A Dark Assortment Page 9

  Sunday

  I think there’s someone upstairs.

  I press the back-light button on my watch. It’s thirty-eight minutes past three in the morning. I push the door open a crack so that I can hear more clearly.

  There’s definitely someone. Someone being careful, moving slowly from room to room. They must have come in through an upstairs window. If they’d come in on the ground floor, I’d have heard them earlier.

  I push myself up onto my knees so that I’m kneeling by the door and I listen.

  Which one of them will it be? Will it be the mystery man, or the man who drives the black saloon, or Wightman, or Sam? Or will they have sent one of their colleagues?

  They’re on the stairs now, coming down. And they’re treading less carefully. They think they’re alone.

  This is the moment. Now, when they aren’t on their guard.

  I pick up my knife and slowly ease myself up so that I’m crouching behind the door.

  And I wait.

  I wait until he’s close. Close.

  Rob

  Rob Wightman made the briefing as short and to the point as possible. The six colleagues that he’d asked to attend listened dutifully but showed little emotion, preferring instead to stare at the table or into space. A few of them had exchanged sideways glances as they’d listened. Was that because they cared? Rob wondered. Or were they just wondering who to blame?

  Now that he’d said his piece, he leaned back in his chair and looked around the table, scanning the faces of his audience. They were all heads of department or higher, and they were old hands at dealing with difficulties. They knew how the game was played. They wouldn’t make the first move unless he gave them a push. He leaned forward. “Any thoughts?”

  Miriam cleared her throat. A nervous habit, Rob thought. It wasn’t surprising. As head of internal security, some of the fallout from this mess would inevitably head in her direction. “Where is Tim now?” she asked.

  “In our secure medical facility,” Rob said, “pending psychiatric evaluation.”

  Miriam nodded. “And the victim?”

  “In hospital under armed guard,” Rob said. “According to my last update, as of half an hour ago, he was listed as critical.” Rob lowered his head slightly and narrowed his eyes, taking in the tiny involuntary movements on the faces of his colleagues—the sudden twitches of their lower lips, the slight elevation of their eyebrows. That’s right, you bastards, Rob thought. It would be easier all round if he didn’t survive. But he said nothing. He clasped his hands together on the table in front of him and waited.

  Duncan, the head of Tim’s section, broke the silence. “The victim... are you sure he wasn’t working for someone?”

  Rob nodded. “We’re sure,” he said. “He has all the trademarks of a small-time crook. Opiates in his bloodstream so probably just an addict stealing to feed his habit. The house looked empty. He took his chances.” Rob opened his hands on the table in front of him. “In that part of London it happens every night.”

  Duncan ran a hand over the designer stubble on his chin. “And the neighbour?”

  Miriam coughed and covered her mouth with her hand. “Excuse me,” she said and picked up the bottle of water from the table. She took a sip, then placed the bottle carefully back on the table. “We talked to him some time ago,” she said, “as part of Tim’s vetting procedure. No problems there. He was eager to help but clueless. In a world of his own.”

  “As far as we can tell,” Rob put in, “the neighbour doesn’t come into it. Just an old man living on his own.”

  Duncan frowned. “So the man Tim saw outside his house, the car... they were, what, coincidence? Delusions?”

  All eyes turned to Rob. He tensed the muscles in his jaw. How the hell should I know? he thought. How the hell does anybody know anything for certain anymore? He lifted his chin. “Almost certainly delusions,” he said. “Tim was an entry-level analyst. It’s highly unlikely that he’d be the target of any kind of hostile surveillance.”

  “That’s true,” Duncan said. “Tim wasn’t working at a high enough level to be a serious target.”

  “I agree,” Miriam said. “And it isn’t consistent. Tim was thoroughly vetted before he came to work for us. When he actually was under our surveillance, he didn’t even notice it.”

  There were murmurs of agreement around the table. Miriam sneaked a peek at her smartphone. Duncan shuffled in his seat, eager to get back to his own office. Oh god, he thought, I was going to clear my emails today.

  Rob watched in silence as one by one, they made it plain: as far as they were concerned, the meeting was over. Look at them, he thought. They can’t wait to brush this fiasco under the carpet. He allowed an almost inaudible sigh to slip between his lips. Perhaps they were right. Maybe it would be best not to ask any more questions. Write the whole thing off as an unfortunate accident. Tim wasn’t the first man to crumble under the pressures of living and working in complete secrecy, and he wouldn’t be the last. It happened.

  All they had to do now was to tidy up any loose ends and make sure that Tim stayed out of the way. And these things were easily accomplished. A crooked smile twitched at the corner of Rob’s mouth. The Department had many faults, but it was very good at cleaning up after itself. There would be no police action, no court appearance for Tim, and definitely no rumours in the press. “OK, that’s it for now,” he said. “Thank you. I’ll keep you all informed.”

  Rob watched them as they filed out of the room. We haven’t proved anything, he thought. We can’t know for sure. He waited until the last person to leave closed the door behind them, then he slumped in his chair, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not right,” he muttered. “We’ve missed something. I know we have.”

  Sam

  Sam folded his newspaper and laid it flat on the park bench beside him. Then he sat back and closed his eyes. He took a breath, listened to the pigeons cooing and fussing around his feet, and let the weak rays of autumn sunshine warm his aching bones. It was a nice day to be out. A nice day to be away from the damn house.

  When he sensed someone sitting next to him, he kept his eyes closed. A moment later, the person next to him coughed quietly, then stood up and walked away. Sam opened his eyes. The man, tall and straight-backed but otherwise nondescript in his shapeless warm coat and fleecy hat, was strolling away across the park, his hands deep in his pockets. Sam reached out and picked up the newspaper that lay beside him on the bench. Of course, it wasn’t his. It was the same title, the same edition even, but this copy was curled around the edges as if it had been rolled up and carried in a coat pocket. Sam always kept his newspapers folded flat. Sloppy, he thought. Very sloppy. He sighed heavily. The younger field agents didn’t take the time to learn their craft properly anymore. It was all encryption and cyber-warfare for them. They didn’t understand the simple elegance of a switched newspaper or a subtle dead drop hidden in plain sight. And they rushed everything. They wanted fast cars and doors kicked in at four in the morning. They didn’t know how to play the waiting game. A friendly word, a simple smile, a gentle enquiry—these were the drips of water that worked their way into solid rock, searching out the weaknesses, splitting the stone apart.

  Sam stared at the pigeons on the ground, watched them peck uselessly at the discarded cigarette butts and scraps of litter that blew across the tarmac. “Poor Piotr,” he whispered under his breath. “What a waste.” To be cut down like that, stabbed so many times. If only he’d waited, Sam thought. I told him—we couldn’t be sure Tim wasn’t there. But of course he hadn’t listened. He’d sounded edgy on the phone, as though he was anxious and excited all at once. Perhaps he’d been strung out on something. Sam shook his head sadly. Piotr wouldn’t be the first field agent to ease his stress with drugs, but that was beside the point. Now there was no way Piotr could be allowed to regain consciousness. He had become... inconvenient. Sam stood up slowly, tucked his newspaper under his arm, and walked
away.

  A MONSTER UNDER THE BED

  College life suited Jo down to the ground. She’d made some solid friends and her psychology course was perfect. She liked the mental discipline, the routine. But more than anything, she loved living away from home. A long way away.

  She shared the flat with four young women. They all had different backgrounds and studied different courses. But that didn’t matter. They hit it off straight away, and soon they shared the easy familiarity of people who’ve been friends for years. They all liked to spend a night out, either at the college bar or in one the clubs in town. But sometimes they were just as happy to sit around the kitchen table, sharing bottles of cheap red wine and tales of even cheaper boyfriends until the small hours of the morning. And that suited Jo fine. She’d never been one to go to bed early.

  The first term flew by in a whirl of lectures, seminars, and nights out with the girls. There were always plenty of boys hanging around on the fringes of Jo’s friendship group, but apart from a couple of mildly entertaining dates, there’d been no one serious. She hadn’t studied hard and gone to a good college just so she could waste her time chasing boys.

  And then suddenly, it was Christmas break. And almost overnight, everyone on the whole campus packed their bags and said their goodbyes. Everyone except Jo. She was staying put over Christmas, and that was that.

  At first her friends asked her why she wasn’t leaving, but she shrugged their questions away. By now they knew each other well enough to understand there was something she didn’t want to tell them—there was always something in her expression, something cold and distant in her glance that told them not to pursue it. Instead, her flatmates hugged her and promised to call, and then they were whisked away in a flurry of smiling parents and taciturn taxi drivers.

  Jo spent the next morning at the supermarket, buying enough food to stock the fridge for at least two weeks. She even bought herself a really nice bottle of red wine for a treat. Then, in the afternoon, she settled herself at her desk and switched her mind to study mode. And she had plenty to occupy her. The pile of books she’d brought back from the college library was so tall it looked like it might topple over at any minute. She ran a finger across their spines. She’d chosen well. Not content with revisiting the previous term’s work on cognitive development and behaviour, she planned to cover the forensic psychology material she was due to start in the following term. She smiled. By the time the rest of the students returned, she’d be streets ahead of them all.

  She selected the thickest volume, the one that looked the most challenging, and opened it to the contents page. Her laptop was fired up, and her desk lamp was adjusted perfectly. She was ready.

  It took three and a half hours before the silence began to gnaw at her. She took a break and made a mug of lemon-ginger tea. She was tempted to raid her flatmates’ cupboards and search out their stashes of chocolate. But no. She hadn’t touched anything sweet and sugary for years, and she mustn’t start now. She took her mug back to her desk. Work. Keep busy. She needed to saturate her mind, to blot out the empty rooms and echoing corridors that hemmed her in on every side, threatening to engulf her. Work would be her world.

  Jo could study longer than almost everyone she knew, but after nine hours with only minimal breaks for food and drink, she had to admit that she’d hit her limit. She rubbed her eyes and blinked to refocus on the text book, but somehow, she’d lost her place on the page. Again. It was time to give in and get some rest.

  The ritual of getting ready for bed was always the same. The strict routine of brushing her teeth, flossing, cleansing her skin, and moisturising could not be changed. But tonight, everything felt different. The flat was so quiet. She couldn’t help but be aware of its insistent emptiness. She hummed a tune she’d heard on the radio the day before, but soon realised that she could only remember the chorus, and that was more irritating than the silence. There was nothing for it but to get into bed and hope that her hard day’s work would reward her with a good night’s sleep.

  A foolish hope. When the quilt tangled itself around her legs for the seventh time, she sighed and rubbed at her eyes. Pointless, she thought. Hopeless. A complete waste of time. She flipped her pillow over, let her head sink onto the creased cotton, closed her eyes and tried again.

  And this time, she managed to slip into a fevered half-sleep. But now, the twisted bedclothes were restless fingers, grasping at her arms and legs, holding her down. And the quiet click-click of the heating pipes echoed the brutal rhythm of a knuckle rapping against the middle of her forehead, over and over again, until every impact shudders through her tortured mind. And then, she saw the faces or her tormentors—leering, taunting. They didn’t like her. They didn’t like her clothes, the way she cut her hair short. They didn’t like the way she could run faster than them, throw a ball farther. They hated her. And now the fear rushed through her, draining the blood from her face. But she didn’t have to put up with this. She was stronger than them, tougher, harder! And her fear froze, solidified into a knot of pure anger ready to uncoil within her like a venomous snake striking its prey. A heartbeat. A moment of stillness. And then her rage exploded like a nail bomb, its vicious shockwave wave roaring in her ears, a dizzying surge of violence coursing through every fibre of her being. Stop them! Hurt them! Crush them! Make them wish they’d never been born!—

  Jo’s eyes flew open. Her chest heaved against the sweat-soaked sheets. “It wasn’t my fault,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to do it.” And as she stared up at the ceiling, she made her vow, as she had done so many times before. I’ll never hurt anyone, she swore to herself. Never again. She turned on her side, buried her face in the pillow, and sobbed.

  She shouldn’t still be punishing herself this way. It wasn’t fair. It had all happened so long ago. She’d just been a kid, for god’s sake. Those miserable days were gone. She’d put them behind her, hidden them away. Now no one could ever guess at what she’d done. No one.

  Unless, of course, they read the file. But that damning document was carefully hidden, sealed in the locked case that she’d pushed, as far as she could, under the bed.

  THANK YOU FOR READING A DARK ASSORTMENT

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