Resonance (39 page)

Everything was great and everybody loved Annalise. The police, the paper, Jenny.

"What about the ParaDim story?" asked Annalise as the bubbles settled.

"Great story. We're really keen. Though it's going to take longer to research without documentary proof."

"What about the disappearance of Kevin and the two scientists?"

"ParaDim says they know nothing about it." Jenny shrugged and took another sip of champagne. "It's going to be difficult to prove otherwise without more evidence. Can't you hack in and download evidence of ParaDim's activities?"

"No," said Annalise, thinking quickly. "They've blocked all their internal files."

"But you do have access to the crime files?"

"Census files," corrected Annalise. "Why?"

"Nothing. Have you seen the papers today?"

Was she changing the subject?

"No," said Annalise.

"There's a big political scandal. It's been going on for days. A government minister accused of corruption. You know, the usual story—did he, didn't he?"

Annalise waited for the question.

"But you'd know, wouldn't you? If he did or not? You could look it up on the crime . . . sorry," she corrected herself, "the Census database."

She looked so innocent—Jenny—even her eyes appeared to hold nothing back. An innocent question between friends over a glass of wine.

"You want me to find out?"

"Only if you have no objections. We'd make it worth your while, of course."

Was this how it started? The slippery slope into temptation. New Tech weapons are a good story but here's a bunch of better ones. Next, someone'll say—"Hey, why bust ParaDim's ass when they're the ones with the golden database that solves crime and boosts our circulation?"

"Perhaps next week," said Annalise. "The files need time to be updated. Anything I did now would only uncover half the story."

The doorbell rang.

Both women looked over their shoulders.

"Were you expecting anyone?" Jenny asked.

"No," said Annalise, darting a look towards Jenny. "Who else knows we're here?"

"I've told no one, I swear."

Annalise put down her glass and leaned forward to stand up. Jenny stopped her. "I'll handle this. You hide in the bedroom."

Annalise pulled the bedroom door open and peered across the lounge towards the front door.

Jenny slid the chain into place and opened the front door a crack.

"Dave?" she said, taken aback. "What are you doing here?"

"What are
you
doing here?" came the policeman's muffled reply. "I was told
this
girl lives here."

There was a pause. Annalise could see Jenny looking at something—a picture, a photograph—something small that Dave pushed through the gap in the door.

"It's late, Dave," Jenny said, returning the picture. "I told you earlier. She'll talk to you when she's ready and only through a lawyer."

"
This
girl? She's your source?" He sounded shocked.

"Dave, whatever it is, it can wait. Now go. She's not talking and that's final."

"I'm sorry, Jenny, but I'm not here to interview her. I'm here to arrest her."

Annalise almost fell through the door in surprise.

"What for?" said Jenny, her voice rising.

"For the attempted murder of Adam Sylvestrus."

Annalise felt like she'd been hit by a truck. She didn't see the front door open or the two policemen walk in. She was somewhere else, suspended in disbelief, trying to figure out how her crazy world could have possibly become any crazier.

"Miss Mercado?" said a male voice.

Annalise's eyes refocused to find two men standing a few feet away from her.

"Don't say a word," said Jenny from the middle of the room. She had a phone in her hand. "I'm calling a lawyer."

"Miss Mercado?" repeated the taller of the two men, though looking at them both there was little to choose between them—both were tall, thick-set and wearing suits that looked as though they'd been slept in for days.

"What?" she said.

"Annalise Mercado, I'm arresting you in connection with the attempted murder of Adam Sylvestrus . . ."

The preprepared statement droned on. The policeman's voice monotonous and barely punctuated with a breath let alone emotion. In the background, she could hear Jenny remonstrating with a lawyer, telling him to put his dinner in the oven and get the hell over to Ladbroke Road. She'd meet him there.

It all seemed so unreal.

"I didn't do anything," Annalise said to no one in particular.

"I know you didn't," said Jenny, appearing magically at her side and supporting her arm. She turned on the taller of the two men, presumably Dave, and asked him. "Who put you up to this?"

"No one put anyone up to anything," he replied. "This case is as cast iron as they come."

"I've never even met the man," said Annalise.

"We have twenty witnesses who disagree with you, miss."

"That's ridiculous. I've been here all day."

"But not Wednesday. On Wednesday you filled a waste bin with petrol, set light to it, threw it in Mr. Sylvestrus's car and slammed the door shut."

Annalise sat in the back seat of the police car. Numbed. They'd known her name. She hadn't told anyone her name. Not the paper, not the hotel, no one. She was Phoenix, she was Lisa Brown, she was anyone but Annalise Mercado.

Yet the police had both her name and address. An address she'd only moved to a few hours earlier. How? She'd covered her tracks so well.

She groaned when it came to her. She'd given Jenny three names to prove her story—Kevin, Howard and Tamisha. A reporter would have rung ParaDim and asked questions. Even a harmless request for confirmation of employment would have rung alarm bells. Those three names linked together in a single enquiry. A newspaper asking questions before they'd even been declared missing.

She held her head in her hands. How could she have been so stupid!

But how had that led anyone to her flat? Were they tracing all calls made by
Sketch
reporters? Were they having them followed?

Graham!

Panic! Was her arrest a ploy to isolate Graham? Get her out of the way so they could get to him unhindered? She'd asked Jenny to stay with him and not to open the door to anyone but would that be enough?

Had she now put Jenny at risk?

"You have to put a police guard on the flat," she shouted at the two men in the front of the car.

Neither of them so much as looked round.

"Jenny's in danger," she implored. "If you're a friend, Dave, you'll help her. The least you can do is call and warn her. Tell her not to open the door to anyone. Not to a doctor, not to anyone. Tell her they'll be plausible. Tell her to check the windows . . ."

"Tell her yourself," Dave said, handing her his cell phone. "Just do it quietly."

She grabbed the phone. If ParaDim was scanning the call she'd give them something to think about. She'd make sure they knew that Jenny was a high-profile reporter who'd not only be missed if anything happened to her, but had been warned that same night in front of police witnesses that ParaDim was after her.

And she'd tell Jenny to look in the top drawer of her dresser. She might not be able to mention the gun over the phone but she'd make damn sure Jenny had some protection.

Annalise sat at a battered table in a police interview room. Waiting. Counting the minutes as they ticked relentlessly towards Saturday. A bare light burned into her eyes and glared off the stark white walls. Everything was so quiet. The woman police constable by the door stared into space, not saying a word.

The door opened. A dapper middle-aged man in a suit and what looked like a paisley waistcoat came in, his broad red face showing advanced signs of five o'clock shadow.

"Miss Mercado?" he said, holding out his hand. "Jerry Saddler. I'll be representing you."

He placed his briefcase on the table and released the catches. "I'll have you out of here within the hour."

He took her briefly through the charges and the procedures.

"Let them know you have nothing to say and the interview will proceed the quicker for it. Remember, do not volunteer information. It's up to them to make their case; you don't have to help them."

Advice Annalise ignored within five seconds of the interview starting.

"I'm the victim, not Adam Sylvestrus," she said, stabbing her index finger against the table.

"You threw a burning waste bin into his car," said the younger of the two policemen—a Sergeant Davis? Something like that. Annalise's thoughts had been elsewhere when they'd introduced themselves.

"To stop them pushing Graham into the back of their car!"

Her lawyer leaned over and whispered in her ear, "I really think . . ."

She brushed him away and continued without pausing. "I had to stop them getting Graham into the car. Once he was inside, they'd have killed him. Didn't your witnesses tell you about the guy with the gun stuck in Graham's back?"

She looked from face to face. Didn't they believe her? Hadn't they interviewed the other witnesses?

"Can I have a moment alone with my client?" asked Jerry.

"I don't need a moment alone. I'm innocent and can prove it."

"You're saying that Adam Sylvestrus was attempting to kidnap your friend?" asked Dave.

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Because he's obsessed with him. You ask at the DTI, where Graham works." She paused and leaned over the table, tapping on the piece of paper the sergeant was making notes on. "Graham Smith," she said slowly. "He's a messenger at the DTI in Westminster Street. Sylvestrus wanted him to take medical tests. Wouldn't take no for an answer."

"So, if we talk to this Graham Smith he'll corroborate your story?"

Annalise stopped dead. She hadn't thought of that. The only Graham Smith who could corroborate her story was worlds away. The Graham Smith back at the flat had no recollection of the kidnap, the black car or the men. His Wednesday had been spent having a medical in Knightsbridge.

"Sure," she said, playing for time—nodding her head and smiling as she tried to think of a plausible reason for excusing Graham. "But at the moment he's terrified and doesn't trust anyone. He can barely talk." She looked at Jerry. "I'm sure the paper would want you to look after his interests as well as mine. You'll do that, won't you?"

Jerry agreed and made a note of Graham's name.

Annalise turned to Dave. "Can't you confirm events without his testimony? I can pick out the guys, the car, and there must be camera evidence. I can tell you everything you need."

She told them about Kevin, Howard and Tamisha. The meeting they'd had in May Street. How it had been broken up by men with guns. How she and Graham had barely escaped with their lives.

"Check the attic window at the back of the house on the corner of May Street. It's broken, from the outside. We had to break it to get in. Ask the company there about the fire alarm they had that afternoon. We set it off. Ask them about Graham; they'll recognize him."

She told them about the two fake policemen.

"Ask at the store. They had them arrested. They were working for Sylvestrus. They had fake IDs. Check the store cameras and you'll see them chasing us. Check the cameras outside and you'll see where the guy kidnaps Graham. Ask people about the guy who collapsed in the doorway and the other guy who said he was his doctor."

"Have you checked the CCTV cameras in the area, Chief Inspector?" asked Jerry.

"Not yet," said Dave curtly.

"What about the guy shooting at me? People must have seen that."

"The driver's already admitted to that," said the sergeant.

"For which he will be prosecuted," added Dave. "He says he overreacted when you tried to kill his employer." He paused and steepled his fingers. "His associate claims you also took his gun. Do you still have that gun, Miss Mercado?"

"It's at the flat," she said softly. "I didn't know what else to do with it."

But she hoped Jenny did.

Graham was on his knees, weeding the front garden, when Annalise Six arrived.

He'd calmed down since the night before. He'd thrown himself into every ritual he could think of. He'd played Patience for hours, filling every inch of his mind with red jacks and black queens. He'd sat on every disconcerting thought or emotion the moment they'd bubbled up. His little voice had helped. The other Grahams too. And the house.

"What are you doing here?" asked Annalise, leaning against the front gate. "Aren't you coming in today?"

He didn't look round. "I'd only be in the way," he said, pulling at the thin line of weeds protruding between the patio slabs.

"You'd never be in the way. We need you."

He looked up, suddenly concerned. "Has something happened?"

"No," she said, her lips coming together in the suggestion of a pout. "Not yet, but something will soon. Gary's sure of it."

Graham looked down at the mention of Gary's name and searched for another weed. It was happening again. He could feel it. His self-control eroding. The supporting strength of 200 billion Graham Smiths blown away by one pretty face.

But what a face.

He could see it beneath him, overlaid from his memory onto the white patio slab. Even as it faded he felt a tug on his neck muscles—involuntary, insistent—a desire to turn and refresh his memory, to fill his mind with the way she looked and smelled and moved and . . .

"Are you okay?" she said.

"I'm fine," he lied, swallowing hard. He felt awkward and stupid. He wanted to disappear, he wanted
her
to disappear, he wanted her to be next to him, to feel the warmth of her . . .

"Do you want a hand?" she asked. "Never had a garden myself but I'm a quick study. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it."

Why did she have to say that? Did she know? Could she read his thoughts?

He felt like banging his head on the paving slabs. His resolve had deserted him. He took a deep breath and tried to think of something else. Something neutral and calming. He felt a spot of rain, then another. His washing!