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  Zain had almost felt the impact, he’d pictured it so clearly. Like an ice sheet, Millie had said.

  There was a small voice inside his head, nagging at him: Well she’s an escort, what did she think would happen? But the louder voice, the voice that was really him, said: No means no. Doesn’t matter who you are, what you wear, where you are.

  Millie’s face looked freshly washed when she came back.

  ‘Can I get you more tea?’ she said.

  Zain looked at the dregs in his mug. Untouched, cold, soapy. ‘No, I’m good for now,’ he said.

  Millie went to a cupboard, pulled out a bottle of bourbon. She filled two tumblers. ‘Drink with me?’ she said.

  ‘Too early. On duty,’ he said.

  ‘More for me, then,’ she said.

  She sat back down in her rocking chair, gently moving it with her bare foot. A practised, deliberate movement. She sipped from her glass, stared into the distance, picked up the story from where she had left it.

  ‘I blacked out,’ she said. ‘After I hit the water. People say they forget the moment of impact. I didn’t, I haven’t. I thought I was going to be split in half. The only thing I did – as I say, maybe it was survival instinct – I flipped. Through the pain – and I was in agony, and in tears – I managed to twist in the water, so I was face up when I passed out. If I hadn’t . . .’

  She sipped from her glass.

  ‘And I swear, and you’ll think I’m imagining things, hallucinating. I swear I heard his laughter still, just before I passed out. And they watched. The people in the penthouse suite, stoned out of their brains, they watched. Like I was a fireworks display to end the night. Not a single person tried to help me.’

  ‘Somebody called for an ambulance?’ said Zain.

  ‘It was one of the other girls. One of the other escorts. I never knew which one; none of them were willing to testify or be witnesses. I understand, though; we’re not exactly like characters out of Call the Midwife, are we?’

  She laughed. It was hollow, her eyes still pained.

  ‘What happened after that?’ said Zain, determined to keep her speaking. Here was one person who wasn’t enamoured by Dan, who would reveal his reality.

  ‘I was taken to hospital. They induced a coma; I had swelling on my brain. Luckily, it subsided quickly. I was left with bruises, broken bones. You know about the splints. I’m still being treated.’

  She rolled up her right trouser leg. Zain saw the scarring. It was raised, pink and red. Like someone had trailed bits of butchered meat over her skin. She flinched as her finger went down it.

  ‘I’m tanked up on painkillers most of the time. Sometimes, though,’ she said, indicating the drink, ‘they just aren’t enough.’

  She covered her leg up and pulled up her jumper. Her stomach was flat, the size zero look. Closer to her chest there were yellow, black, purple marks. Not bruises, something more permanent.

  ‘I’m like a mutilated piece of art,’ she said. ‘No buyers.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I hate putting you through this again.’

  ‘It’s fine. It feels cathartic.’

  She drained her glass, set it down beside her chair. She eyed the second glass, the one she had filled for him, resting on her table. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Pour that down the sink for me?’ she said. ‘And then I need to show you something.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Zain headed to the bathroom, emptying the bourbon into the plughole. He checked the cupboards, saw the prescription medicines. The creams, lotions, bandages, compresses. Millie had a pharmacy to support her. And Dan was doing what? Chilling with his friends, playing computer games?

  Millie was curled up in her chair when he went back to the lounge.

  ‘Can you get me a glass of water?’ she said.

  He got her a beaker and one for himself from the kitchen/diner. It was clean, the sort of space that barely got used. Millie didn’t look like she ate much.

  Zain sat back down on the beanbag, stretching himself.

  ‘I can tell you work out,’ she said.

  ‘Have to, in this job.’

  ‘You have nice eyes,’ she said. ‘Blue, green. They change colour. Do you know that?’

  ‘I’ve spent a few years with them; I picked up on it,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, no offence, but why did you not pursue this? You’re intelligent and articulate. You seem like a decent person.’

  Millie’s face coloured slightly, red flushing up her neck, her cheeks. ‘How did you end up where you are?’ she said. ‘Nobody wakes up one day and life is already lived for them. Life is made up of thousands of tiny steps, minute decisions. Today I’m here; you’re there. Tomorrow, in five years . . .’

  Zain bit the inside of his cheek, winced, tasted blood. It was true. The steps he had taken, the journey through SO15 to where he was now. And before that, the day his parents met, in the unlikeliest of places. A sense of alienation growing up, a peripheral existence. The need for belonging. He understood what Millie was saying, the journeys people took.

  ‘The injuries, they must have stopped you working?’ he said.

  ‘Partly. I only escorted in the evenings and weekends. During the day, I worked as a translator. News articles – financial, mainly – from English into Russian and vice versa.’

  ‘Russian?’

  ‘My degree. It was in Russian.’

  ‘You’re fascinating,’ he said, before he could stop himself.

  She held his gaze; he felt desire course through him as though he had swallowed the bourbon. His stomach tightened and he heard his heart hammering inside his ribcage.

  There was a moment, just a second, maybe two. He could have reached over, and she wouldn’t have objected, might even have instigated it.

  Then something about her, just a hint, reminded him of Ruby. Like a blunt force, he remembered why he was there, what he was doing.

  ‘Dan has obviously had a deep affect on your life, and not in a good way. I know I keep asking, but why didn’t you press charges?’

  Millie circled the rim of her glass with her fingers. ‘Like I said, London is expensive. When I knew what had happened . . . I was worried. For all the glamorous façade, I have bills and a mortgage to pay.’

  ‘Dan paid you off?’

  ‘You make it sound dirty, like blood money. It was compensation. What would I get by him going to prison? Justice? When what I really need is money to get me through this.’

  ‘Isn’t justice important to you?’

  ‘Is it what drives you? Gets you out of bed in the morning?’ She sounded scornful. ‘Trust me, justice doesn’t feel as good as keeping the wolf from your door does.’

  ‘How much did he pay you?’

  ‘Enough. This place . . . let’s just say the mortgage is almost done.’

  Zain whistled. The flat must have been worth at least half a million, if not more. He must check it out.

  ‘It’s nothing to Dan; he can afford it. What he can’t afford is what I would have done to him.’

  For a moment there was fire in her eyes.

  ‘I thought about it. It’s all I did lying in hospital, thinking how I would like to destroy him the way he had tried to destroy me. I thought about taking him for every penny he has, a public humiliation, expose him for what he really is.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because in the coldness of reality, when the morphine haze was wearing off, what had really happened that night? I had fallen, Dan was in the room. Nobody saw him do it. They were so off their heads, they only noticed when I was screaming. And that was sheer luck; some of them were on the balcony above already.’

  ‘You could have tried the justice system . . .’

  ‘I started to imagine the two of us at loggerheads, exchanging bitter accusations. My private life on display. The nightmare being relived again and again. And all for what? The chance he might walk away with no consequences? Instead I ch
ose the rational option. I took as much money as I could get out of him. And kept my silence.’

  ‘I don’t get it – how was he able to offer you so much? His parents? I mean I know vloggers earn a lot, but I’m never sure how they do from just YouTube. And I can’t imagine Dan getting a shampoo to endorse.’

  Millie laughed. It was part sardonic, part bitter.

  ‘Sorry, I said I would show you. Follow me,’ she said.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Kate considered how different the dynamics would be if she wasn’t protected by her badge. Siobhan Mann and Bill Anderson thickened the atmosphere with blustered denial. Siobhan began her spiel again. Ruby is an asset, MINDNET are a reputable company, the suggestion was absurd, defamatory . . .

  ‘You can’t deny it’s possible, though?’ said Kate.

  ‘DCI Riley, I am no longer comfortable with your insinuations. We have nothing to gain from wasting police time, from causing so much stress and unhappiness for Ruby’s parents. We are not mercenaries; we are pioneers.’

  ‘You should be careful what comes outta your mouth,’ said Anderson, ‘Detective.’

  ‘Likewise, Mr Anderson,’ said Kate.

  ‘I think things may be getting a little heated. I can understand why. We are all under pressure – Ruby has been kidnapped, some sick bastard is holding her somewhere, doing who knows what,’ said Siobhan.

  ‘Why are you under pressure?’ said Kate.

  ‘I meant collectively. The media have already started hounding us with queries.’

  ‘And I’m sure they found you extremely helpful,’ said Kate.

  ‘We are not so callous, detective,’ said Siobhan.

  ‘It was not an accusation,’ said Kate, looking pointedly at Anderson. He bared his teeth at her, a forced grin. Aggression, and warning.

  ‘Is there anything we can do to help?’ said Siobhan.

  ‘You monitor her online channel? Any specific or repeat threats?’

  ‘Aye, we keep a log, run all these fancy bits of software. We look after our clients,’ said Anderson. ‘I can provide your team with them, in case that’s where your investigation is heading.’

  ‘Thank you, that would be useful. Any threats in particular we need to be aware of?’

  ‘Not really. Most of these are from kids. You know how it is – they get riled up in their bedrooms, have a rant, probably regret what they say in a day or two,’ said Anderson.

  ‘Anything else? Anyone with a vendetta against MINDNET? Any reason why one of your clients might be targeted?’

  ‘We’re a media company,’ said Siobhan. ‘Not the Mafia.’

  Standing back outside in the bright autumn daylight, Soho crawling around her, Kate wasn’t convinced she had been afforded the complete truth. She looked around her. She loved London in the daytime; so much was going on. Free of the rush-hour commuter crowds, she marvelled at how people existed in the times when so many were at desks or doing nine-to-five shifts.

  Kate had a searing sensation in her back; it was an intuition. Pure rot, she thought. She didn’t believe in invisible energy streaming through the world. She might as well believe in the god her mother worshipped, if that was the case. Still, sometimes, her gut worked. She turned her head, scanned the MINDNET offices. As her eyes scanned the building, she saw, on one of the upper floors, a movement, a shadow falling back into place. Someone had been there, she was sure. Someone had been watching her.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Jed Byrne was standing at his window, staring down at DCI Kate Riley. She seemed to sense him, turned around and looked directly up at him, although he was hidden behind the blinds.

  He listened to the recording of her interview with Siobhan Mann and Bill Anderson, playing it aloud in his office.

  ‘It’s not normal,’ he said. ‘Why would she suspect we had any sort of involvement?’

  Anderson shrugged, switching off the recording. Jed returned to his seat behind his desk. It was the expensive glass and chrome one he felt entitled to have. He had seen it at head office, had craved it.

  ‘Just looking at all avenues,’ said Anderson.

  Jed looked at the man from Edinburgh, into the coldness of his eyes. ‘She’s hit too close to the mark,’ he said. ‘It makes me uncomfortable.’ He tapped at his desk. ‘How good are our technical team?’

  ‘For what you pay them, I would hope they’re the best.’

  ‘I need them to do something for me. I want them to start destroying any incriminating messages sent between Ruby and us. Especially . . . well, you know which ones.’

  ‘I’ve already had it done,’ said Anderson. ‘We have an algorithm picking up key words, and I will do a manual check on any that are left myself.’

  Of course he will, Jed thought.

  ‘And . . . are they able to delete problem messages from Ruby’s accounts? Her emails, her computer?’

  Anderson grinned, and Jed reflected that he would be frightening, if he weren’t on his side.

  ‘All sorted,’ said Anderson.

  Jed nodded. In his mind, he pictured the detective. She was too attractive to be a detective; they should be dour and dull and angst-ridden. Her voice sounded in his head, her New England accent. She was interesting; mesmerising, even.

  Jed remembered a time when he had felt the same about Ruby. When he’d first seen her videos, when he’d first made a beeline for her. Interesting and mesmerising.

  But look how that all turned out, he thought.

  Kate was seated in Balans, having ordered coffee and an all-day breakfast, when her phone rang.

  It was Ryan.

  ‘Hey, sorry to bother you. I know you said only in emergencies during the day . . . She’s not doing too good. Any chance you could maybe swing by for a bit?’

  Swing by? From Soho to Highgate? She couldn’t disappear off a case, not when it was so live. Especially if her office was about to be harassed by press enquiries.

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Enough to make me disturb you,’ he said.

  Kate weighed up her options. It would take her a couple of hours, at least. She would have her phone with her, could leave it to Harris and the rest of her team to keep things moving forward for a bit . . .

  ‘OK, I’m on my way,’ she said.

  She left money for her order, took a gulp of the coffee, and headed home.

  Kate sat in her car, sending emails and text messages to her team. She diverted all calls; she didn’t want to be disturbed. She felt weak, letting her personal life interfere like this. Still, she had obligations bigger than her career, ones she chose to have.

  Was Ryan overreacting? He was prone to do that sometimes, but he had never called her unless it was a genuine emergency. Thankfully, they were rare, but getting more frequent. There were tough decisions Kate had to face, options she needed to explore.

  She turned her key and let herself into the silence of the house. No alarm, which was odd. Ryan kept it on when they were home. She had made him. He never understood her paranoid insistence on so much security.

  He came out of the kitchen, flour on his face and laundry folded in his hands. Her clothes.

  ‘Hey, detective,’ he said. ‘I flipped the alarm before you came. I know, don’t look at me like that, you’ve warned me so many times. It was only for a few minutes.’

  ‘One issue at a time?’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Ryan.

  He was from Ohio. A small town, not so dissimilar to her own, except a whole lot more conservative. Men like Ryan didn’t do well in those sorts of towns. Like Kate, he had found himself drawn to London. A seething metropolis where you could be whoever you wanted to be.

  ‘Where is she?’ said Kate.

  ‘In her bedroom. She threw a lamp at me.’

  ‘Did it hit you?’

  ‘Uh-uh. I was on the other side of the room.’

  ‘Have you given her anything?’

  ‘No, I left that task for you
.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate.

  She went upstairs into her bedroom. She pulled the blond wig from her dressing table, where it sat moulded to the mannequin head. She removed her suit jacket, her claret shirt still smooth, thanks to the special synthetic fibres.

  She moved quietly back onto the landing, knocked gently on the second bedroom door and turned the handle.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said, loudly and clearly.

  She saw the figure huddled in a corner, saw she had been crying. The lamp fragments lay forensically correct to match Ryan’s story.

  ‘Winter?’ said the voice, small, weak. ‘Are you home?’

  ‘Yes, I’m home,’ said Kate, closing the door behind her.

  Chapter Thirty

  A double bed stood in the centre of Millie’s bedroom, looking almost like an altar, draped in white sheets and duvet. On a bookcase Zain spotted Tolstoy in Russian, along with a dictionary and grammar tome for the same language.

  There was a desk in front of a window looking over Fifth Avenue. A laptop, MacBook Air, sat idle. Millie rolled her finger over the mouse pad, entering a password when prompted.

  She called him over, and as Zain crossed the room, he brushed past the bed. Millie leaned over his shoulder and stared at the screen of her laptop. Standing so close to Millie, he could smell her layered scent.

  ‘This is Dan’s YouTube channel,’ she said.

  Zain watched as the screen was filled with a quest game, medieval in setting. The selected protagonist was a giant, built with square muscles, blond hair flowing in his face. His eyes were purple, a hefty sword in his hands.

  Dan Grant appeared in a little box in the corner. He was filming himself, the purples and reds and blues of the game reflecting in his face.

  So this is Medieval Space Bandits. The graphics are good but not great, guys, if I’m honest. And you know me, I’d never lie to you. Still, it combines the best, don’t you think? Medieval warfare and alien warriors. Plus you get to choose from a series of avatars.

  Dan freezes the screen and scrolls through the various avatars. The first is a bulky male, in chainmail, with a sword as his weapon of choice.