Bit of an alkie. A Big Issue seller.’

‘You want me to hand over data from a top secret police inquiry to an alcoholic homeless man, with probable mental-health issues?’

‘He was an NCO in the Royal Welch Fusiliers. Expertise in signals. Combat experience. And he’s a buddy. He’d walk through fire for me.’

‘I know, Fi, but when he’s pissed, if he starts talking in a pub …’

‘Gary? In a pub? Paying two pound fifty a pint? You have to be joking. When Gary gets pissed he buys two liter bottles of Diamond White for three quid and change, and drinks on a park bench until he’s too drunk to see.’

‘If you’re sure …’

‘I’m sure.’

‘And naturally you’ll have consulted your senior investigating officer about this strategy.’

I laugh at that. I tried raising the matter once. Brattenbury heard me out, but said, snobbily, ‘He’s not an appropriate person,’ as though we were discussing a new member for the Athenaeum.

‘That’s not the same thing at all,’ I object. ‘My senior investigating officer isn’t allowed to sleep with me.’

The conversation changes tack at that point, Buzz’s thoughts turning to just how little he’s been able to exercise his fiancé-privileges in recent months.

We talk rubbish for a few minutes, then hang up.

A butterfly settles on the phone box in front of me. The air smells of sunshine on plastic. I lift the handset again so I can hear the dial tone, which sounds like Buzz’s bass rumble.

I’m scared that I’m losing myself. I feel spacey and unsure.

It’s a relief when, the very next day – day fourteen, a Wednesday – Amina and I complete our early morning shift for YCS, and walk out onto the street to find a black BMW purring on the curb.

Henderson is inside it. Gestures me over.

Amina sees the gesture. I’ve told her nothing about where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing since I last saw her, but men in black cars have a significance that crosses any boundary of language or culture. She looks at me and at Henderson. Her face has that fierce, impassive African quality, unbroken by any smile.

She says, ‘You need to get Asad,’ then stalks off, without a glance back.

I don’t go over to Henderson. Sit on the granite steps of the office I’ve just cleaned and start to roll a cigarette.

Henderson parks, illegally, and comes over.

‘May I?’ he says, wanting to sit beside me.

I don’t say yes and I don’t say no, so he sits anyway.

‘Look, Fiona, we screwed up. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done what I did. It was horrible. It scared you. I’m sorry.’

I don’t say anything, but I’ve got my cigarette rolled now and I light up.

I wish it was a big fat spliff with handfuls of sweet Griffithsian weed in it, but there are times when the thin brown taste of tobacco just has to do instead.

‘If I’m being honest, I have to say I didn’t like doing that. You and me, I think we had trust anyway. Some of my colleagues, they haven’t met you, they felt we had to do more. And they were wrong. They pushed too hard. I did. I pushed too hard. I want to say sorry.’

I shrug. It’s an apology which has nothing to do with repentance. No sorry-we-murdered-that-guy. No sorry-to-have-threatened-you. Not even an I, Vic Henderson, apologize for being a total asshole, because his ‘apology’ took care to make clear that he had been forced into doing something he’d argued against. And, I note, nowhere did Henderson suggest that the threat of murder he levelled at me that night has been lifted, not even one iota. The threat is still there, still alive. His only apology is for the manner of presentation.

Fuck you, I think. Fuck you and I’ll see you in jail.

What I say is nothing at all.

A parking warden comes down the road towards Henderson’s BMW. We both see the warden. Henderson says, ‘Look, are you OK coming with me, just while I move the car?’

I go on smoking. Fuck you. Fuck your car.

‘OK, shit. Look – no, it doesn’t matter.’

We watch as the warden photographs the BMW. Starts to make out a ticket. I finish my ciggy.

‘I’ve got something for you.’ He has a document wallet with him. Hands it over.

There are qualifications inside. A couple for nursing. One for primary education. Another for something to do with speech therapy. They all look pukka, all made out in the name of Fiona Grey.

‘I don’t really know what you want. But it’s got to be something that would make you count as a skilled migrant for immigration purposes. If you want to choose something else, we’ll sort it out.’

‘I can’t be a nurse. You can’t put me in charge of patients when I don’t know anything about nursing.’

‘This stuff just gets you your visa. You can work as anything you like.’

‘Even so. It’s not right.’

‘OK, then be something else. If you need references, we’ll fix those too.’

‘You keep talking about this lawyer, but I’ve never met him. How do I even know he’s real?’

‘He’s real, all right. We can go right there if you like.’

Henderson is hopeful. He waves at his now-beticketed car.

‘I don’t want your lawyer. I want one that I choose.’

Henderson does a little double-take, then says, ‘OK.’

‘You pay the bills, but he’s my lawyer.’

‘OK.’

‘And you’ve got to get me my old job back. And my flat.’

‘It’s still there. Both. The job and the flat.’

‘I was on probation. It was a six-month probationary thing.’

‘You’ve been sick. We arranged for a doctor to send in a sick note. Your workmates sent you a card.’

‘Really?’

I’m moved by this. Pulled by different emotions. Impressed at Henderson’s organization. The care taken to keep me in play. Also touched that my workmates bothered to send me a card. I’ve never even bonded with them, not really. I still prefer cleaning to payroll.

Henderson says, ‘Are we good? Are you ready to come back to Cardiff?’

‘I’ve got to get Asad.’

He doesn’t know who Asad is, but he opens the car door and I get in.