The Memory of Blood(72)

A train had just come in, and Hagan was trying to lose himself in the discharge of commuters, but people moved aside because of the way he looked, revealing him.

He was already over the barrier, and now Longbright knew there was a real chance of losing him, but as he pushed down the escalator, opening the gap between them, the moving staircase suddenly slammed to a stop, sending everyone forward. She looked back and saw that Renfield had hit the red emergency button.

Three people had fallen but nobody seemed hurt. Hagan was blocked by a tumble of luggage that had pitched forward across the stairs. Locking an arm around his neck she pulled him back, checking his right hand to make sure it was free of a weapon. Renfield grabbed his arm and twisted it behind him, and together they pulled him from the escalator.

Longbright was surprised to see that Ashley Hagan’s face was wet with tears. The boy could not raise his eyes to hers and seemed barely capable of standing, so they sat him against the corridor wall, one on either side.

‘Get your breath back, son,’ said Renfield.

‘I didn’t know she was dead,’ he moaned. ‘Yeah, I took the phone but it wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t want to sell it. I took it ’cause it was hers, you know?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Longbright.

He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. ‘She was—special, you know? She stood up to my sisters. My sisters are bitches, and she stood up to them. An’ they wanted me to hurt her but I couldn’t so I just took the phone and kept it, because it was hers. ’Cause she was decent and I wanted—I can’t believe she’s dead. I don’ know how—’

‘She cut herself, a stupid accident,’ Longbright told him, bluntly. ‘Because she was still shaken up after being mugged.’

‘Wait, she can’t be dead. She can’t have died.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’re talking about the same thing, right? This was months ago.’

‘No, it was this week. She was attacked on Monday night and her phone was stolen from her shopping bag along with some keys.’

‘But that wasn’t me. I took her phone after she had the fight with my sisters, that was back in February. I’ve still got it at home. I can show you. Her mum will tell you it’s her old phone.’

‘Where were you on Monday night at around nine?’

‘I was at the clinic waiting to see my doctor. There was a long wait—the nurse knows me, she’ll tell you—’

‘What time did you leave?’

‘About ten-fifteen. They’ll tell you.’

‘Give me the address.’

Ashley Hagan dug into his jacket pocket and handed over a grubby, creased card. ‘I can’t believe she’s dead,’ he said again, looking for something he could not find in their faces.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Longbright, touching his shoulder. ‘Stay with your family tonight. Remember what she meant to you. Don’t let her down by doing something she’d have hated.’



‘The bloke who attacked me was older, heavier,’ Longbright told Renfield on the tube back. ‘He had a lot of upper body strength. He wasn’t wasted away like Ashley. I think he must have got away with whatever was in Anna’s locker.’ She turned to look at Renfield. ‘You don’t suppose this has anything to do with Arthur’s stuff, do you? His memoirs?’

‘I don’t see how. The old man’s indiscreet, but he wouldn’t put anything in there that was worth all this hassle.’

‘Civil servants have topped themselves over leaking sensitive material. Look at David Kelly. Or they’ve been killed by the Russians.’

‘You lot always seem to think there’s a conspiracy going on.’ Renfield said it disapprovingly.

‘That’s because sometimes there is.’

At London Bridge they changed to the Northern line and flopped down into seats. The train was almost empty.

‘So, where did you learn all that stuff?’ Renfield asked.

‘All what stuff?’

‘The way you talked to Ashley Hagan. That don’t do anything she’d have hated. You know, being nice. He’s scum.’

‘He was a kid once. Now he’s half dead and in despair. He hates his family and he’ll never be able to get away from them. Kicking him around isn’t going to change anything.’

Renfield had been a desk sergeant with the Met, where they behaved differently. He sat back, lost in thought as the train rattled through the tunnel, heading north toward King’s Cross.





Saturday morning dawned but nobody noticed. It barely grew light. The sky had tilted and was moving fast. The racing clouds bulged so low that the spires of St Pancras threatened to tear them open. The lack of a rush hour today meant that most of the shops and offices in King’s Cross were shut, but the lights were on at the PCU. A seven-day policy had been placed in effect while the investigation remained active.