If You Were Me (23 page)

ALIYA

 

 

 

I
kept running and didn't look back, through a maze of tall gloomy warehouses, ducking along the fence around a building site, squeezing through a gap by a sign saying ‘One Hundred Luxury Homes' with a picture of a smiling family sitting in a sunny kitchen eating a meal. The picture was nothing like the muddy mess on the other side of the fence. I slipped behind stacks of bricks and pallets, staying low so the men in yellow hats wouldn't see me. My feet kept sinking into the thick red clay, and once I got to the other side I had to kick some loose fence panels apart to get out. I crawled into a half-deserted street of run-down houses and litter-blown pavements. I stopped a woman with a little boy in a buggy eating chips from a paper bag. The rich smell made me
almost faint with longing.

‘Please, where is the nearest station for the Tube trains?'

The woman leant into the buggy and took one of his chips. ‘It's a thirty-minute walk, love.' She bit off the top of the chip and pointed the rest of it down the street. ‘You're best off going right to the end of this road, turning left and getting a bus on the High Street.'

‘Thank you.' I stumbled away, wary of the passing traffic and the scowling strangers lolling against boarded-up shops, smoking cigarettes and checking their phones, convinced they were India Lambert's men waiting to hustle me into a waiting car. The sky was darkening and the weather was getting worse, damp wind blowing in sideways. I'd been walking for about fifteen minutes – cold, miserable and frightened – when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I checked the screen and shook my head to clear it, unable to believe the name I was seeing. I sniffed back tears. It was the colonel.

‘Aliya? Aliya Sahar?'

‘Yes.'

‘You've been calling my house. I've just picked up your messages.' A lorry thundered past. I pushed my finger into my ear, trying to hear him. ‘You shouldn't be phoning me, the police will . . .'

‘I have to see you.' I couldn't stop my sobs. ‘It's about my brother . . . and your wife.'

‘My wife?' His voice cracked. ‘What's happened? Is she hurt?'

‘No . . . not hurt but . . . Colonel Clarke, Behrouz is innocent and your wife . . . she . . . she is not.'

‘What are you talking about?'

I backed into a doorway. ‘It's hard to explain. Farukh Zarghun, the warlord who sold drugs in Afghanistan. He's here. In London.'

‘Zarghun? He died last year. In prison.'

‘We've got proof he's alive. Behrouz took photographs of him. That's why Zarghun's people tried to kill him. Please, Colonel . . .' The sobs were tearing up my voice. ‘You have to help me. They are trying to kill everyone who knows about Zarghun.'

‘Look, you did the right thing coming to me.' His voice had sharpened. ‘Sit tight and I'll get my secretary, Martin Chivers, to pick you up. Where are you?'

‘If I tell you, I have to be sure you won't tell your wife.' My voice rose in panic.

‘What is all this about my wife? She's filming in Kent. I won't be seeing her until next weekend.'

‘All right.' I spun round looking for a street sign. ‘I'm in Amhurst Road, opposite a shop called Palmer's that sells newspapers and sweets.'

‘Are you alone?'

‘Yes.'

‘I see . . .'

I strained to hear his voice. ‘Colonel, are you still there?'

‘Yes, yes, I'm here. Look, Martin should be with you in
about forty minutes. I'm on my way home from the airport now, so I'll meet you at the house.'

‘What car should I look for?'

‘A black people carrier.'

DAN

 

 

 

I
sat there for maybe a minute just listening to the silence. I wanted to stay there for ever – not get bashed or drugged or drowned or chased by Range Rovers with killers at the wheel. I might have done too if Connor hadn't grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the car.

‘Come on, mate, we've got to get out of here.'

He pulled me up the road towards the Range Rover. Hutch was slumped at a weird angle, pushed back by a corner of the boat trailer which had crushed into his shoulder, his face criss-crossed with cuts from the glass of the windscreen, blood oozing down his front. Connor hardly glanced at him and moved on. With a hazy thought that I should call an ambulance, I leant in through
the passenger door and clipped his phone out of the hands-free. There was shouting from down the road and the sound of sirens. Hutch's eyes opened a slit. He looked at me. He must have been hurting a lot but the only thing in his eyes was fury. I limped past the wreckage of the boat. My head was pounding and my back felt like it had been smashed with a hammer and stuck together with pins. Connor was on the other side of the road behind the wheel of an old Honda. I bent painfully into the passenger seat and saw he'd ripped off a bit of the dashboard and twisted a load of wires together.

‘What the—?' I said, still stupefied. The sirens were getting louder, screeching towards us.

‘Just get in!'

I flopped on to the seat, still holding Hutch's phone. I looked at it, dazed. Connor stuck the rickety little Honda into gear and drove. The phone vibrated in my hand. Voicemail. As if on automatic, I clicked on the message.

ALIYA

 

 

 

M
artin Chivers, the colonel's assistant, was the opposite of Hutch: fair-haired, pasty and skinny, with small serious eyes. He was dressed in a smart grey suit, a blue shirt and a striped tie. Although he was very polite to me, holding the door of the car open and saying it didn't matter at all when I apologized for the mud on my trainers, he hardly said anything else on the way. I didn't mind. I needed time to think what I would say to the colonel and how I would know if I could trust him.

I leant back, letting the warmth of the heater soak into my skin and watching the bustle of London slip past. It wasn't long before grubby back roads gave way to long tree-lined streets, shiny little shops and cafes and neat, old-fashioned
houses and I saw signs saying Hampstead and then Highgate. Martin Chivers left the main road and drove down a secluded lane, curving around the back of a vast overgrown churchyard full of tall trees and crumbling monuments. It was so leafy and deserted it felt more like the countryside than the city. He pressed something on his key ring. A set of tall iron gates swung open. He turned into a long driveway leading to a large three-storey house built of faded pink bricks, with tall stone pillars on either side of the front door. He opened it with a key, held up a hand for me to wait while he pressed buttons on a complicated alarm, and took me across a wide hallway, the polished floor scattered with beautiful silk rugs from Afghanistan, past rooms filled with china and glass and delicate old furniture, to a door at the far end. ‘The colonel said you're to wait in his study,' he said. ‘I'll bring you something to eat. He shouldn't be long.'

‘Thank you.'

The colonel's study was lined with books, most of them bound in leather with gold writing on the spines. There was a big old desk at one end and small lamps throwing out pools of soft warm light. I thought it was the most welcoming room I had ever seen until I noticed a portrait of India Lambert hanging above the mantelpiece. I stared at it for a moment, then I turned my back on her, glad that I had prepared myself as best I could for whatever was to come.

Too jittery to stay still, I wandered around the room,
picking up framed photos of the colonel shaking hands with people I half recognized from the news, running my fingers over a brass sculpture of his head that stood on a black marble plinth, touching the embroidered silk cushions on the chairs. Even the curtains were made of silk. I gazed out across the massive garden overflowing with rose bushes, through windows sealed behind double layers of thick glass. I think it might even have been bulletproof; it certainly kept out the sound of the wind and rain lashing the gnarled trees outside. It was so quiet in there that all I could hear was the tick of the big brass clock on the mantelpiece and the growl of my empty stomach, which was why I had no idea that the colonel was back until the door burst open and he strode towards me, hand outstretched. I felt my body tremble and tears of relief prick my eyes. He gave off such an easy, good-natured feeling of power that I wanted to trust him completely, but the lying eyes of India Lambert kept me on my guard.

‘Aliya.' He clasped my hand in both of his. ‘I'm so sorry you've had such a difficult time getting hold of me. I was in Scotland. Please, sit down.' He pointed to a high-backed chair covered in worn brown leather.

‘Thank you for letting me come. If you hadn't called me back, I . . . I don't know what I would have done.'

He brushed away my thanks and sat down opposite me. ‘To be honest, I've been praying that something would come to light to exonerate Behrouz. So come on, you said he took some photographs of Farukh Zarghun here in the
UK. Do you have them with you?'

I took the picture of Zarghun and Hamidi outside Hardel's out of my backpack. The paper was crumpled but the faces were clear. He studied it carefully. ‘Good grief, it's Zarghun all right. Beard or no beard. God knows how he got out of prison and into the UK, but if he thought Behrouz was about to expose him, I imagine he'd go to any lengths to stop him. This man with him, he's Tewfiq Hamidi, Zarghun's former commander.'

‘I know.'

‘These are dangerous men, Aliya, but you can stop worrying now. I called the police as soon as I spoke to you. They're on their way.'

‘No!' I jumped up. ‘There are policemen working for Zarghun, that's why Behrouz didn't go to them.'

‘It's all right.' He leant forward, his voice firm and calming. ‘I spoke directly to the commissioner. He's sending over a couple of very senior detectives from the anti-corruption unit, who I guarantee you can trust. They'll need to take a detailed statement, so I suggest you use the time until they get here to relax.' He looked at his watch. ‘They shouldn't be long.'

He sat back and stretched out his long legs. ‘What I can't believe is that you managed to piece all this together on your own.'

I looked down at the red-patterned rug on the floor.

He said gently, ‘If anyone helped you, Aliya, they'll be in danger too. Just tell me where they are and I'll send
Martin to pick them up.'

I was torn. I wanted to get the boy out of danger – he was my witness, my only proof that Behrouz had been kidnapped – but I had promised him and Connor that I wouldn't tell the colonel about them. I looked up at the portrait of India Lambert and decided I would say nothing about them until the detectives came. That way there would be no risk. I nibbled at my cuff and said quietly, ‘You don't need to pick anyone up.'

I could feel his eyes on me. ‘Are you sure?'

I got out my grid and said quickly, ‘I used this. It helped me to keep track of all the things Behrouz did so I could work out what had happened.'

‘All right, my dear, you know best.'

He smiled and I smiled back; he was being so kind and understanding. Hopefully the detectives would talk to me in private and then I could tell them about India Lambert and they could break the terrible truth about his wife to him. My stomach made a rumbling noise. I couldn't stop myself looking at the door, hoping that Martin Chivers would come quickly with the food he had promised.

The colonel had wandered over to the window. ‘You know, I love this room. The combination of wood panelling and books makes it so soundproof that I can play my music as loudly as I like, or just sit and yell at the injustices of life, safe in the knowledge that the outside world can't hear a thing.' He pressed a button on a silver remote and closed his eyes as the room filled with
beautiful music. He let out a deep sigh and waved his hand as if he was conducting the musicians, jerking his fingers faster as the music got quicker. ‘Did Martin show you around the house?'

I shook my head.

‘It's quite wonderful. Full of history, some parts of it date right back to the sixteenth century.' He smiled as if he was about to tell me a secret. ‘I don't usually show people this, but I think you've earned special treatment.' He beckoned me over. ‘Come and see.'

I wobbled towards him, faint with hunger. The music was getting louder, drums thundering, cymbals clashing, the colonel humming along as he slipped his hand under one of the bookshelves. I heard a click. Slowly the bookcase swung back on some kind of pivot and a waft of cool stale air came out at me from a dark stone-lined space.

‘It's a priest's hole,' he said proudly.

‘What is that?'

‘A hiding place for Catholic priests who were being persecuted for their religion.'

I leant in to get a better look.

‘It was constructed by a builder called Nicholas Owen, who was famous for creating secret spaces that no one could ever find. Such craftsmanship. Look at the neatness of the stonework, the thickness of this old oak door. But he refused all payment, and ended up getting tortured and executed because he wouldn't betray the men he'd helped.'

I felt the pressure of his big gentle hand on my shoulder.

‘Owen was a fool, you see, an idealist. His persecutors would have paid him well to inform on his clients and no one need ever have known he was working for both sides. Behrouz was just the same.'

I twisted round and looked up at him, embarrassed that I'd lost the thread of his meaning.

A strange look had come over him, a sort of tight excitement. ‘Your family could have had it all, Aliya, a comfortable house, the best doctors for your mother, the best schools for you and your sister, and all we asked in exchange was a little cooperation from Behrouz. I explained to him that trading in narcotics was a business just like any other and that no one need ever know he was working for us. But the fool refused.'

My head emptied. My body froze. All I could do was stand there dumbly while his meaning exploded in my brain.