Dark Eyes of London (2 page)

Chapter Three

‘Bollocks!’  Exclaimed Lisa Kennedy as she reached the foot of the escalator, only to see the sliding doors shut, and the train she was hoping to get on, start up and glide into the tunnel.

Still out of breath, she wandered over to the centre of the platform and looked up at the dot matrix indicator screen above her.  The next train was due in seven minutes.  She looked at her watch. She took a deep breath and sat down on the stainless steel bench. Still plenty of time.

Seven minutes to wait. She slid along to the end of the bench to make room for the man with the laptop bag.  He muttered a thank you to her, and she gave him a brief smile in return. It was cold on the station concourse, and she shivered and pulled her coat collar up further.  He got his phone out and started talking on it.  He was talking quietly, and Lisa strained to hear what he was saying.  A bad habit she knew, but so what?

Lisa could not make out what he was saying - he was talking in some Eastern European language she guessed - so she lost interest. As she sat waiting for her seven minutes to pass, she wondered - for the sixth or seventh time - whether she was doing the right thing.  Didn’t she sign a confidentiality agreement when she joined? Did that matter if she was in the right?  Or was she just over-reacting?  In any case, she needed to get things off her chest, and Tom was the right person to do that to. Sure, he could be a total jerk at times, but he knows what to do in a crisis.  Always did.

Glancing up the escalator shaft to the surface she wondered if anybody at the office knew, or suspected, what she was up to. Had she given anybody cause for suspicion?

She thought back to her last moments at work.  She had just come off the phone with Tom, and arranged to meet him.
Need to talk to you about something. Has to be face to face. 
Good old Tom, always reliable; of course he agreed.

She disconnected the phone, and put it back in her pocket.  She looked around: she was in the ladies, so she might as well use them while she was here.  Afterward, she washed her hands, and splashed cold water over her face. She stared at herself in the large wall mirrors. She looked tired: her eyes were sunken and her face looked drawn.  Make-up couldn’t disguise everything.

She looked around, checking under the doors of the cubicles, making sure she was alone. She was.  Good, nobody else heard her call.

Returning to the main office, she looked around the large open plan workspace.  Nobody was taking any notice of her.  Feeling relieved at this, she found her own desk and sat down. Turned to her personal computer and logged back on.  Noticed the time in the bottom right hand corner of the screen. 16.38.   She had arranged to meet Tom at six.  It would be best to allow the best part of an hour to get there, so she would have to get away promptly at five.  Shouldn’t be a problem - she finished at five, but got held up sometimes.

When a customer of Lisa’s research firm called in, a loud buzzer on the wall sounded and a red light above the buzzer illuminated.  Lisa pressed the
Line 2
button on her desk phone and answered. As the customer started talking, Lisa groaned inwardly: this was a Mr Richmond, who had the reputation of being able to talk for ages without actually saying anything.   Today was no exception.  Lisa’s little clock showed 16.54 before she came to realise what Mr Richmond wanted.

‘Mr Richmond, if you want to speak about your account, I’ll need to put you through to Peter Trainer,’ she managed to get in.

Lisa put Mr Richmond on hold, and pressed the internal button for Peter Trainer.  She sat up and looked over at Peter Trainer’s office which was separated from the main office by a glass wall.  He was there: thank God.

‘Peter Trainer,’ he answered in his usual squeaky voice.

‘Peter, it’s Lisa.  I’ve got Stephen Richmond on line two.  He wants to speak about a discrepancy on the Allied Trading account.’

‘Damn.  Just about to start a conference call.’

‘He’ll only want to talk to you, Peter.’

‘All right.  It’s bound to be a drama over nothing.  Normally is.  Put him through, then.’

Relieved, Lisa connected Mr Richmond to Peter Trainer, and put the phone down.   16.57. Time to start packing up. Please God, no more calls.   She tidied up her desk, making the pretence of being busy until the clock reached the magic 17.00.  She logged off, switched off, and stood up to leave her desk, noticing that most of her workmates were doing the same thing.   Muttering her goodbyes to everyone, she picked up her bag, and walked over to the coat stand. She made her way to the lifts, putting her coat on as she walked.

She called the lift, and turned round as she heard her name being called out.

‘Hey, Lisa, wait a second!’

Hell, it was Miles Turner.   Lisa smiled and waved as the lift doors opened.  She stepped in, and pressed the G button, hoping that the doors would shut before he reached them. 

They didn’t.  Miles squeezed his portly frame through the doors and took up his place in the corner of the lift.

‘Just made it,’ he puffed.

Lisa nodded.

‘Heading off early?’ he asked.

‘No, not specially,’ Lisa replied. ‘Just getting off on time for once.’

‘You got time for a quick one at the India?’ Miles asked.  The
East India
was a wine bar frequented by members of Lisa’s firm after work, normally on a Friday.  Today was a Wednesday.  In any case, having a few drinks with some of her workmates was quite different to sitting alone with Miles leering over her.

‘No, sorry Miles.  No time today.’

‘Just a quick one. It’s only just gone five after all.’

‘Miles: watch my lips.  No.’

The lift stopped at the seventh floor and more office people got in. Much to Lisa’s relief, she and Miles got separated and she heard nothing more from him.

The lift reached ground level and emptied.  They all filed through the security turnstiles and out into the cold evening air. Lisa walked over to the Underground station.

‘You sure about that drink?’ Miles called out.

‘No, I’m fine thanks,’ Lisa called back.  ‘You enjoy yourself.’

Lisa reached the tube station, fed her ticket through the gates and started to go down the escalator, looking over her shoulder to make sure Miles wasn’t following her.

It is a convention on the London Underground that when using one of the escalators, you keep to the right if just standing, enabling passengers who wish to overtake to do so on the left.  Lisa took the left, and rushed down to the platform concourse.

The sound of the next train rushing into the station brought her out of her day-dreaming.  She stood up and walked over to the glass platform doors to wait for the train to come to a stop and for the doors to open.  Five passengers got out of her door: two Japanese teenagers, two men in suits and with briefcases, and a woman with a small shopping trolley.  Once they had got off the train, Lisa stepped into the carriage.  She looked around the carriage for an empty seat, and found one on her left.  She sat down, and noticed that the man on the bench had got on the same carriage.  He found a seat further down. 

After the bleeping warning sound, the doors began to close.  Lisa looked up at the line map opposite her and was about to count the number of stops to her destination, when a commotion at the door caught her attention. A man had just made it into the carriage before the doors fully shut. With a hiss of air, they opened again, and then shut a second time.  The man looked around, shrugged his shoulders at the two women who were standing by the door, then straightened  his clothes,  which had  been ruffled  by the battle with the door.   He then looked around the carriage for a seat, and found one towards the end of the car, opposite the man with whom Lisa had shared a bench.

With a jerk, the train started up and accelerated into the tunnel.

Chapter Four

Tom Raymond was having a frustrating day.  He had taken the day off from his job working in his local library to work on a thesis for his diploma in Business Studies. His thesis was on
Analyzing the Competitive Environment
, and he was making very little progress.   Three cups of very black coffee had got him through the threat of new entrants to the industry, the amount of capital investment required, and brand loyalty.  Now he was stuck on the threat of substitute products.

His concentration was not helped by the steady thump thump thump of music from the flat upstairs.  It was now eleven-thirty; he had started work at just before ten, and even before then the people in the flat above had been playing their music at what must have been full volume.

Tom couldn’t think straight. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered. Pushing his laptop aside, he stormed out of his flat and up the stairs. He was surprised none of the other tenants had complained yet; maybe they were waiting for him.

As he climbed the stairs the noise got louder and louder.  The occupants moved in only two or three weeks ago, and Tom had seen very little of them.  A guy with long hair and beard, late twenties maybe, and a girl, punk type, maybe the same age.

Tom banged on the door.  No answer.  He banged again, and the punk girl opened the door. She was dressed in what seemed like a night shirt: down to her knees, black with some food  stains down the  front, over the
Nuke a Gay Whale
legend on the front of the shirt. She was eating a bowl of cereal, and squinted at him.

‘Yeah?’ she mumbled, through a mouthful of cereal.

‘Does that music have to be so loud?’ Tom called out.  He hadn’t intended to shout, but had to in order to hear himself over the noise.

She looked at him blankly, as if her brain was processing what he had said.  Then it seemed to register. ‘Oh, no; guess not.’

‘Then would you mind turning it down just a little?  I’m trying to work.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ she mumbled again through her cereal, and shouldered the door shut.  Momentarily the volume of the music dropped and Tom turned away to go downstairs, but as he reached the third step the volume increased, to louder than before.

Tom swore; rushing back to the flat door, he banged on the stained wood five, maybe six times. ‘Hey, the noise!’

The volume dropped again. Tom waited outside the door a couple of minutes, then walked slowly back down to his flat, waiting for the music to be turned up again, but it did not.   As he reached his floor an elderly lady dressed in an apron was standing at her door, across the landing from his.  It was Mrs da Costa.

‘Glad you told them, Tom boy,’ Mrs da Costa said.  ‘I was just going up there myself.’

‘Sure you were,’ joked Tom, running his left hand through his hair.  ‘No need to worry now.’

‘That’s good,’ said the old lady as she closed her door.

Tom poured himself another coffee and returned to his dining table and his thesis.  He could still hear the music, but it was much softer than before. As he returned to his screen he realised it was not the volume of the music which had been disturbing him, it was the beat, as his flat still shook, with each beat, albeit not so much as before.

He considered going back up there, but decided it was time for a lunch break.

*****

After a corned beef sandwich, Tom returned to his thesis.  As he began to tackle the subject of supply and demand, he noticed that the music had stopped.   He stopped working for a moment, and looked up from his screen.  Yes, no noise from upstairs.  Thank goodness for that; now let’s try and catch up.

Inspired by the silence and three more black coffees, Tom made good progress with his thesis, until four, when his phone rang.   Tutting, he was about to ignore it, when he saw who the caller was.  It was Lisa.  His ex-wife. 

Tom and Lisa met when they were at university together. They married very young, and the marriage lasted three years.   Her idea, but on reflection it was a miracle it had lasted so long.  Even Tom would admit they were too young when they married.  The marriage was Lisa’s idea: she went to a Catholic school and Tom suspected she felt guilty about sleeping with him when they weren’t married.  Tom just went along with it. 

Anyway, they still kept in touch.  Sort of.

He picked up. ‘Hello, stranger.’

‘Tom?  It’s Lisa.’

‘I know, how are you?’

‘I’m okay, sort of.  Look, I -’

‘Lisa, can you speak up, I can’t hear you very well. Are you whispering?’

‘Tom, listen, I can’t talk for long.’

‘Okay. What is it? What’s up?’

‘Can you meet me this evening?’

‘Yeah, sure.  Where?’

Lisa paused a beat.

‘You know that coffee shop round the corner from Waterloo Station?’

‘That Italian place? Sure, I know it. You want to meet there?’

‘If you can. I need to talk to you.  Talk something over with you.  Is that all right?’

‘Of course it’s all right.  Lisa, are you in some sort of trouble?’

‘Just need to talk with you.’

‘Talk now if you want.’

‘No, it’s best face to face.  Can I meet you there about six?’

‘Six is fine. What’s it about?’

Lisa had hung up.

Tom looked at his phone, pressed the red End Call button and slowly put the phone down on the table. That was a strange call, he thought. What the hell did she want to talk to him about?  That she had to do face to face? Surely she didn’t want reconciliation.  Maybe she did: she always had a sense of the melodramatic.

He checked his watch.  It was four-fifteen.  To get to Waterloo by six he needed to leave his flat about five, so he needed to get ready soon.  In any case, he couldn’t concentrate on his thesis now.

He made another coffee, raided his fridge for a sausage roll, showered, and left his flat just before five. It was a six minute walk to his nearest tube station at Willesden Junction, North London, and then a Bakerloo Line journey down to Waterloo Station.  His train journey was without any delay, and it was ten to five when he reached the top of the escalator at Waterloo. Walking across the concourse, he looked out for any sign of Lisa.  He assumed she was at work today, and that she still worked in London’s Docklands. If his assumptions were correct, she would catch a Jubilee Line train direct from Canary Wharf to Waterloo, so they might meet before they got to the coffee shop.   Trying to think of the name of the coffee shop, he reached the other end of the concourse, and walked down the steps to Spur Road, and on to Lower Marsh, where
La Sette -
that was the name: means thirst, Lisa told him once - was.

He reached and walked down Lower Marsh to where
La Sette
was now
Café Nero
. Oh, well, he thought, that’s progress. He got himself a coffee and sat down to wait for Lisa. He checked his watch: it was just after six.

Six-thirty: he took the last sip of his coffee and no Lisa. He rang her mobile and it went to voicemail.

‘Hey Lisa, it’s Tom.  I thought we were meeting at six.  Maybe I got the time wrong. Give me a call when you can.’

He hung up and bought another coffee.  He sat down and worked out how many coffees he had drunk that day: he figured this was number twelve.  Shuddering, he started to drink it.

Seven ten, and still no sign of Lisa.  He rang her again, and still got voicemail. ‘Hey Lisa, Tom again. Look, maybe I got the day wrong.  You know me.  I’m going to set off home now.  Give me a call or text when you can.’

He wandered back to the station, picked up a
Metro
free paper from the stand at the tube station entrance.  He glanced at the whiteboard next to the paper stand - the board gave updates for the tube lines running through Waterloo: Waterloo & City
Good Service
; Northern
Good Service
; Jubilee
Delays due to incident at Green Park
; Bakerloo
Good Service
.  Great, he thought; should be home in time for eight.  Will be able to catch
Law & Order
.

*****

Sure enough, Tom was home in time for
Law & Order
. He called in at an Indian takeaway on the way from Willesden tube to his flat, and picked up a chicken curry on the way home.  He didn’t feel like cooking.

Once in his flat, he poured himself a beer, got out the curry, and sprawled out in front of the television.  After his favourite show had finished, he gathered up the takeaway containers, and crammed them into his kitchen rubbish bin. He stretched and yawned. He was tired: not sure why; all he had done was a few pages of thesis and an abortive trip to Waterloo. Maybe it was the coffee wearing off....

He was just about to switch off the television when he thought he would give Lisa just one more try. He rang her number, expecting to get her voicemail again. Just about to start his
Hey Lisa it’s Tom
speech when she answered.  Or so he thought.

‘Hello, who is this?’ Her voice sounded different.

‘Lisa, it’s Tom. Where were you today?’

‘Who is this, please?’ came a voice.

‘What? Lisa, what are you -’

‘Who is this calling Lisa Kennedy’s phone?’ The same voice again.

Lisa Kennedy?  Tom still hadn’t got used to Lisa reverting to her maiden name. 

‘I ask again: who is calling Lisa Kennedy?’ The voice became more insistent.

‘Tom - Tom Raymond.  A friend of Lisa’s.  Her ex-husband, actually.  Who is this?’ Tom decided to get more insistent.

There was a moment’s pause.

‘Mr Raymond.  My name is Sergeant Mary Green of the British Transport Police.’

Tom’s heart missed a beat. ‘Transport Police?  What are you doing with Lisa’s phone?’

‘Mr Raymond? Are you able to call into the station?  We are in Whitfield Street W1, do you know it?’

‘I asked what’s happened to Lisa,’ Tom blurted out, panic stricken.

‘Ms Kennedy has been involved in an incident,’ Sergeant Green replied. ‘At Green Park station.’

‘Green Park?’ Tom spluttered, trying to think what she could be doing there - it wasn’t on her route to Waterloo. ‘What happened?’

‘She - she fell underneath a train,’ the sergeant answered slowly.

‘Under a train?  How could -? I mean, how is she?’

‘I am so sorry,’ she replied. ‘Ms Kennedy died at the scene.’