The Turning Tide (23 page)
The midday train to London was empty save for a group of teenage boys standing by the doors. Erykah worked a quick crossword and watched them over the edge of the paper. They self-consciously adjusted their trousers and caps, bobbing their heads to music played from one of their phones and aping the street style that so many middle-class kids aspired to.
Class was a funny thing. Fake it til you make it, Grayson used to say. It was one of his favourite mottos. But no matter how well or how long she passed, there were some things that could never be faked.
It reminded her of the first and only time she went to Henley Royal Regatta as a spectator, the summer before. Nicole was keen to see what ‘a real English summer season’ was like. So Erykah got tickets to one of the enclosures from a Steward.
She had been up and down that piece of water loads of times for the women’s regatta and the winter head. Down there, it was just a stretch of river, no more intimidating than any other race. Less than most, even. But Henley-on-Thames looked very different at water level. As soon as she was on the other side of the enclosure gates, she didn’t feel as though she belonged any more.
The throng of spectators was unlike anything she had seen before. Erykah had looked on as old school chums clapped each other on the back, or reminisced about Oxford. Nobody even watched the races. She stood by the bar nursing an overpriced Pimm’s and lemonade. The drink had been mixed badly, so sickly sweet that it coated her throat like the cough medicine Rainbow used to give her as a child. She felt unable to talk to anyone. What would they talk about? Suddenly the people she saw at the club every day were strangers, just because of a few dresses and hats.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Nicole had been the only one to notice. She had pulled her aside, concern in her eyes. ‘Why are you hiding?’
Erykah made some excuse about food poisoning and went to hide in the toilets. She didn’t know how to answer. When she was no longer in Lycra, the difference between who she was and who these people were could not be avoided.
‘Don’t be intimidated, you have as much of a right to be here as any of them,’ Nicole said. ‘More than most of them.’ But that wasn’t the problem. As an American, it didn’t matter where Nicole came from, she read as classless to rahs like Dom in their striped club blazers. Nicole couldn’t see how they would sooner welcome a white American to their ranks, than a black woman from a few miles down the road. No matter what Erykah did or how well she did it.
Now Erykah looked out of the window at the blur of shrubs and river. The bag was heavy on her shoulder, packed for a couple of days away. When the Major suggested she accompany him to Cameron Bridge she couldn’t say no. Not only because she was supposed to be helping him front the campaign: there was someone up there who might be able to help her in a different way, someone from long in her past. If Erykah was lucky, it might be the one opportunity to figure out what was in the Schofield files before she had to give up on it and hand them over. It could be the key she was looking for. But there was some business to take care of in London first.
She phoned his mobile and it went through to voicemail. ‘Hey, Whitney, it’s me,’ she said. ‘Something came up, I can’t meet you on the train today.’ She paused. He’d demand more of an explanation than that. ‘My husband isn’t well. Nothing serious, don’t worry – there’s the late sleeper train changing at Glasgow. I’ll meet you in Cameron Bridge first thing.’
The carriages slowed, then stopped. An announcement crackled over the speakers, signalling trouble at Wimbledon. A sliver of the river peeked through the trees. She missed rowing. She closed her eyes and imagined herself sat behind Nicole, leaning, catching and pulling.
The train jolted to life again. It crept at slow speed the rest of the journey into Waterloo. Enormous screens in the station shouted down snippets of headlines and car adverts. Thick streams of people flowed to the Underground entrance and the station exits. It was two stops to Leicester Square on the Tube but felt much longer, crushed against commuter armpits and tourist rucksacks. A chill wind whipped through the vents. How was it possible for the carriages to be so crowded and yet still freezing cold?
She looked at the faces of the passengers on the Tube. A couple of young men, chatting in French. A woman who seemed to have come out in her slippers. A man in a suit, scowling at the newspaper crossword, stuck on a clue. She could see he had got one of the Across clues wrong.
Any one of them could be the person she was looking for. She didn’t know this Media Mouse person at all and, whatever they were mixed up in, it was better for her continued good health that she didn’t ask questions. But the more she thought about it, the more she couldn’t see how what they had done was different to what she would have done. And she knew for a fact that Seminole Billy and Buster were not the sort of people who wanted someone’s details so they could go round for a nice cup of tea.
Outside the
LCC
building a group of evangelicals were gathered, flyers in hand for some Jesus thing or other. Erykah looked down at her own clothes – jeans and flat boots, a heavy pea coat buttoned against the cold. If she pulled her hair back and cleaned off her make-up she might pass for one of them. She tucked herself into a phone booth. Two minutes with a baby wipe, a few hairpins, and the transformation was done.
Erykah sidled up to a happy clapper and smiled. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Mind if I have a few of your pamphlets? I haven’t had the orientation yet.’
‘Sure,’ the baggy-suited man handed over a stack of leaflets. ‘Good luck with this lot. It’s all secular music and worldly politics in there. We’ve been posting here three, four weeks and not one turn.’
‘Wow,’ Erykah nodded. ‘Bet it makes it all the sweeter when you get one, am I right?’
The man smiled and tapped the fish pin on his lapel. ‘You love the fishing too,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way to fly.’
‘With Jesus as my co-pilot,’ she said, and edged away before he could ask her any questions. The pavement was crowded with people hurrying back to work. What was she looking for? She wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as if Media Mouse would be advertising the fact. She didn’t even know if she was looking for a man or a woman, yet.
Erykah held out a handful of leaflets and glued a fake smile to her face. Her eyes, meanwhile, were watching the door of the radio station. It was only a hunch that the person she was looking for would have gone out for lunch. Maybe they always brought a sandwich, and ate at their desk. Maybe they were inside, afraid to come out.
But she had to start somewhere. At least she could see who came and went, the rhythms and patterns of the place. The few people she saw going in all looked confident, purposeful. No, it wasn’t any of these.
The she saw her. A woman with blondish hair dithered by the doors, peering at her smartphone, then over her shoulder, then back to her phone. Her stooped posture and worried looks were like a silent film caricature of someone trying to sneak through a crowd. Or even, like her online namesake, a mouse. Was it her?
There was only one way to find out. Erykah walked over to the woman, leaflets in hand.
‘Not interested,’ the girl said out of the corner of her mouth and waved her away with a bobbled mitten.
‘I’m here to talk to you about something else entirely—’
‘Not. Interested,’ the woman said firmly, and their gazes met.
Well, well, well. She wasn’t what Erykah was expecting at all. Young. Mid-twenties, maybe even younger than that. An intern maybe, or a graduate hire. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose and a crocheted hat pulled low on her forehead. Little more than a child.
She wore woolly tights and a pair of clunky, thick-soled shoes. She could see the girl had been chewing at her nails. Maybe it was because she was anxious about something?
‘I’m not here to talk to you about Jesus,’ Erykah said, her voice low. ‘I’m here to talk about Media Mouse.’
The look on the girl’s face was answer enough. It was her! Erykah felt a little wobble in her stomach. Was that her conscience piping up again? She thought she had talked it down, explained that principles were all fine and well, but there was this thing called money, and if she didn’t want to end up stuffed in a bag and thrown in the ocean, she needed some of it to get away.
Another wobble. Yes, but this person was someone just like her. Caught up in a situation that was bigger than either of them had counted on. She punched it down with thoughts of relaxing on a tropical beach sipping a cocktail.
The young woman’s face went ashen. ‘You’re the one who was messaging me?’ she squeaked. ‘For real?’
Erykah nodded. ‘What’s your name?’ she said.
‘Kerry,’ she said and flashed her ID on the lanyard. ‘You’re not a reporter, are you,’ she said as she looked over Erykah’s outfit. It was more a statement than a question. ‘And you’re not police.’
‘No,’ she admitted.
‘So what is this all about? Why did you follow me?’
‘I think you may be in trouble,’ Erykah said. ‘I don’t mean with your job – I mean real trouble. Is there somewhere we can go? Private? To talk?’
Kerry looked uncertain. ‘My boss will explode if I’m not back from my break on time.’ She started to head for the door again. ‘And I’ve got a lot of emails to answer, my twitter account is going crazy, you know . . .’
Erykah grabbed Kerry’s coat sleeve. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Listen to me. You’re going to have a lot more to worry about than your boss and some twitter followers if you walk in there like nothing is happening.’
Kerry bit her lip. ‘All right, fine. I’ll say my bus is caught in traffic. Gives me twenty minutes, tops. There’s a coffee shop around the corner.’
From the corner of her eye, Erykah saw the man in the rumpled suit give them a nod. Erykah gave him a thumbs up. One more saved, though this time not for Jesus.
The coffee shop was part of the same chain as the one Erykah had met the Major in not so long ago. The layout was the same; the shuffling queues of people looking at their phones instead of each other, grabbing their takeaway cups, looked identical. Kerry was already on her phone, scrolling and tapping away, entertaining her online crowd. Erykah manoeuvred her downstairs and brought down two pots of tea.
‘No phone reception down here, no windows,’ Kerry said when she returned.
‘I wanted to talk in private,’ Erykah said. ‘Phones off.’
‘What are you, a private investigator?’ Kerry said. She tapped the corner of her phone against her front teeth.
‘You have a South London accent,’ Erykah said. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Croydon, actually,’ Kerry said. ‘You too?’
‘Streatham.’
‘Yeah, thought so. Neither of us is going to be reading news for the
BBC
anytime soon,’ she said. ‘And you’re here trying to stitch me up, right?’
‘I am not here to stitch you up. I mean, I was sent here to stitch you up, but I don’t think I can do it.’
‘Because, if I’m going to be outed, I want to talk about money first.’
‘This isn’t about outing.’ The girl didn’t seem to understand what level of trouble she had got herself into. ‘I was hired by men who are looking for you. And when they find you . . . these men mean you harm.’
Kerry rolled her eyes. ‘This is about the email to Morag Munro, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I thought at the time that emailing it to her was going too far, but I guess part of me wanted to see what she did. If she came clean, or – or what.’
‘Email to Morag Munro?
The
Morag Munro?’ Erykah said and the girl nodded. ‘I don’t know anything about that. What does she have to come clean about?’
‘You’re not here because of Munro?’
‘No, I’m not here because of the Shadow Home Secretary,’ Erykah said. Although, now she had said it aloud, she wasn’t so sure of that. ‘At least, I don’t think I am. The people who paid me to find you aren’t exactly forthcoming about who sets their agenda, or where their money is coming from.’
‘Huh.’ Kerry turned away and gnawed at the end of one of her fingers. Erykah couldn’t get a read on her. Was she scared? Or disappointed? She was putting up a tough front, but that was all it was – a front.
‘Whatever it is, I think you had better tell me what’s going on,’ Erykah said. ‘Maybe I can help you figure it out. Or at least get you to a safe place.’
Kerry snorted, but she didn’t get up and leave. The corner of her lip wobbled.
‘Listen, I know what this is like,’ Erykah said.
Kerry sneered. ‘Yeah? No, actually, you don’t,’ she said.
‘No, I do,’ Erykah said. ‘When I was your age I got mixed up in something. It wasn’t my fault, but try telling the press that.’
Now and then over the years Erykah had wondered what she would tell her younger self if she could. Stay away from Grayson? From university? From Rab? Don’t call the police? In the end, none of those were satisfying answers. Who can predict which choices and moments will change your life for ever?
Kerry looked at Erykah. ‘I thought I recognised you. You’re the woman who won the lottery, aren’t you?’ Erykah nodded. ‘So what do you need money so badly for that someone paid you to come after me? You should be off on a private jet somewhere. You didn’t give all of it away, right?’
‘I’ll tell you something,’ Erykah said, ‘so you know you can trust me. Then I know something about you, and you know something about me, so I can’t sell you out, right?’
‘Whatever,’ Kerry said. Erykah figured that was a yes.
‘The lottery is a fake. The money’s not real. I mean, it is real, but I’m not going to get any of it. We were set up to launder that money. Forced to donate it away.’
‘To the
SLU
,’ Kerry said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Funny,’ Kerry said. Erykah could all but see the gears turning. ‘And it seems to me, Morag is from Scotland, so . . .’
‘You think she’s involved in this?’ Erykah said. It seemed unlikely that someone so high up the political food chain would dirty her hands with such an obviously criminal enterprise. Then again, stranger things had happened. And she still didn’t know who Livia really was. If it was Morag, then her reasons for staying out of the spotlight made sense.
