Good Bait

37

It was dark by the time she arrived, had been dark for a good couple of hours. The house was quintessential South London suburban: generous bay windows, white paint, red brick; an attic room with a steeply angled roof. Shrubs in pots in the small front garden; a bare bed with the earth set hard from where it had last been turned. A child’s scooter resting against the green recycling bin. Please! No Junk Mail! stickered to the letter flap in the front door.

Karen rang the bell.

The door opened to a small child wearing Miffy pyjamas; startled eyes, curly hair: Alex stood behind her, denim shirt hanging loose over blue jeans, bare feet, glass of wine in her hand.

This is what I’ve been missing, Karen thought. For that brief moment, it mattered.

‘You found us again then. No trouble?’

‘No trouble.’

‘This is Amy. Say hello, Amy.’

Amy did no such thing.

‘Hello, Amy,’ Karen said, leaning towards her, and Amy wriggled away.

Alex laughed. ‘Come on in.’

What had been two good-sized rooms had been knocked through to make a large space that was filled, nevertheless, with soft-cushioned settees, easy chairs, a dining table of scrubbed pine, more chairs, magazines, comics, a flat-screen television, children’s toys. Paintings vied with bookshelves for space on the walls; one section crowded with children’s drawings, brightly coloured, starting to curl.

Amy had retreated behind one of the settees and was clutching a one-eyed bear. Another girl, older, sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a book. A boy of eight or nine lay on his tummy, watching a programme about seals on TV, the sound turned down to a whisper.

‘I think they were all in bed, last time you were here,’ Alex said. ‘So, that’s Ben, that’s Beth, and Amy you’ve already met.’

Self-conscious, Karen said, ‘Hi,’ and was predictably ignored.

‘And I’m Roger.’ Alex’s husband was wearing a long butcher’s apron, flour on his hands, flip-flops on his feet. ‘We did meet before, though I don’t expect you to remember. And I won’t shake hands or you’ll get this all over you. Dumplings. For the casserole. Lamb, I hope that’s okay.’

A smile and a nod of the head and he disappeared back to the kitchen.

‘Just sling some of that stuff off there and have a seat,’ Alex said. ‘Let me get you some wine. The kids will be in bed any time soon and we can eat. After that we’ll talk. White or red?’

It was past nine. Between them they’d cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, then Roger had excused himself to go upstairs and wade through his emails. Alex had stuck some Chopin on the stereo and opened another bottle of red.

‘Stansted,’ Alex said, ‘all the crap that goes with it. They’re hanging you out to dry on this, you realise?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘They’ll let you and your team keep ferreting around, kicking up as much dust and trouble as you can. Hoping you’ll shake something down into the net. Anything useful that looks as if it might bear fruit, they’ll have it for their own, work it whichever way they can. Whatever’s deemed expedient. And if you come up short, fail to get a result, well, nobody else but you to blame.’

‘What else could I do? Tell Burcher to take a hike?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘And besides — Warren, Charlie and Alex, wasn’t that what he said? Intent on the bigger picture. All three of you. Or isn’t that true?’

Alex shifted position, folding one leg beneath her. ‘No, it’s true. As far as it goes. But, you know, SIS, we can be proactive in the gathering of intelligence, but basically we’re there to support. What’s the rubric? Something about helping prevent harm and enforcing legislation against organised criminal networks at National Intelligence Model levels 2 and 3.’

Smiling, she drank some wine.

‘They use us, sweetie, like we’re all using you. I just wanted to be sure you knew.’

Karen sighed and settled back into the comfort of her chair; she’d eaten too much — too much casserole, too much crumble. Her bed was the other side of London and she had an early start next day. Nonetheless, when Alex reached the bottle in her direction, she nodded and held out her glass.

‘Let me ask you something,’ Karen said.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Valentyn Horak, one of the victims at Stansted, he was subject to a surveillance operation before, yes?’

Alex nodded.

‘Placed under arrest, charged — presumably with the go-ahead of the CPS.’

Alex nodded again.

‘Everything’s fine almost up to the trial and then, out of the blue, someone at the CPS decides, after looking through the evidence again, oh, no, sorry, this isn’t going to stick, and recommends no further action be taken.’

‘Yes. At least, that’s what I understand.’

‘And you don’t think that’s a bit funny?’

‘Funny, no. Lazy, maybe. Slipshod, possibly. And whether that’s down to the officers involved in the arrest, or the CPS barrister, I don’t know. Most likely a combination of the two. But, Karen, you know, it happens. More often than we’d like. More often than it should.’ She sipped some more wine. ‘Water under the proverbial bridge.’

‘You don’t think it might have been a matter of money changing hands?’

Alex looked at her appraisingly. ‘Whose hand did you have in mind?’

‘Take your pick.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose, but …’ She shook her head a trifle wearily. ‘Corruption, it’s there, certainly. Fact of life. Just turn on the news.’

‘But in this case?’

‘If there’s anything more than the usual vague suspicions, I haven’t heard.’ Alex pushed herself to her feet. ‘Let’s go into the garden. I need a cigarette.’

Who was it who said in London you could never see stars? There they were, peppering the purple darkness above their heads; the night clear and cold, intimations of a frost.

Alex’s lighter flared.

‘Sure you won’t join me?’

‘Sure.’

‘I always thought you smoked.’

‘I did.’

‘When did you give up?’

‘Which time?’

Alex laughed. The tip of her cigarette bobbed like a firefly in the dark.

‘It’s nice out here.’

‘Yes.’

‘Quiet.’

‘Yes.’

They stood there, silent, absorbing the small sounds around them. Other people’s lives. Lights were showing, muted, at the rear of several other houses, but not many. Alex’s husband and children were inside sleeping. The other side of the city seemed far away.

Karen shuddered involuntarily, as if someone had stepped over her grave.

‘You okay?’

‘Yes. Yes, fine. Just thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘Whatever it is I’m missing.’

‘Are you missing something?’

Karen looked into Alex’s face before answering. A long moment, wondering. ‘Probably. Yes, maybe.’ A small laugh, shake of the head. ‘I don’t know.’

Alex touched the back of her hand to the smooth skin, slightly chilled, of Karen’s arm. ‘Best go back inside.’

Dropping her cigarette, she ground it out on the path.

In the kitchen, Alex made coffee while they waited for a cab and Karen asked about Roger’s job — she could never remember exactly what it was — the kids, how the two eldest were getting on at school. In less than the promised fifteen minutes, the driver was at the door.

‘Anton Kosach,’ Alex said, as they stepped into the hall. ‘The guy Charlie Frost was interested in. You’ve not turned up anything that involves him, I suppose?’

Karen stopped. ‘Kosach, no. Why d’you ask?’

‘Oh, no special reason. Just thought you might have run across the name, at least, that’s all.’

Karen shook her head. ‘If I had, I’d’ve reported back. You’d’ve heard.’

‘Yes, of course.’

The cab was in the middle of the road, indicators clicking on and off.

Alex squeezed her hand, brushed her cheek. ‘Keep in touch.’

Karen gave the driver her address and settled back. Her head had started to swim and it wasn’t just the wine.