I press the entry buzzer.
Phil and I are standing outside the entrance of Holli Byford’s council block. Or rather, Holli’s mother’s council block. It’s raining a thin persistent mist that coats our clothes and hair. Not heavy enough for an umbrella but continuous enough to chill me to the bone. I’m still in that delicate post-vacation period right now where I know I’m going to come down with something; it’s just a matter of time. Standing here in the rain might just do it.
I’m following our plan. The plan to carry on like normal. So here I am. Being normal.
I look out across the grassy wasteland surrounding the council-estate. What I hazard a guess may be called the “communal gardens.” I woke up this morning thinking about the Sharpes. I’ve been trying not to, but they’re lurking in my mind, just out of sight. Flashes of the panic, bubbles in the water. And then two pale waterlogged corpses on stainless steel slabs. Our fault.
I feel as if I’m being watched. I have since we left the island. But more so since yesterday’s news. I scan the bleak buildings and grounds for a source but we appear to be of little interest to the locals. No one is watching. If whoever killed the Sharpes has tracked us down somehow, if they’re following us, they’re not letting on yet. Of course, this feeling of being observed could be something else entirely. I think of the chilled champagne we drank in Bora Bora—was it only a week ago? Champagne sent from the other side of the world. Eddie is interested in me too, isn’t he? Might he have someone following me now that I’m back? Checking up on me? Watching? I let my eyes wander across the complex. There’s a young white guy pacing near the car park, a phone pressed to his ear. A black guy sitting in his work van about to leave. An old lady entering the building opposite, wheelie shopping bag in tow. No one suspicious. No one who looks like a killer. Nobody has found me; I am just a damp woman waiting for someone to answer a buzzer. I look up at the hundreds of windows reflecting gray sky back down onto us. So many windows. So far from the plane at the bottom of the South Pacific Ocean.
I push the buzzer again. A long slow push.
Phil sighs. The camera is fucking heavy. I don’t blame him.
It’s 9 A.M. They should definitely be up by now. I’ve been up since dawn and I can safely say this is not my idea of easing gently back into work. Today is going to be a slog. From the little I’ve seen of Holli I already know this will be exhausting. But in the words of Murakami, the master of the hard slog: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”
I press the buzzer again.
“WHAT!? What the fuck do you want? What?” The voice crackles through the metal grate of the entry system, abrupt and aggressive. It’s female, older than Holli, gruffer, huskier. I’d venture a guess we’ve woken up Mrs. Byford.
I hold down the buzzer and speak.
“Hi there, is that Michelle Byford? This is Erin. Erin Roberts. I’m here to see Holli. We’re supposed to be meeting her here at nine? To film?” I hear myself and I flinch inside. I know what people hear when they hear my voice. They hear privilege and condescension and bleeding-heart liberalism.
God, I’m in a funk today. Daniel and Sally Sharpe creep around my head. Get it together, Erin.
Silence. Phil sighs again.
“Oh, right.” The tone has changed, resigned now. “Guess you’d better come up then,” she mutters, annoyed. The door buzzes, clunks, and we push in.
I’ve told Phil what to expect here, but there’s only so much you can relay; it’s more of a general feeling you get from Holli than anything else, her stare, her smile. He’s watched the first interview, so I’m sure he’s picked up on it too. Anyway, he’s been warned: don’t get dragged into anything.
The Byford flat is on the sixth floor and predictably the lift is out of order. I’d be surprised if Phil has the energy to be dragged into anything after lugging the camera up six flights of stairs.
Michelle’s standing out in the communal hallway in furry slippers, powder-blue robe, and a “But first give me coffee” pajamas set, scowling at us. She’s clearly just got out of bed. No sign of Holli. Perhaps she’s still asleep?
Michelle looks exhausted. My notes say that she works full time in a department store. Fifteen years, ever since Holli’s dad left. Not to be rude but shouldn’t she be at work by now?
“Hi, Michelle. Lovely to meet you. Sorry for the early start,” I say, and to my surprise she takes my hand and shakes it.
A distracted smile. She seems worried about something. “I suppose you’d better go ahead and turn that on first.” She gestures to Phil’s camera.
Phil and I share a look and the camera is up on his shoulder. Red light on.
“I just don’t want to say it all twice.” Michelle looks at me and frowns to herself. “You’d better come in. I’ll stick the kettle on.” She shuffles in her pink booties into the linoleum-tiled flat. We follow. I’m starting to get the feeling that Holli isn’t in there.
Michelle busies herself about the narrow kitchen space.
“I’ve got to call the police if anyone comes asking questions, that’s the thing. Do you mind if I quickly call them up now?” She seems embarrassed, a woman forced into following rules she hasn’t signed up for.
I shake my head, I don’t mind. But the word police screams through my head. Police is not a word I wanted or expected to hear today.
“I’m sorry, Michelle, I really have no idea what’s going on here. Has something happened?” I look back at Phil, in case he’s figured it out. Have I missed something?
For a fraction of a second I think she might actually be calling the police because of me. Because of the plane. Because of the Sharpes. But that’s absurd, of course. Michelle doesn’t know. She doesn’t know me from Adam. And any brief impulse I felt yesterday to call the police after finding out about the Sharpes has long since evaporated. Involving the police at this stage would definitely not be a good idea. Michelle holds up her finger, phone to her ear. Wait.
“Hi there, it’s Michelle Byford. Can I speak to Andy, please?” There’s another pause as we all wait, suspended, like the stale cigarette smoke in the kitchen air. “Thanks. Hello. Hi, Andy, yes, good, thanks. No, no, I haven’t, no, nothing like that, but I’ve got some people here in the flat now asking about Holli. No, no, nothing like that. Yes, yes, I know.” She laughs nervously. “No, they’re from the prison charity. They interviewed Holli in prison for a film. Yes. Erin, yes…”
My eyes shoot to Phil at the mention of my name. This police officer she’s talking to knows me. He knows of me. What the fuck is going on? Michelle holds up a finger, wait.
“Yes, and a man…” She doesn’t know Phil’s name. We skipped that formality.
“Phil,” Phil supplies. “The cameraman.” Pithy as ever.
“Phil, the cameraman. Yes, yes, I’ll tell them, one second, right…here in ten, fifteen, okay, one second.” She holds the phone away from her face and addresses us. “Andy says would you mind waiting ten, fifteen minutes and he’ll swing by? He wants to ask you a couple of questions if he can?”
I look back at Phil; he shrugs.
“Sure,” I answer.
What else can I do? Say no? No, I’m afraid I can’t actually stay to talk to the police, Michelle, because I’ve just stolen two million dollars and maybe caused the deaths of two innocent people. I think my only move here is to just stay. Stay and try to act normal. “Sure” just about covers it.
First day back at work and I’m already being questioned by the police. My stomach rolls.
Michelle puts the phone back up to her ear and addresses Andy. It’s becoming clear to me what’s going on here; I credit myself that much. I’m guessing Holli’s skipped parole. That’s what it will be, something like that, but for some reason my palms are sweating.
Michelle continues into the phone. “Andy, yes, yes, that’s all fine. They’ll be here. No, no, I don’t think they do. Of course. Of course I will. Yes. Okay then. See you soon. Okay then. Bye.” She hangs up and smiles down at the inanimate phone. At Andy, I’d imagine, in an office somewhere.
Phil and I wait. Finally she looks up.
“Sorry. Sorry about that. Coffee?” She flicks on the kettle and it roars to life, recently boiled. “Okay, right, sorry. I suppose you’ve guessed that Holli’s not here?” Michelle looks between us, businesslike. We have.
She nods. “Yeah. She left yesterday. Just disappeared. I took her some toast in bed in the morning but she wasn’t there. We’ve been looking since; we don’t know where she is at the moment. Police are working on it. Andy’s heading up the search right now. It’s—” She breaks off and stares out the grimy double-glazed window above her sink. The kettle clicks off and bubbles to silence next to her. She snaps back into the room and smiles.
“Let’s have a sit-down, shall we?”
She places the coffee mugs down with ceremony onto the pine fold-leaf table and we sit.
Phil continues to film her as she sips her steaming mug. According to the mug’s inscription, “Coffee makes my day more beautiful.” I do hope so; it doesn’t seem to be going well so far, for any of us.
I peer down at the gray-brown stew before me, pellets of undissolved coffee still clinging for dear life to the white ceramic of my mug.
Shit. This is not a good situation. I could really do with not being here right now. I think of the bag hidden in our attic. And guilt, like the first domino, starts to topple one mistake into another. I need to center myself. I need to lock this feeling down before Andy, the policeman, gets here.
And where the hell is Holli?
Michelle sets her mug down carefully with two hands and explains.
“Okay. Here’s what we know.” She looks up with the certainty of someone toeing the official line. She’s been over this a dozen times already, up all night. I can tell. She has that look. I’ve interviewed a lot of people so far in my career and she’s been over these coals a few times. And now she’s doing it again, for us.
“So, I met Holli, collected her, you know, out the back of the prison around 8 A.M. on the twelfth of September. That was seven days ago. She spent the week in the flat mainly. Watching TV, napping. I don’t think she got much sleep in prison. She was exhausted. Then, day before yesterday, Saturday, we’d arranged to nip around to Sinéad’s flat—she’s a friend from work, used to be a hairdresser—so she could sort out Holli’s hair. She’d, Holli had, been worried about her highlights in jail and Sinéad said she’d do them for free. So we went there. I’d brought her some other clothes—Adidas stuff, they all love that now.” She smiles, a mother in the know. “And she changed into them. And then after that we went to Nando’s for chicken. She’d been desperate for a Nando’s. On about it forever. Really excited about the bleeding Nando’s. I don’t think the food was up to much in prison, you know. She was stick thin when she got home. Well, you saw her, you know yourself. Anyway, she loved it, had a half chicken and one each of all the sides. She was happy as a clam. Then we came home and she said she wanted to make a couple of calls on her laptop, so she went to her room and did that for a while and then we watched some old episodes of the Kardashians on catch-up. She was pretty tired and went to bed around nine. Nothing out of the ordinary. She seemed happy. Like her old self again. When I went into her room yesterday morning she was gone. She only took a couple of things. No note. Nothing. But I told Andy, she did take one thing: photo of us, me and her. The one she had in prison. She always kept it by her bed. She liked that photo. Said it made her happy whenever she missed me. She didn’t say stuff like that very often, so I remember it.” Michelle looks at us. That’s all she’s got. That’s her side of it.
“Do you know where she might have gone?” I ask.
She looks down at her mug and tuts.
“No, not for certain. There’s a theory. The police are looking into it and to be honest I’m not sure how much they’re telling me about it all. Andy’s part of SO15, so it’s a bit tricky finding out anything from them really. I don’t know if you both know about all that sort of thing? Counterterrorism stuff.”
It comes so out of the blue that I almost laugh. Almost. Phil looks over. SO15. Fucking hell. I check Michelle’s face but it’s blank—drawn and tired. She’s not joking. I shake my head. No. I know nothing about counterterrorism, obviously.
“I just…I find it very hard to believe my Holli’d be involved in any of this. She’s never been involved in anything like that, never ever mentioned God or any sort of religion. Andy’s lovely but he’s wrong about this. I do trust him but—I don’t know, he’ll get her back and that’s the most important thing. That’s all that matters.”
Michelle grabs a crumpled cigarette packet from her robe pocket and fumbles one out. I think fleetingly of the pregnancy test, the blue cross, as her lighter flashes and a fresh wave of smoke fills the tiny room. Michelle looks across the table at us both now, leans forward on her elbows. “Holli’s not the brightest, you know. She’s all mouth for sure but she’s very easily led. Always has been. It’s competitive, you know. Just a competitive streak. ‘I’m tougher than you. I can do it better than you.’ You know? But the ‘it’ could be anything. It could be dares or setting that bus on fire or whatever. She likes the drama of it. Just showing off. That’s all it is. She’s always been that way. It’s just more extreme these days. The older she gets, the further she goes. I know, it’s probably my fault. Her dad wasn’t a great example and then she fell in with Ash—sorry, Ashar—and that lot. It’s strange; Ash was such a good boy at school. Nice Turkish family. I met his mum once. I just don’t understand it. Maybe I should have been around more. But someone had to work; her dad certainly wasn’t going to.” She stops herself. She’s gone down the wrong track. She’s gotten lost in her own tunnels and dragged us with her. She needs to head back to daylight.
“Did Holli go alone?” I ask. “Or with someone?” It’s the next logical question. But I think I already know the answer.
“With Ash—Ashar,” she corrects herself.
I nod. It’s coming together now. Ash was Holli’s friend from the bus video. It’s not guilt in Michelle’s tone but self-absolution. None of this is her fault. What could she have done to stop them? It’s Holli and Ash. In her mind, the blame is halved. It’s just the kids messing around. The threat’s not real, in her eyes. Just two kids who may have gone a little bit too far this time.
Of course, it’s impossible not to infer what’s happened here. The pieces fall into place like the first level of Tetris. I’m sure SO15 Andy will enlighten us further once he arrives. But beyond a doubt he will not allow us to film him. We need to get as much footage as I can before he arrives, that’s clear. Before we’re asked to stop.
I stand up and take charge, changing the energy in the cramped flat. “Michelle. We need to take a look at her room now. Film in there.” It’s not a question. I am not asking her. My directing brain has kicked in and we need more for the film, as much as I can smash and grab. Look, I don’t want to take advantage of her, but it’s clear Michelle trusts and responds well to authority. If she feels it’s for the best, then we’ll get what we need. I want that footage of the room for the film and we’re getting it. I hold her gaze slightly too long, deliberately. She looks away.
And it works. She rises, cowed.
“Yes, yes, of course. The police searched it already and took all their own pictures, so I’m sure it’s fine to do what you need to do in there.” She stares back up at me, searching for approval, reassurance. She wants us to know she’s helping. That she’s not going to be a problem like Holli.
She leads us out of the kitchen and down the hall. Phil throws me what I assume is meant to be an accusing glance. He didn’t like that. What I just did. It wasn’t like me. It was cruel.
Fuck it. I’m not sure I care today. I’m not feeling myself. Whatever that means. I’m not even sure who I am anymore. Maybe I died in the South Pacific with Sally Sharpe.
Holli’s room is small. Teenaged. Basic. Phil scans it slowly with the camera. Magazine pictures Blu-Tacked to the walls. Hard-eyed fashion models clutching perfume bottles. Sexuality. Money. Glitter stickers. Dead flies on the windowsill. A doe-eyed Harry Styles foldout. Kanye posters. Wu-Tang Clan posters. Grandiose. Dangerous. A far cry from overcast Croydon: all pre-prison interior design, the faces on the posters sun-bleached after almost five years of staring back into an empty room.
But I’m looking for other things. I sense Phil is too. Even if he disapproves of my methods, I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking: Is there anything religious in this room? Anything at all? I look but I don’t see it. A stack of books by the bed. A Victoria Beckham fashion book, a dog-eared Garfield book, The Power of Now, The Little Book of Calm. The last thing I’d expect Holli to read. But then maybe not. A stab at self-knowledge? Or a gift from a well-meaning mum? Either way, neither of the self-help books looks read. But then, who am I to judge? I haven’t read them either. And anyway, they definitely aren’t the cause of what’s happening now. They are not exactly terrorist textbooks.
Then it hits me. We won’t find anything here. Holli was only eighteen when she lived in this room. These are the relics of who she was. She’s twenty-three now. Growing up changes you. Five years in prison changes you. Who knows what happened to her in that time?
I mean, look at me, my whole life has changed in nine days. I’ve become a liar and a thief. God knows where or who I’ll be in five years. Hopefully not in prison.
The doorbell chimes and our eyes flick to Michelle. She nods and trots off to let Andy in.
Phil lowers the camera.
“Do you see anything?” he whispers. There’s a new urgency in his eyes now too. To him this documentary just became very interesting. He can already sniff awards in the future.
“No. I don’t think there’s anything here, Phil. She’d only been back a week before she left. We need to look elsewhere: Facebook, Twitter, all that. But Holli’s not an idiot—not anymore anyway. If there is something here, it won’t be easy to find it.” I scan the room again but I know I’m right on this one; there are no clues here.
As we enter the hallway a stocky man and Michelle are talking quietly by the front door. Andy. He’s shorter than I’d imagined, but attractive. There’s an easy charm about him as he turns to greet us, the flash of a winning smile; perhaps that’s why he got the job. A people person. Michelle’s right, he does inspire trust. I’d say he’s early fifties. Good head of hair. An almost illusory whiff of expensive soap. I’m going to have to be extremely careful now. He’s clearly very good at what he does; he’s playing Michelle like an old pro. I’d hazard a guess that Andy is one of life’s winners. I think perhaps everything comes up roses for Andy. Well, let’s go, Andy. Let’s do this, because I am not going to prison. I will not lose this fight. I run my hand subtly inside my coat and push gently against my belly. It’s okay in there. Mummy’s got you.
I fix my game face as he steps toward us, smiling.
“Erin, Phil, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Foster. Call me Andy. Nice to meet you both; thanks for sticking around.” He shakes our hands firmly. We make our way into Michelle’s living room, leaving the camera in the hall. Phil’s not filming anymore.
Phil, Michelle, and I take the sofa while DCI Andy perches facing us on a low leather pouf on the other side of the cluttered coffee table.
“So, I’m not sure how much Michelle has told you, but Holli was on probation after her release. She’s violated that by leaving the house. And she most certainly violated it now by leaving the country.” He says it lightly.
Fuck. This is a little more serious than I had hoped. I didn’t think it’d get that far. Holli’s fled the country?
He continues: “That’s one thing. The probation violation is a separate issue, though. The main issue we’re facing right now is that we’re extremely concerned Holli may be trying to make her way into Syria with Ashar Farooq. That appears to be her plan. Both her and Ash’s plan. We know she boarded a flight at Stansted Airport fourteen hours ago to Istanbul. We’ve got CCTV footage of them leaving the airport in Istanbul and boarding a bus. It’s safe to say we’re concerned. So that’s where we are.” His tone is serious now, businesslike.
Syria. This is huge. And the awful truth is: this is a documentarian’s wet dream. Events superseding planned narrative structure. Filmmaking heaven.
But I definitely don’t feel that as I sit here. I see what a great story this could be. I see it, but all I feel now is dread. A barreling wall of horror speeding toward me. This is real. Holli has done something really bad. There will be a full investigation. I am involved. We are all involved. And there is a large bag of loose diamonds under my loft insulation. Which will look fairly incriminating if the police decide to search our house. Very incriminating.
With every bone in my body I wish that Holli would just breeze back in through the door, right this moment, sullen and vicious, and just be a bit rude to us all.
“Our job is simple,” DCI Foster continues.
“First, we need to find out where Holli is, make sure she’s safe, if possible bring her home. Second, we need to find out who she’s been associating with, at what stage she became radicalized in prison, and how she managed to leave the UK. That’s the information I’m currently interested in.”
How does he think we can help with that?
“Now, I want to be clear: in terms of Holli herself, as of now she hasn’t done anything wrong. The probation violation is very small fry compared to the other things at play here; we’re not interested in punishing Holli for running away. It’s more important to get her home and talking to us about what’s gone on. How she managed to obtain her documents, her contacts. We’re looking to help her, and any other girls like her in this situation. You’ll have to trust me when I say this: it’s not the place they think it is out there. They tend to target younger girls, problem girls, promise great things, and by the time the girls get out there it’s too late to change their minds and they’re trapped. Holli’s going to find that all out pretty soon, if she hasn’t already. They don’t care about these girls; they’re trophies. They are expendable.” Andy looks to Michelle, holds her gaze. “Which is why we need to get her home as soon as we can.”
Michelle has gone quite pale. Her hand fumbles a journey down to her cigarette pocket; she’s forgotten that she left them on the kitchen table, and for some reason, this thought makes me incredibly sad.
“Now, Erin—” The DCI turns his high beams on me. “We weren’t aware you were filming this morning. I guess Holli didn’t pass that information on to her mother. We’ve been talking to the guys down at Holloway Prison about your interview footage of Holli. Obviously, no one’s seen it yet, but we’d be extremely interested to take a look at it. I think what you have there might be the only up-to-date footage we have of Holli. Aside from CCTV footage, which isn’t any real help to us, if I’m honest. I’ve got a lot of departments that are fairly eager to see what you’ve got. Do you still have the footage?”
I nod. “It’s not edited. It’s just raw footage at the moment. I haven’t gone through it myself yet, so I can’t say if there’s anything that stood out in terms of—”
“That’s not a problem,” he interrupts. He hands me a card. Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Foster. His number and email. “Transfer whatever you’ve got as soon as you can.”
“No problem.” I take the card and make a show of pocketing it safely. Policemen make me nervous. They always have. I feel him searching my face, scanning me for something, anything, a peg to hang guilt on. I struggle to keep my face open, blank.
Andy turns to Phil. “You weren’t present at the interview in Holloway, were you? You never met Holli yourself?”
“No, never met Holli. I’m meeting Alexa tomorrow,” he answers, unfazed. But then, he’s not connected to a plane crash, two murders, theft, fraud, and smuggling. I think the worst Phil’s ever done is smoke the occasional joint. And maybe an illegal download or two.
The DCI’s gaze shifts back to me. “Ah, yes, your documentary.” He smiles. I can’t quite tell the smile’s meaning. “Who else’s in it again?”
He knows. He’s almost certainly checked. I hold his gaze.
“Eddie Bishop at Pentonville, Alexa Fuller at Holloway, and Holli,” I reel off. Everything is on record; I’ve got a paper trail to prove it.
Andy gives a little nod. It’s a good group. I know it’s a good group.
He turns back to Phil.
“Anyway, Phil, you’re actually okay to knock off early if you want. It’s just Erin I need. I don’t want to keep you any longer than I have to. So feel free to scarper.” A flash of that smile again.
Phil eyes me. I nod. I’ll be fine. As he leaves he glances back, eyebrows raised. It’s been a weird morning.
This documentary could be bigger than either of us imagined. I know it. Phil knows it too. He’ll be on his MacBook trawling Holli’s social media platforms as soon as he can find a café with Wi-Fi.
Michelle is sent off by Andy, ostensibly to make more bad coffee. Once she’s gone he leans in toward me, elbows on knees, serious.
“So, Erin, your time with Holli, did you notice anything? Anything at all that might have seemed unusual? That might have struck you as odd? Did she mention anything at all?” He looks older when he’s not smiling. Slacker, beaten down, more like I’d expect a detective to look.
I think back to the interview. Two months ago now. It may as well be a year ago for all that’s happened since. Did I notice anything that might suggest her traveling to the Middle East? Did I?
Amal’s image flashes into my mind. The prison guard that day. Middle Eastern Amal. Amal, meaning “hope” in Arabic. Amal, with the kind eyes.
I instantly feel shame.
I push the thought away. I’m not that sort of person. I refuse to be that sort of person. Amal is just an average Londoner trying to do his job; he just happens to have an Arabic name. Stop it, Erin.
Andy sits waiting for an answer.
“I wouldn’t say anything specific, no. Holli was…she was, you know, slightly unnerving, I’ll admit that. I can’t say there was anything definitive but I did get a general feeling from her.” I stop talking. Shit. I replay my words in my head. I probably should have just said “No, nothing” and left it at that. Idiot. I really don’t need the scrutiny of being part of a police investigation right now. Mark and I can only stand up to so much background-delving before the shit hits the fan. My first retainer payment from my Saudi Arabian shell company will be transferring into my bank account in eight days. Money from the Middle East after a girl goes missing won’t look good to a man like DCI Andy Foster.
“Unnerving? In what way?” He looks worried now. I’ve made him concerned. Yes, I seem to have snagged an invisible trip wire. Damn.
“Just her attitude, you know, in light of her previous crime. The video of her watching things burn. Her attitude the day of the interview. She’s…” Again words fail me. What is she?
“Sorry, Andy. There’s no other way to say it. She’s a very creepy girl. Sorry, but there it is.” In for a penny, in for a pound. And you know what? If I’m a prejudiced witness, then at least I’ll never make it to court.
He chuckles.
Thank God.
His face is light again. I’m just a girl making a documentary.
“Yeah. I’ve seen the bus stuff.” He nods and we’re on the same page again. “Creepy’s the word all right, Erin. Creepy, but not bad, I don’t think, just easily led. I hope she has a change of heart before she crosses that border, because once you cross those sorts of lines there’s no way back. We won’t be able to help her after that. We won’t be looking to bring her back, if you know what I mean.” He keeps his voice low. I can hear Michelle puttering about alone in her kitchen, cigarette smoke trailing through to us. He sighs.
We share a look.
“We do what we can, Erin. But some people won’t help themselves.”
I think we’re bonding. I think we’re getting along.
“To be fair to Michelle, she has no idea who her daughter is anymore. She couldn’t have seen this coming. A prison visit once a week for five years does not an attentive mother make.” He glances off toward the kitchen. I take the opportunity to swallow. My desire to look like a normal person, while under scrutiny, has rendered everyday bodily functions tricky. He continues.
“Holli changed about five months before release. We have statements from prison guards and counselors. Two things happened around that time. She signed up for the prison charity scheme and she agreed to take part in your documentary. I can fairly confidently say that you’re not heading up a London cell of Al Qaeda, Erin, but I’d lose my job if I didn’t follow up a bit.” Silence. He’s watching me. The hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
So they have been looking into me already, shit. How much?
“Am I a suspect?” I know you’re not supposed to ask, but am I?
I feel my cheeks reddening, my neck grow hot. My body now officially out of my control.
He chuckles, satisfied.
“No. No, Erin, you’re definitely not a suspect. You’ve never even met Ashar Farooq, your only meeting with Holli is on film, and all your phone calls to the prison were recorded and monitored at the time. I’ve listened to them all.”
Shit.
“You’ve done nothing. But you do need to let me have a copy of that footage as soon as possible today—and then we’ll be out of your hair. We’re not interested in you, as such. At this stage.” Another shadow of a smile. With that he stands and brushes down his trousers. Then he looks up.
“Oh, and it goes without saying, but don’t share that footage with anyone else. No news agencies, no press, obviously. And you won’t be able to use the footage for your documentary until our investigation is concluded. And you know what, even then, do me a favor and call me beforehand, okay? Check in. Don’t be a stranger.” He smiles. It really is a winning smile. He’s not bad looking by any stretch of the imagination.
Then, I don’t know why I say what I say next, but I do.
“Andy. When it’s done I want to get an exclusive on this, okay? Before anyone else. An interview would be fantastic.” There it is. I’ve nailed my colors to the post.
His smile broadens. Surprised. Amused.
“Don’t see why not. Once it’s all public record. Couldn’t hurt. It sounds like a nice little film you’re making, Erin. Interesting. Call me.” And with that he’s gone.
When I get home the first thing I do is race up to the attic. Thankfully, Mark isn’t home yet. He’s meeting old colleagues today, testing the waters for contacts to sell the diamonds to. But in the meantime the diamonds are still in our attic and I’m worried about them. Our stash. If they decide to search the house they will find them. I move an old sewing machine on top of the loose insulation. I sit cross-legged on the splintered floor agonizing about whether putting the sewing machine over it makes it more noticeable or less. If SO15 searches our house, will the sewing machine draw the eye or hide the loose section of insulation? I Googled SO15 on my way home: they’re a Specialist Operations branch of the Met, Counter Terrorism Command, a department created from the merger of the Special Branch and the old Anti-Terrorist Branch. They’re serious police.
I move the sewing machine off again.
There is definitely nowhere in this house the police won’t look if they decide I’m of interest. I can’t bury the diamonds in the garden now either. The soil will be disturbed and police love to dig up a patio, don’t they? I’ve seen enough crime dramas to know that. And now there’s no chance I can fly to Switzerland and store them in a safety deposit box, not now that I’m a part of Andy’s investigation. That would raise more flags than anything else. We just need to get this stuff out of our home as soon as we can. That’s the only answer. We need to get rid of the diamonds.
I think of the plane. The people still down there, strapped in tight, safe in their seats. In the dark nighttime water. I can’t help wondering about them. Who were they? Were they bad, like Mark said? Did they look like terrible people? I’m glad I didn’t see them; I don’t think I would ever forget something like that. It’s hard keeping my thoughts at bay as it is. I see faces of my own imagining, gray and waterlogged.
I wish there was some way to find out who they were. We tried everything we could think of, we trawled those Interpol and missing-person websites out in Bora Bora. Mark is the only one who would be able to pick them out of a lineup. And he’s looked. Maybe I should ask him to look again? Maybe I should search Russian news sites for missing people?