Birdkill (16 page)

Three Turkish coffees, medium sugar, arrived. They’d been coming here all week and were all known to the hooded-eyed proprietor, Jamal.

‘So that’s that. We’re rightly in the shit,’ Kelly gazed morosely into his little cup, raising it to sniff at the vapour.

‘Not so fast. We still have the archive.’

Mariam held up a memory key. ‘I have two copies. One’s here, the original. The other copy’s on Google docs. An account not in my name. I’ll invite you both in. We can work on that copy.’

Duprez was morose. ‘That’s hardly secure.’

‘If you got a better idea, hotshot, let’s have it. You can log into it through Tor.’

Kelly shrugged. ‘It’s better than nothing. What triggered this, though? I’m working on a line of political funding scandals. Embarrassing alright, but it hardly merits the heavy gang. Matt?’

‘I got a whole load of cables between Saddam, Gaddafi, Assad and people who were supposed to be nicer than that. I got a load of links between US aid to Iraq and attacks on the Kurds. But it’s hardly current. Embarrassing, but not monstrous.’

‘It’s me.’ Mariam almost enjoyed the way they both zoned in on her. Duprez was hawk-like, hard eyes focusing on her with an almost scary precision. Kelly was slower, less dramatic. His mild gaze wandered across the room and alighted on her.

‘Why you, love?’

‘This battlefield enhancement program, Odin. It went horribly wrong and was a major cover-up. Remember Lawrence Hamilton, Kelly? From your archive? It was a really big research into human augmentation, funded by the US and backed by a former three-star general called Tom Parker. I got thrown out of Hamilton’s office at the weekend.’

Kelly whistled. ‘Tom Parker? Oh, that’s the kiddie alright. Why on earth did you want to go and fuck with that old bastard, darling? He makes Tony Blair look like a Middle Eastern angel, he does.’

‘You know about him?

‘You got all afternoon?’

‘Well, yes,’ Mariam beamed delightedly and sipped her coffee. ‘We haven’t got an office to go to after all.’

TEN

Free as a Bird

Mariam slid the card key into the door of the suite at the Syon Park Hilton. She hadn’t been to see Buddy for three days. She had to admit it was because he annoyed her. The potent mixture of self-righteousness, self-pity and just general, well, mopiness drove her to distraction. When she thought of what Robyn bore with fortitude and how much Buddy let the smallest things bring him down, she got even madder. The last time she’d been in the room he’d spent an hour complaining how he missed Hershey’s chocolate and how this goddam crummy hotel couldn’t get him any.

Despite herself, she stopped off on the way over and now had a handbag stuffed with Hershey’s. The suite was quiet. She called out. ‘Buddy?’

She knocked on his bedroom door. She pushed the door open. ‘Buddy?’

The room was empty. There was a faint smell she recognised and couldn’t place. The bathroom door was ajar and she kicked it open in case he was playing silly buggers and planning to jump out with a ‘boo’ or something.

Her eyes had barely had time to take in the nightmare abattoir scene before her gut revolted and the acid puke eruption hit her throat. She turned away, the strength left her legs and she fell to her knees. The image of Buddy’s pale, naked body persisted despite her screwed-shut eyes. He lay in a big free-standing ceramic bath tub filled with carmine gloop. The beige and cream tiled walls were splashed, the floor pooled with a pale blood and water mixture. The smell of rust was thick in the air. The gaping wound in his wrist was an obscene mouth with white drawn-back snarling lips and an exposed-bone grin. Another wave of retches hit her, stinking bile stringing to the floor.

She stayed on all fours, her head down, for a small age. Finally, she staggered to her feet and struck out in search of the guest toilet. She sluiced her face, rinsing her mouth out. She dried herself, then crossed into the second bedroom where she still had her things, those she’d brought when she had first checked Buddy in. She cleaned her teeth, washed again.

She straightened up, staring at herself in the mirror and willing herself to go back into the master room. She walked like an automaton. The stink of puke and blood hit her and her stomach rebelled. This time she kept it down, whatever was left. She dialled Clive Warren on her mobile. The number rang and rang. ‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Fucking answer.’

It rang out. She dialled again.

‘What is it?’

‘Listen to me. Buddy’s dead. I just found his body.’

‘Where are you? Hang on, don’t tell me. Let me call you back. Give me two minutes.’

He rang off. She stood staring at the handset, her head swimming. She didn’t want to touch anything. She pulled her bag from where she’d dropped it on the floor and took it into her room. She closed the door against the stench and stood with her back against it.

Just in case he got out of the bath and came knocking or something.

The mobile rang and she jerked and nearly dropped it. She fumbled to slide the green icon. ‘Yes?’

‘Clive. Where are you?’

‘Syon Park Hilton, Room 204. He’s in the bath. His wrists have been slashed.’ She breathed in deeply. ‘There’s blood everywhere. I’m scared.’

‘Okay, listen to me. Call it into the police. Stay as calm as you can. Once they’re on the way, don’t touch anything. Lock the room behind you and go down to reception. Have a drink or something to calm yourself but make sure you’re in sight of the reception staff all the time. Don’t tell the staff what’s happened, in case they try and clean up or get in the way. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. That sound good?’

‘Okay.’

She slipped the mobile into her bag and used the house phone to dial 999.

Clive Warren stared around the lobby before he spotted her. She finished her scotch and stood to meet him.

‘Police here?’

‘Not yet. I called Adel. He’s on the way over.’

‘Adel?’

‘Sorry, Adel Ibrahim. He owns 3shoof. The room was booked in his name. He’s bringing his lawyer. He thinks that might be handy.’

Warren searched her face. ‘That it might. Okay, so we wait. The best thing is to be as truthful as you can, but keep your Hamilton investigation to yourself. Try and be as vague as you can about Buddy and quite what he gave you.’

‘Our offices were trashed. Whoever did it took the server we used to store the files.’

‘Have you lost the information?’ Warren seemed relieved.

‘No. I had copies. The data’s safe. Just seems like nobody else is.’

The wailing siren presaged the blue flashing lights. The squad car pulled up outside the lobby, two officers got out. As they came into the lobby an ambulance arrived. More sirens sounded in the distance.

Warren went to meet them. ‘Hi. This is the young lady who found the body.’

One of the policemen took off his cap to reveal silver hair. He had brown eyes, razor burns on his neck and smile marks arcing down from his nose to frame his mouth. ‘And you are?’

‘Clive Warren, a friend.’

‘Can I take your name, miss?’

‘Mariam Shadid.’

‘I’m PC Michael Evans. My colleague is PC Brian Wilkes. You said the body was in your room here when you called in to us. Can I ask if you know the person?’

‘Yes. I gave them his name, Buddy Kovak.’

‘We got that. US military.’

‘Yes.’

‘Absent without leave.’

Christ that was fast. She hadn’t told them that. ‘Yes.’

‘Your boyfriend?’

‘No. It’s…’ Mariam wondered where to start. ‘More complicated than that. Shall we go up?’

The receptionist came over to them. ‘I’m sorry, can I help?’

‘No thanks, not right now.’ Evans turned to Mariam. ‘We’ll follow you, miss.’

She led the way to the lift, the two paramedics joined them. Arriving at the room, she held onto Warren’s arm for balance as she slid the card in.

The door opened and Mariam stood back to let the police and paramedics into the room. She forced herself to follow them. The place stank just as bad as her memory. She heard a muttered ‘Christ.’

Evans was calm. ‘Steady, there.’ He turned to the paramedics. ‘I don’t think you lads are needed here anymore. Brian, we’d best call in forensics.’

Mariam spent most of the rest of the day in Hounslow police station. It had been a stormy affair what with Adel and Iain Carmichael, his lawyer battling the combative Detective Sergeant Farmer. Clive Warren had quietly stood by Mariam and she had come to appreciate his discreet strength. Farmer clearly wished Warren had never been involved and that was fine for Mariam, who had quickly come to the conclusion that Farmer was basically just a bully. His focused anger had washed up against Warren’s stoicism and certitude, the officer growing more frustrated with each bruising encounter.

Farmer was balding, haggard-eyed and had thin lips. His long-fingered pianist’s hands had no finesse. He used anger like others used smiles, it was his first resort and his last. Anger sustained him, Mariam concluded. She wondered where so much fury came from. It had to be sexual. Frustration, oppression. Perhaps just boring repression. She wondered idly what he really liked. A stiletto in his arsehole, probably.

He faced her across the table, Warren by her side. ‘I’m suspicious, me. Can’t help it. Suppose it comes with the job. Murdered US service personnel aren’t our usual problem. I’ve got Yanks hangin’ out me arse like piles right now. Their embassy’s red hot over this. I got the MoD and the foreign office and any other bugger who cares to pick up a phone currently jamming up our our switchboard and stopping us dealing with proper crimes.’

‘That’s hardly our issue.’ Warren rumbled.

A spectator, Mariam wondered if he went all red-faced when he was being beasted by plump housewives in PVC basques.

Farmer’s glance flew to him. ‘Did I say it was? No, our
issue
is why a hooky GI decides to kill himself in a bathroom hired by an Arab gossip site. That’s our
issue
.’

Mariam rose to it. ‘What has this got to do with whether an Arab paid for the room?’

Farmer sat back, palms raised. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to cast dispersions. But I can’t help it, I just don’t believe you. Every time I tap this case the sound comes back is something hollow. Tell me again, what was Mr Kovak giving you? Information-wise, I mean.’ His leer alone was incitement for a punch and Warren cast a cautionary glance at her.

‘He was giving us a wide-ranging dossier of information regarding US military operations in the Middle East that
transcended
the law.’

‘You mean broke.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well say, it then. Unlawful information.’

‘Information on unlawful operations.’ She wondered if there were a woman in his life. There was no ring on his finger. ‘I’m sorry, but can I ask, just out of curiosity. Are you unmarried or gay?’

He stilled and Mariam felt the tension thrill through her. A muscle twitched in his cheek and she exulted over his confusion and the effort it took him to mask and manage his ferocity.

‘What if I charged you with his murder?’

Warren spoke easily, his words tossed softly into the silence. ‘What if you prove she was in that hotel four to nine hours before the CCTV and key-card access systems confirmed she was? When she had alibis from two national daily newspapers? You’re wasting our time here, Farmer.’

‘It’s not your time’s being wasted. It’s ours. Police time. You’re withholding.’

‘We’re co-operating. We’ve given full statements, we’re clearly not accessories. So leave us go.’

‘I could hold you, right enough.’

Warren leaned toward Farmer. Mariam quailed at the intensity of the man. His smile chilled her as he rumbled, ‘I really don’t think you want to do that.’

‘It would give me,’ Farmer’s grin was glacial. ‘An opportunity to further investigate your assertions. But I think we have detained you long enough. We’ll have plenty of time to follow up on our enquiries.’ His shiny-eyed regard switched to Mariam. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

Fuck. Drama or what? Mariam pushed her chair back. ‘Great. We’re only too happy to be of assistance.’

She wished she owned a pair of stilettos…

Robyn’s time out on the track had been a miraculous experience. It tethered her to reality, her hands, feet and eyes synchronised in a task that was utterly given to the here and now. Her entire intelligence focused on action and reaction; fighting with her survival instinct paired with her ability to rationalise. Two hours’ driving at the very edge of her abilities – and the TT’s, too – had honed her clamp-hold on reality.

It had also cost her a new set of tyres, but that was a small enough price.

Starting the new week Robyn was, as Mariam would put it, ‘good’. Her first Monday class were noisy, chatty and took a while to settle down. Fired by optimism, Robyn gave them time, joining in with the banter before calling them to order.

‘Right. Narrative. Today I’d like us to talk about narrative and culture. You might like to talk about England’s disastrous performance on the cricket field over the weekend, but that’s a narrative we’re all probably best advised to forget.’

She let the amused murmur wash over her and wondered if she were a teacher or just a performance artist. The latter was fine, actually.

‘Why do we tell stories? It’s odd, isn’t it, that our parents tell us not to. And yet telling stories is inherent to human cultural development. We need to lie. We’re entertained by lies, panty pads make women more free, Disney princesses inspire us to live fuller lives. Burgers make us better mothers. We lie constantly, but what’s the difference between a lie and a story? Anyone? Jenny.’

‘A lie is obfuscation with an objective to misinform or conceal, a story is an entertainment.’

‘Okay, good start, but what about the stories we tell in, say, advertising. They have an objective, you could argue they misinform and conceal, too. But an ad agency guy would tell you it is a means to engage and inspire the consumer, which is surely an entertainment. Or what about authors like GK Chesterton or CS Lewis whose stories were effectively Catholic propaganda?’