I hit the river at Narrow Street. A path ran at the foot of some executive apartments with windows looking out across the broad mass of pewter in front of me. I walked along it. A tourist cruiser out in the centre of the river ran with the tide, back towards Charing Cross. The guide’s amplified monotone made its way towards me across the sluggish, shifting expanse.
I stopped for a second to think what to do. The idea of calling Andy came to me again but only to give me something to discard. The part of me who saw the little girl in Chester wanted to, it told me that she needed a second chance. I had to remind myself that she didn’t exist any more. Cherie did. And she wasn’t getting away with this, she wasn’t going to get involved in weeks, months, maybe even years of argument. No matter what had happened in the past, I knew how this had to end. I just had to play it right. I walked on. It was getting dark now, the river seeming to draw the remaining light down into it. I passed a pub called the Barley Mow, busy with crumpled-looking workers from Canary Wharf, sucking at their beer as if it was mother’s milk. Another Standard front page leapt out at me from one of the pub’s wooden A-frame tables. This one told of the death of Jennifer Tyler. I wondered how many people inside the pub were talking about it. It was the story. How strange then that I, one man, should be walking towards Cherie, one woman, to end it all. I remembered the people reading the Metro on the tube when Sharon and I were coming back from Heathrow, the kids making sick jokes. The difference between them, outside looking in, and me. Those people had been able to move on, to either laugh or read about something else. Was I, finally, going to be able to turn the page? Ahead of me a bank of cloud was sneaking up fast behind Canary Wharf. The light atop the impossible bulk blinked as if it was showing me the way.
Narrow Street carries on along the river at Victoria Wharf. I took a left and came to a square, mostly made up of modern apartment blocks, all blond brick and chrome, already looking a bit dated. Victoria Place was over the other side to my left and the houses there, just one row left, were older: late Georgian, perhaps, or early Victorian. Semi-detached in blocks of two, pathways leading round to the rear. I walked along, noting that most had been turned into office spaces, on the ground floor at least. An architects’ practice, a couple of e-businesses, a consulting firm. I felt my heartbeat increase as I approached Number 14. It was the only house. I walked past quickly but could still be sure that no lights burned within. I crossed back over the square to another pub, where I stood near the window until a seat became free. I sat there for an hour before walking back out again.
‘Yes, hello? Can I help you?’
The woman had been carrying a shopping bag in each hand, with a leather purse slung over her shoulder. She’d opened the door to Number 14 with a key and closed it behind her. Lights had come on shortly after. It had been hard to tell the woman’s exact age from the distance I was at but it definitely wasn’t Cherie. The woman was sixty, at least. I left it five minutes, hoping that Cherie wouldn’t arrive back too in the meantime. I made my way across the square towards the front door, to Number 14 Victoria Place.
‘Listen, if you’re another estate agent I can tell you now to forget it. I’ve got all your leaflets.’
The woman standing in front of me had hair that was a luminous grey, brushed back into something of a pompadour. Her clothes were colourful swathes of flowing silk. She gave off unstudied elegance but it was a Seventies elegance or even earlier. Her face was kindly but troubled, a pair of overlarge glasses magnifying her eyes so that she looked almost constantly startled. I gave her a nervous smile.
‘I’m not an estate agent.’
‘No? You don’t look like one actually. I’m sorry, it’s just they keep hassling me. But what can I do for you, love?’
I shifted from one foot to the next, then back again.
‘You have a young girl living here,’ I said. As if it was nothing.
‘Yes. Cherie. What…? You’re not a policeman, are you?’
‘No,’ I laughed. ‘Why did you say that?’
‘I don’t know. No reason. It was just the way you said it. “You have a young girl living here.” But you’re not a friend of Cherie’s, are you?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘No, she doesn’t have many friends to visit. But if you’re not a friend or a policeman or, thank goodness, an estate agent, what are you?’
‘It’s a little hard to explain. Are you related to Cherie?’
‘Me? No. She just rents my loft. It’s converted, of course. I wouldn’t just rent someone a loft.’
‘No.’
‘But why do you want to know if I’m related to her? I’m sorry but I have to ask you who you are.’
‘I think I might be Cherie’s brother,’ I said.
’Think?’
‘Yes. She doesn’t know about me. It’s a bit complicated, I’m afraid.’
‘I see,’ the woman said. ‘I see.’
We were in her sitting room. It was a pleasant room, though the majority of the furniture was fairly old. It was mostly heavy stuff, mahogany tables, uncomfortable-looking sofas with huge, carved wooden claws for feet. A lot of it could have done with upholstering but nevertheless the room had charm. The frayed silk lampshades were a change from the uplighters everyone seemed to go for these days and the faded William Morris on the walls was more interesting to look at than white paint. Mrs Minter, as she’d introduced herself, had offered me tea, which I’d declined.
‘I’m sorry about the estate agent thing but one of them actually did come round the other day, not satisfied with littering my doormat with their fliers. They tell me I could make a killing on this place, enough to buy one of those ghastly oversized shoeboxes I’m surrounded by. But I was born here, you see, and with my job and the rent from upstairs I’m all right. They can go and screw themselves, if you’ll pardon my French. But now then. It seems like you have a bit of a story to tell me.’
Mrs Minter had already told me that she was a local government officer, working for Hackney in the housing department. I told her that my name was Jonathan Howells and that I was a teacher, PE and English, in Islington. I explained that I’d always known I was adopted but had only recently tracked down my biological parents after my adoptive parents had passed away. Mrs Minter asked me what it was like to meet them but I shook my head.
‘I haven’t,’ I said. ‘Once I found out who they were I realized that I didn’t want any more than that. From them. They had a choice and they gave me away and I have to accept that. But Cherie never had a choice as to whether or not she wanted a brother. Cherie, that’s my sister. I’m sure she is. It took me ages to find her. Months more to pluck up enough courage to get in touch. I thought about writing but didn’t know what to say and a phone call would have been worse. So I just thought: hell, I’ll knock on the door. And she’s out!’ I laughed. ‘Do you know when she’ll be back, Mrs Minter?’
The woman sitting opposite had no idea when Cherie would return. Her lodger tended to come back most nights, but not always. She had her own keys, of course, but still had to use the front door. I asked what kind of girl Cherie was, eager to know more about my sister, but Mrs Minter was noncommittal. I got the feeling that she didn’t approve of her, but it wasn’t because of noise or men or anything like that.
‘She’s very quiet,’ Mrs Minter explained. ‘She just comes in and goes straight upstairs. By the time I can get out into the hall to say hello she’s already in her flat. My last tenants were art students. We used to have a real laugh. I like young people. But no, Cherie is nice and polite but she plays her cards close to her chest, shall we say. You know what? I have the feeling that you taking an interest in her, it just might be what she needs to draw her out of herself.’
Mrs Minter and I chatted on for another five minutes, my ears straining for the sound of footsteps, or a key turning in the front door. The street was quiet. After a while I gave a pained expression and asked Mrs Minter if I could use her toilet.
‘I’m just so nervous,’ I explained. ‘I can’t believe she’s not here. I don’t know how I’ll pluck up the courage to do this again.’
Mrs Minter told me where the toilet was, feeling comfortable enough to stay in the room and let me go out into the hall on my own. The more sympathy that showed on her face the worse I felt about lying to her, but I didn’t have time for that. Closing the door behind me, I went back to the front door to see if I could spot any spare keys, on a hook maybe. I couldn’t but I did see that there was no alarm system. That was good. As quickly and as quietly as I could, I made my way past the living-room door and down a passageway until I found a door on the right, just before the kitchen. More wallpaper greeted me, gigantic swirling green fronds as though I’d been ambushed by a triffid. The room was small, containing a toilet and nothing else. The seat was down and I stepped on it, then ran my hands round the window frame above.
The window wasn’t barred but the frosted panes were secured by four window locks, which in turn were neatly covered by plastic caps. I stepped back down and looked in a small cabinet, where I found the long slim key to the locks sitting next to a bottle of pine-fresh toilet cleaner and a Jessica Helms novel. I unlocked the windows, put the bolts in my jacket pocket and then slid the small plastic covers back into place. They looked the same as before. I turned the swivel catch and stepped back.
No. Mrs Minter would see straight away that the catch was open. She wouldn’t necessarily think anything was up but she’d almost certainly close it. I closed it myself before using my Leatherman on the screws that fixed the tiny bracket of the catch to the bottom half of the sliding window. No one would notice that it was no longer attached, unless they were dusting the sills down. I doubted whether Mrs Minter would do that tonight. I put the screws in my pocket.
After I left the toilet I made my way up three flights of stairs until I found myself on a landing, where two green eyes stared at me from on top of an orange ottoman piled with clean washing. I stroked the cat and then hopped up the steep staircase leading to the loft. At the top was a closed door. I turned the handle slowly but the door was locked. I looked through the keyhole but the room was dark.
Back in the living room I put my hand to my stomach in an effort to explain the length of my absence and received a reassuring smile from Mrs Minter. Mrs Minter asked me again if I wanted tea or anything stronger, adding that it could be a long time before Cherie came home. I said no thanks.
‘And as it could be hours, I won’t take up any more of your time. But, Mrs Minter, could you do me a favour?’
‘I’ll try, but you’re welcome to stay. I could cook us a meal.’
‘No, thank you all the same.’
‘Well, never mind. But I think I know what you’re going to ask. You don’t want me to tell Cherie you came, do you?’
‘I don’t, Mrs Minter. It’s very wise of you to guess that. I think the news would be a big shock and it really should come from me.’
‘I understand.’
’Instead, could you call me? When she comes home? Then I can come round again. If it’s OK that I come round again?’
‘Of course it is. And I will call. On the QT.’
‘Let me write my number down.’
‘And I’ll give you mine too,’ Mrs Minter said, reaching into her bag for a pen.
Back in the pub I had to stand, but I had a good view of Number 14. Mrs Minter had, unfortunately, had the good manners to show me out. If she hadn’t I’d have gone straight up the stairs and found a way to get past the door at the top. Instead I thanked her and shook her hand and promised to bring my two girls round for lunch once I’d got to know my sister. Once again Mrs Minter promised to call me the moment she heard Cherie come home, whether it was later that evening or the next day.
‘You must be so excited at the thought of meeting her,’ Mrs Minter said as we parted.
‘I am,’ I agreed. ‘I can hardly wait.’
‘And for her – what a surprise!’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A very big surprise, indeed.’
I leaned against a pillar and sipped a Coke. I was happy, pleased by the way things had gone. I’d found her. I’d found a way into the house where she lived. Now I had to follow through. My eyes never leaving the door opposite, I tried to picture the next few hours. As far as I could see, there were two ways I could play it. Both had their merits. The first way would be to watch the house until Cherie came home. I could wait until two or three in the morning and she was asleep. She had to sleep. That way I’d know she was definitely there, I’d know exactly where she was. Then, with the house quiet, I could break in through the toilet window. No one would hear me. The only problem would be the door to the loft conversion but I was pretty confident that I could pick the lock without waking the girl inside. If I couldn’t I’d just bust it down and by the time Mrs Minter called the police, and they got there, it would all be over one way or another.
The second way would be to break into the house before Cherie came home and wait for her. The only problem with that was that it was still only seven-thirty. Not only might Mrs Minter hear me getting in the toilet window but the street was too busy as well. So, whichever option I took, I had to wait until later, until Mrs Minter was in bed. And if that was the case there was no point wasting time there. I used my phone and reached Sally at the gym.
‘Billy,’ she said. ‘I was expecting you to call. I got your message. Cherie, the massage girl. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
‘Sorry?’
‘For giving her a way to get to you. I feel so stupid. She was just so normal, so down to earth. I shiver to think that she had me on the couch in my office, half naked.’
I shivered at that too.
‘It wasn’t your fault. I fell for her as well. And I’d seen her before. I’m sorry I brought you into it, that you’re having to deal with the police. You are, aren’t you?’
‘They came down here, asking questions. It’s OK, Billy, no sweat. There’s nothing here I don’t want them to see. But tell me, what’s going on? Did you meet with the 22?’
‘I did.’
‘And how did it go? They told me they had an address for you. Did you get it?’
My stomach turned over. ‘I got it.’
‘And is it kosher?’
‘As salt beef.’
‘Excellent. But now you want the other thing, and it’s for you now, am I right?’
‘You are.’
‘Well, I’m hoping I can get it for you by tomorrow. The heat that’s out there has made it harder to get hold of. South London’s dead but I’ve left a message with a Camden firm.’
‘I need it tonight, Sal.’
‘I see. OK, I’ll call them back. But I’m not promising anything. It’s going to be difficult. But if they do have it they can bring it to you. Where will you be for the next few hours? At home?’
‘I’ve got a caravan of coppers camping on my doorstep.’ I thought about it. ‘I’ll be at my office. I’ve got some cash there, so you can tell the Camden lot that I’ll pay them the same again, if I get it tonight.’
‘OK,’ Sal said. ‘But, Billy, you’ve obviously found her. Why don’t you bring Pete in on this? As back-up.’
‘I think I have to do this on my own, Sal.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I started it on my own.’
‘Isn’t that just pride? Let us help. We were stupid enough to fall for the girl too – and how will you feel if she gets away from you? I’m going to call him and tell him to be ready anyway, he could be with you in twenty minutes. So at least think about it, will you?’
‘Thanks, Sal,’ I said. ‘I promise I will. I will think about it.’
And I did. I thought about it as I walked back to the car. I thought about it in the car and then in the lift, as it took me up to the third floor of the Lindauer Building. Sal was right. The personal score thing was vanity, nothing more. I’d call Pete. He wouldn’t be able to get through a toilet window but he would be able to watch from the outside. He could warn me that Cherie was coming, he could even nab her on the way out if everything went wrong. It was a good idea. As I stepped out of the lift into the darkened hall I pulled out my keys and my mobile, needing Pete’s number from the address book. I unlocked my office door and pushed it open with my shoulder. I flicked the light switch. My eyes were on the phone in my right hand but they went straight from that to the face of the man sitting behind my desk. I let my hands fall to my sides and I stopped dead in my tracks.
The face was heavy. Motionless. The man who owned it was so still that for a second I thought he was dead. My gaze flicked down to the gun that was sitting on the desk in front of him. The man’s right hand was lying next to it, his index finger resting lightly on the butt. His cold, flat eyes stared at me.
The man was Mike.