Take Flight, page 42
“Are you able to come to our offices?” asked the hotline woman, and she gave the address, which was within walking distance.
“Yes, that won’t be a problem,” said Lyn.
“From there, we’ll take you to the refuge. Now, we’ll be asking you to please keep the location of that refuge to yourself,” said the hotline woman.
“Don’t worry, I will,” said Lyn with feeling.
“It’s important, not just for your safety but for the safety of the other women.”
“I understand. I’m very good at keeping secrets.”
Upon arriving at the office of the refuge organization, she’d given a false name and, burning with shame at the lie, explained that she’d fled to London to get away from an abusive policeman husband in Jarrow. They had driven her to the refuge, a nondescript building tucked away in a backstreet of Hackney, and said that she could stay with them as long as she needed, for months, if necessary.
Months! This can’t take months, and I can’t take advantage of this place for more than a couple of nights, she thought. At most. Before accepting the spot, she’d confirmed that the shelter wasn’t full. If she’d thought she was preventing an actual abused woman from getting in, she would have stayed out on the street. But a night at the refuge would give her the privacy and security she needed to plan and to come to terms with her situation. A lockable door, a small but cheerful room with a soft carpet and a bed with bright blankets, and a shower were what kept her from being a weeping, panicked mess.
Now that there was actually time to sit down and think everything through, she found that she could not visualize any way in which things could work out. Maybe I shouldn’t have run, she thought. Maybe the Checquy would have given me the benefit of the doubt.
Well, it’s too late now.
She turned her attention back to the pad of paper in front of her, given to her by the front office. She set about transcribing everything she could remember from her research. Names of criminals alive and dead. Gangs. Affiliations.
Addresses.
Lyn woke up and knew exactly where she was and why. It was still night out, and she’d slept badly. Every creak of a floorboard or footstep outside the door had been a Checquy soldier coming to drag her out of bed by her feet. If she’d reached out and grabbed the baton by her bed once, she’d done it seven times. She stared at the ceiling and thought she was going mad.
They’ll know by now. They’ll be out in the streets trying to track me. They’ll have gone to my flat and torn it apart. They’ll have gone to Richard and told him—what? Her message on the cards now seemed so ridiculous and pathetic that she wanted to tear them to pieces. Is my marriage over? Am I not going to see my kid ever again? She pressed her hands to her eyes in the darkness.
When it was finally morning, Lyn showered and came downstairs in her fear-smelling clothes and sink-washed underwear from the day before. She’d laid out an agenda for herself, and new clothes and some basic appearance-altering products were high on the list, but first things had to be first. She passed the communal room, where some women were already preparing breakfast, and went to the refuge’s office. Despite the early hour, there were several women at desks, talking on phones and typing away on computers.
“Good morning, love,” said the one closest the door. “Can we help you?”
“I hope so,” said Lyn. “Although you’ve already done so much. And I’m really grateful for this place taking me in, but I can’t stay here.” They regarded her quietly. “I know there are women who have no other options, but I have some money—I can pay for accommodation. I can’t stay here and take a place someone else might need. But I also can’t risk my husband tracking me down. He’s a cop, and he may have access to a lot of records. So do you have any recommendations?” The ladies in the office exchanged looks.
“I expect you’ll still want to be careful with your funds,” said the oldest, a plump Indian lady in her fifties. “There are some hostels around the place. They can be quite loose with the books, especially if you slip them some extra.”
That sounds possible, thought Lyn. Although it also sounds like the kind of place the Checquy might check automatically.
“My aunt runs a bed-and-breakfast in Epping Forest,” one of the support staff volunteered. She was a slim brunette whose name tag identified her as Kelly. Lyn wouldn’t have put her age above twenty-seven, but she had the reassuring air of a nurse with decades of experience in the emergency department.
“Is that in London?” asked Lyn uncertainly. She’d never heard of it.
“Oh, yeah,” said the woman. “Well, I mean, it’s Essex, so it’s out there, but it’s on the Underground.”
So, doable for my purposes, thought Lyn. I don’t mind a bit of a commute.
“Let me just call her, see what’s possible,” said Kelly. “Are you okay with dogs?”
“I’m very okay with dogs.”
“Right, excellent. It’s just, there’s dogs. Now, if you want to wait in the common room, maybe get some coffee, I’ll come and let you know.” Lyn nodded—coffee was the second thing on her to-do list.
The communal room of the women’s refuge was large, but it was hardly institutional-feeling. Kitchen facilities by the entrance, then round dining tables and a lounge area with couches and comfy-looking armchairs and coffee tables. Several women were cooking, and little family groups sat at the dining area. A small, serious-looking boy was eating cereal at a table, and he gazed at her with wide eyes. She winked at him and turned her attention to the coffee. There was no expensive espresso machine, just large tins of instant, which suited her down to the ground. She was settled by a window, looking over her notes, when Kelly came over. She hurriedly turned the papers over.
“All good!” said the young woman. “She can put you up, and she’s fine with doing it off the books.” She named a fee that was very reasonable, even if it did mean an hour’s Tube journey.
The isolation would probably be an advantage, Lyn told herself. And at that rate, I could stay there for weeks. “That is really wonderful, I’m so grateful,” she said.
“My aunt said that she’d come and pick you up anytime from the Tube station. Now, you left your phone at home, right?”
“Yes. It was ridiculous, but I was actually worried that he might try to track it. Silly.”
“Not at all,” said Kelly. “If you hadn’t, they’d have had you put it in a special pouch. It’s called a Faraday pouch—it blocks signals.”
You don’t say.
“We do it for everyone. After all, there are apps for finding lost phones. But I’ve written down my aunt’s number—her name’s Mandy—and there’s a pay phone at the station, so you can call her when you arrive. Before then, did you want to check your e-mail or anything?” She gestured toward a table with some elderly desktop computers.
“I—uh, I actually need to go out for a little bit. I’ve got to buy some toiletries and clothes. I didn’t even think to pack any.” Plus I need to mail three cards from three random postboxes, preferably a good distance from here. And buy some hair dye and things.
“We’ve got supplies we can give you,” said Kelly. “Clothes, basics.”
“Are you sure?” asked Lyn.
“It’s very normal, when you leave in a hurry, to just grab whatever comes to hand. One lady came here and all she’d thought to pack was a toaster.”
“Well, I’d be very grateful. I still want to stretch my legs, have a bit of a think.” In truth, she didn’t at all. The idea of going outside the comforting walls of the refuge was frightening; she knew about all the cameras out there in the world. But she also knew that the Checquy couldn’t be watching every one of them at once. With sunglasses and a cap, she’d be just an anonymous figure on the street.
And I have to be able to go out in the world if I’m going to do this.
“Sure, go out, get some air,” Kelly was saying breezily. “Just buzz the door when you want to come back in.” Lyn nodded. The refuge had a reassuring security system, and the doors were much thicker than they looked, which made a depressing amount of sense.
“All right, babe, we are here.”
Lyn opened her eyes and looked around. It was not what she had expected. For that matter, nothing had been what she expected. The words My aunt runs a bed-and-breakfast in Epping Forest conjured up an image of a certain type of aunt and a certain type of bed-and-breakfast. A comfy, plump, grandmotherly type, possibly in an apron, standing on the doorstep of a semidetached house and offering a plate of freshly baked scones. Possibly with a gnome or two in the garden. She’d be taking in the occasional lodger for some funds to supplement her pension and shrinking nest egg. Doilies would feature heavily in the decor. Plaster ducks would be migrating south for the winter across the walls.
That image had been dispelled when a red jeep pulled up outside the Epping Tube station blaring rock music. The aunt had turned out to be a broad-shouldered American woman in her sixties with long brown hair and a cigarette hanging from her lips. The apron had turned out to be a battered leather jacket and round sunglasses. She introduced herself as Mandy. And now the house turned out to be a large Tudor-style in its own expansive garden. Instead of gnomes, a large garden sculpture of curling steel appeared to portray nothing much in particular.
“I would not have picked this as a B and B,” remarked Lyn as they pulled into the garage.
“Well, it’s not really a B and B, but I do that thing where people book a room online. I like houseguests.” Mandy shrugged. “Otherwise it’s just me and the dogs and the fish. Kelly said you like dogs?”
“I do.”
“Good, because they like people, and you won’t be able to shut a door on them. At least one may want to sleep on your bed with you.”
“That is entirely fine,” said Lyn. Skeksis was an on-the-bed dog, and the comforting weighty presence of an animal was something she’d missed in her London flat. They entered the house and were met by two Pomeranians, an elderly golden retriever, two Portuguese water dogs, a labradoodle, and a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. Lyn crouched down to have her hands smelled, then went down on her knees to have her ears licked.
“Welcome to the house,” said Mandy. “Come on through to the living room.”
The living room featured several well-scratched leather couches and a few thick red rugs. Big colorful pieces of art hung on the walls, and framed photographs stood everywhere. Not a plaster duck to be seen. Lyn rather suspected that if any had dared show their beaks, Mandy would have pulled out a shotgun.
“Have a seat,” said Mandy. “I just need to let the hounds out. Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” said Lyn, sitting down on what might have been the world’s most comfortable couch. She was immediately flanked by a Pom and the Cav. The retriever leaned heavily against her knee, and she automatically started scratching his shoulders. The other dogs followed Mandy out. “No one else lives here?” Lyn called after her.
“No,” she called back. “I married Kelly’s uncle about twenty years ago, and he left about eighteen years ago, but her family liked me better than they liked him, so I kept them. There’s the occasional man friend, but no actual keepers. I think my standards went up a bit.”
“What brought you to England?” asked Lyn curiously.
“Oh, the love of a bad man.” Mandy smiled as she came back into the room. “And an ill-advised move by a radio network to import some American on-air talent.”
“Whereabouts in America are you from originally?”
“Kalamazoo, Michigan,” said Mandy. “Original home of Gibson Guitars. And some other stuff, but it’s the guitars that define it for me. Do you like music?”
“Is there anyone who doesn’t like music?”
“They don’t necessarily like me playing it loudly at night.”
“Your house.” Lyn shrugged. “If I can shut a door and sleep, that’s all I require.”
“All righty, let’s go over the ground rules. I don’t give out keys to guests, so if I’m not here, you’re not here. I’m sure you’re great, but I don’t trust people that much. But I am here a lot of the time. We can figure out schedules, and if something happens and you need to come in and I’m not home, you can call me, and we’ll work it out. Fair?”
“Absolutely,” said Lyn.
“Kelly said you don’t have a phone?”
“Yeah.”
“A couple of the women she’s sent me have been in the same situation.” Mandy nodded. “I have an old spare. It’s preloaded with thirty quid and it’s got my number in it. Not a smartphone, but it makes calls and sends texts, and if you lose it, I don’t give a shit. I’ll show you around the place in a sec, but we should probably discuss time frame. I understand the situation you’re in—you don’t need to tell me about it unless you want to. But do you have plans, things you want to do? Or do you just need to lie low for a while and recuperate?”
“A bit of both, really,” said Lyn.
“Fair enough. Well, shall we say you’ll stay here a week to start with? If we get along after that, we’ll play it by ear.”
“That sounds great.”
“Liquor cabinet’s there. My only rule about that is that no one drinks alone. Me included. It’s my self-discipline—keeps me from getting too rock ’n’ roll. You want a cocktail?”
“Later, definitely,” said Lyn.
“Great. If you’re here for dinner, I’ll make enough for both of us. If you’re here for breakfast, the same. That’s my meals policy. Let me show you your room.”
The bedroom did not feel like a room made up for B and B guests. It felt like Mandy’s guest room in which she stored her overflowing collections of CDs and vinyl, all meticulously shelved. Lyn carefully put her refuge-provided T-shirts, socks, and underwear in the chest of drawers and hung her balled-up work suit in the en suite. She hoped the steam might take out some of the wrinkles, but it rather looked like nothing would heal it short of dry cleaning or possibly cremation.
She badly wanted to go out immediately, catch the Tube into London, and start taking some action, but she needed just a moment to sit down and breathe. The refuge had been safe, but it had felt safe like a fortress. This felt safe like a home. She lay down on the bed and was promptly joined by Francisco, one of the Portuguese water dogs, who insinuated himself into her armpit and sighed heavily.
Let’s review and prepare, she thought. There was nothing to fall back on after this. If she went about it half-assed, she’d end up dead. She didn’t know how long she’d spent frantically researching the victims and their criminal networks before she left the office. It had felt like only panic-filled minutes, but it had to have been longer, given the amount of reading she’d done. Remembering the fear that had been pumping in her brain, she was surprised by what she’d managed to retain. She’d paid special attention to names and addresses but had also picked up a bigger picture of the London criminal world, slotting it comfortably into the gaps of what she’d known before. She’d written down details during her night at the women’s refuge. Now she could take the time to analyze and plot.
If I am going to get my life back—my life with my family and my demented secret magic government job—then I need proof that I didn’t kill those people. I have to find the person responsible.
So, who is doing this? she thought. What can I figure out about them?
First, they’re killing criminals, not civilians, which speaks sort of well for them, I suppose.
Who kills criminals? Either vigilantes or other criminals.
And what kind of criminals are they killing?
Lyn knew that the criminal world was complex. There were the big organizations, the cartels and the mafias, with tremendous resources and international connections. They practically formed their own ecosystem, with some branches extending down to the street level and others just supplying the smaller bodies with drugs or weapons or contraband, but they were vast and faceless. Then there were the smaller groups that had their specific turf and committed more local crimes. And then there were the individual small-time criminals who answered only to themselves. There were varying levels of connection between the different types. Some had contact, some had conflict, and some stayed completely separate.
Her husband had not had to deal with any of the truly international organizations, for which she’d always been profoundly grateful. South Shields had its criminal presence, of course. Richard had been involved in breaking up a drug ring but he’d always been more heavily involved in community policing.
As far as Lyn could see, each of the men killed with electricity had been involved in small to midlevel groups with no more than ten or twenty active members each. They were local, with local bosses who called the shots and didn’t take orders from anyone.
It’s got to be one person doing this, she thought. If there were multiple vigilantes, they’d be taking out more players at once. And if it were a power play by a rival criminal group, they would have taken out the leaders first, and we’d have heard of it. The police intelligence reports she’d accessed in the office had said nothing about any bosses being killed or new players moving in.
So it was one person, vigilante or criminal, with eyes strictly on local-level crime.
Maybe this individual has been harmed by the criminals he’s targeting, she mused. Maybe he’s been damaged financially. It was probably an avenue of investigation worth pursuing, but . . . But now that I’m outside the Checquy, I don’t really have the resources to investigate it.
Instead, I’ll need to go dig among the local gangs of old London Town.
“Lynette! I’ve made chili!” Mandy’s voice came through the house’s intercom system.
I’ll need to go dig among the local gangs of old London Town after I’ve had some chili.
As it turned out, she was not going to dig anywhere until the next morning, because by the time she’d eaten the chili and had a glass of wine and sat on the couch under some dogs and watched a reality show about a group of sculptors living and arguing in North Dakota, she didn’t think there would be enough time to catch the Tube into the city and then back out again. Plus, she was full of chili and wine.
