The Strange Death of Fiona Griffiths (35 page)

‘Nothing. Sorry. I just like the mountains.’

The road crosses the Pennines. High moorland and scudding clouds. Grass as tough as wire, hills as old as time.

Susan smiles. ‘I like them too. I used to do a lot of fell running.’

She drives.

When we reach some high point, we stop. Walk out into the pale green-gold. Susan pulls on a thick coat from the back of her car. She offers me a blanket, but I say I prefer to get cold. We sit on a rock and look at the universe. Feel the wind penetrate our bones.

She says, ‘It’s perfectly normal for people to have problems readjusting. There’s psychological support if you need it.’

‘You’re sweet, but these aren’t adjustment problems. They’re me-problems. I always have them.’

She says, ‘You looked nice in that dress. The last one.’

I realize I haven’t even asked her if she’s married, so I do and she is.

‘No kids yet, but we’ve only just started trying.’

She shows me photos on her phone. Her with hubby. Her at her wedding. I say she looks lovely and she does. Like some Celtic princess, all tumbling copper hair and skin the color of buttermilk. It’s not her looks I most envy, though, it’s her comfort. Her easy ability at being human. Her uncomplicated citizenship of Planet Normal.

As we drive back, towards Altrincham and a waiting Buzz, Susan says, ‘You know, it will go back to how it was. Once you start to realize that you’re not Fiona Grey any more.’

‘But I am.’

‘I know. The legend will always stay intact, but—’

‘That’s not what I mean. I mean that as far as Henderson is concerned I’m still Fiona Grey. I’m still potentially useful.’

The road curves over the mountains and demands attention, but even so Susan slips me a look.

‘Fiona Grey the payroll clerk was useful. But I don’t think you’re going to get many offers of employment in payroll now.’

I say, very quietly, ‘Yes, but they’ve got a distribution problem, haven’t they? Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about all week?’

Susan falls silent a moment, then says, just as quietly, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m a cleaner. I was a cleaner before I had anything to do with payroll. My firm services most of the big offices in Cardiff. You keep talking as though gaining physical access to these places were difficult. I walk into corporate IT suites every day. Physical access? I’m changing their bins. I’m under the desks giving their computers a good dust.’

There’s a lay-by up ahead of us. An dirt strip off the main road, with some wooden benches and green litter bins. Susan pulls over. Kills the engine.

She says, ‘How long have you thought about this?’

I shrug. I don’t really understand the question. When I first uncovered Kureishi’s role in that initial small fraud, it struck to me that the critical aspect of his work wasn’t that he was a computer expert: any fool can load a program onto a PC. What really mattered was his ability to enter corporate workplaces unchallenged, to sit at a computer without arousing suspicion. And a cleaner can go anywhere at all. That’s why I clung to that part of Fiona Grey’s legend. Did what I could to embrace and enlarge it.

I mutter something and we look out of the windscreen at low hills and a horizon starting to clot with rain. She says, ‘They might not take you back to the farmhouse.’

‘No. Not necessarily.’ But I think of Shoesmith’s slogan:
Specify, program, beta-launch, full launch. And test, test, test, test
. I can’t see Shoesmith, Henderson and the gang hitting the start button without one final round of testing. And they need me for that. Need me, if I’m still part of the team.

Susan follows my train of thought. She’s an IT type herself. She knows how these things work. She picks up her phone, gingerly, the way an Egyptologist handles papyrus. ‘You don’t have to go back. These things are always voluntary, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you OK if I call Adrian?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

I’m vaguely aware of Susan as she calls Brattenbury. Vaguely aware of what she says. But not really. The green-gold hills melt into a blackening distance and the first glimmer of lights. I’m going to spend the evening with Buzz. And today, perhaps, I found a wedding dress.

42.

I have what will be my last court appearance for a while. Greater Manchester Police have completed their investigation into the ‘stabbing’ and have accepted my self-defense story. South Wales is still charging me with fraud, but are about to accept that I am not a flight-risk and do not need to be held in pre-trial detention.

Winterton tells me that he thinks the CPS will have difficulty overcoming my self-protection defense and may prefer not to even try. ‘We’ll present you as a victim,’ he says. ‘Of domestic abuse. Of organized crime. Even the police. Juries don’t like convicting women at the best of times. I think we’ll be OK. If we can, we’ll get them to drop charges completely.’

I still don’t like him, but he’s a decent barrister.

I phone George Noble, my immigration lawyer. I want to know if my recent legal complications are going to be an issue for the New Zealand authorities.

He says, ‘You’ve been
charged
? What with?’

I tell him.

‘And Greater Manchester Police wanted to question you in connection with
what
,
exactly?’

I tell him.

‘Ah.’

‘Is this going to be a problem?’ I try to sound like a citizen wearily outraged at small-minded bureaucrats.

‘I’ll make some calls,’ he says and we hang up.

That same day, we get news from the Dyfed Powys Police. A girl’s body has been found, tangled in dock leaves and stinging nettles in a wet field margin. Death was by gunshot to the back of the head. Face beaten to a pulp to make identification difficult. But the body was put together with a MisPer report, and DNA comparisons identified the corpse as belonging to Tania Lewis, a student and occasional waitress from Llanybydder, near Lampeter.

Tania: usually shortened to Nia.

Llanybydder: definitely not in the arc of land where we think the barn and farmhouse lies.

The victim: the waitress who sorted out cigarettes and clothes for me. Who was nice to me. Who showed kindness.

The family: said that she was given occasional waitressing gigs by a conferencing firm who did corporate events. The conferencing firm was for real – based in Aberystwyth, does about a million pounds in turnover – but the gigs that came from Tinker were always shrouded in secrecy. The person who made the arrangements, Henderson at a guess, had said that there was a large corporate software deal being arranged. The deal-makers were working in secret because of past attempts to hack the organizations involved. Nia had been made to sign a confidentiality agreement, was picked up by a car with darkened windows. ‘A limo, very posh,’ the grieving father said. Nia never knew where she was taken, but had heard mutterings about Tregaron. She was paid well and looked after, so never really cared. She liked the thrill of being in on something big, however marginal her role.

Tregaron: another place nowhere close to the arc of land which has drawn our scrutiny.

The corpse: not just been badly beaten. Someone had used a stick to penetrate her, roughly. The girl’s vagina and uterus were badly damaged. The pathologist was neutral on whether the harm was done pre- or post-mortem, but our working assumption is that the injuries were added post-mortem to make the assault like a random sex-crime, not a cold-blooded murder. Although no semen was found to be present, it often isn’t, even at quite violent rape scenes.

Given the data we have, and a few further guesses, I think what happened was this. Tania Lewis was recruited as a waitress from an area remote from the farmhouse itself. She was given false information about the location. Normally, she did her work, was paid well, was driven back. On this occasion, however, my arrival gave her two things to gossip about. One: my scene with Henderson. Two: when she went for clothes, she found herself driving, or being taken, to Ebbw, which isn’t close to Tregaron at all. Both of those things could have been explained away. Neither of them would have sent Lewis to the police. But Henderson – or one of his colleagues – decided that the risk of loose conversation was nevertheless too great and tied off that loose end in his own inimitable way.

In short: my actions at the farmhouse triggered Nia’s death. That knowledge plucks at me – it can’t not – but I don’t feel guilty, or not really. Henderson is the killer. My own role was close to incidental.

But the corpses are stacking up. Hayley Morgan: an accident, almost. Saj Kureishi: a violent punishment. A warning. Nia Lewis: the snipping of a stray thread. The erasure of a minor error.

And Roy Williams? Corpse or prisoner? I don’t know. I do see Katie Williams, who comes up to the Altrincham house specially. She cries a lot. Asks questions, most of which I can’t answer. I tell her that I’m sure we’ll get him back. Tell her that we have the best people on the job. How much Jackson and others respect her husband.

‘Oh I know,’ Katie interrupts. ‘Roy always told me you were special. I mean …’

She hesitates, wondering how much truth is acceptable in this context. I spare her the embarrassment.

‘You mean, I’m a bit weird, but good at my job. That’s OK. I
am
a bit weird.’

‘Mr. Jackson told me that you were in the place where they’ve got Roy.’

‘Yes. At least we think so.’

‘And it wasn’t … it wasn’t …?’

‘No. It was very nice. Very tidy, very clean. Quite luxurious really. And these people aren’t animals. They wouldn’t hurt someone for no reason. And we aren’t going to give them a reason.’

‘Thank you.’

Katie cries again. There’s something about her peaches-and-cream complexion to which tears are very suited. Raindrops on roses.

When she’s about to leave, she makes a little speech. Pre-prepared, I think. ‘If you see him, tell him …’

However much preparation went into that speech, her sobs spoiled it. But I get the gist. She loves him. Always has, always will. Admires him so much. He’s been such a good dad. Such a good husband. If I weren’t almost incapable of tears, I’d be crying too. I rub her back and get kitchen towel for her eyes.

I watch her leave and stand waving till her car vanishes round the bend.

Call Brattenbury. Ask, ‘Do you have enough on Henderson to secure a life sentence?’

He starts to bullshit me, but he knows me well enough by now to know that I don’t do well with bullshit.

I interpret. ‘Basically, we’ll press for a conspiracy to murder conviction. We might get it or we might not.’

‘That’s about right. We’ll get him on a humungous fraud charge, though. A twenty-year stretch, minimum.’

I don’t say much to that, but I come away with another item for my to-do list. Secure enough evidence on Henderson that we secure a conviction for murder. The death of Tania Lewis demands nothing less.

And finally, my Manchester visit is due to end. Buzz and I are to go out for our final evening here. Italian food. Candles. Carnations. Waiters with giant pepper grinders. We say all the right things to each other, but the pull of separation is already on us. I’m too much Fiona Grey, too little Fiona Griffiths. I try to unscramble my head, but find it hard.

Buzz as usual is patient. That unfathomable patience.

At the end of the evening, I slip my engagement ring off and give it to him.

‘This’ll be the last time,’ he says.

‘Yes.’ I don’t know if that’s true, but I agree anyway. ‘Thank you for letting me do all this.’

I wave my hand. A gesture that mostly includes check tablecloths and Mancunian diners, but is intended to mean the entire Fiona Grey adventure.

‘That’s OK, love. I think you were right. It was something you had to do. Get it out of your system.’

One of those optimistic Buzz beliefs: that doing this is another solid step in my confident progress towards Ms. Normal. I try to feel whether I’ve got anything out of my system, but I get confused between Fiona Grey and Fiona Griffiths and just say yes and look down at my hands and feel muddled.

At ten this evening, a patrol car will take me back to Cheadle Heath. Early tomorrow morning, I’ll be released from detention and permitted to return to Cardiff. My passport has been seized and I’ll have to report to the police every week, but I’ll be a free woman once again.

Free to re-enter the world of Fiona Grey.

But I’m not just going back. I’m going deeper.

43.

I find Henderson as he emerges from the osteopath’s. There’s a flight of stairs coming down. A black painted door facing onto the street. And I’m there, just outside the doorway, sitting on a bit of dirty sleeping bag, folded double. I’m smoking a joint. He doesn’t see me as he emerges and he almost kicks me as he tries to stop himself falling.

‘Hi, Vic.’

‘Fiona.’

He’s instantly wary. Doesn’t know how I found him. Is worried that there are cops or cameras watching.

‘You don’t seem very pleased to see me.’

‘It’s always nice to see you.’

His eyes flick left and right. Checking sightlines. Checking for white vans that might hide surveillance squads.

There’s nothing there. Nothing except the video feed which will already have noted his presence, but which he certainly won’t be able to detect just by looking. That and two armed officers in plainclothes. I haven’t been able to pick them out, so I’m sure Henderson won’t be able to.

The armed escort is part of my deal with Brattenbury. Given the risk that Roy Williams may have given up my name under torture, Brattenbury only consented to let me return if I was within reach of police marksmen at all times. Previously, I only got the full treatment when I was meeting Henderson or one of his buddies. Now, it’ll be constant. Brattenbury tells me that only the Queen and the Prime Minister are as heavily guarded as I now am.

I’d prefer to travel light than travel this heavy, but I don’t make the rules. And either way, and perhaps for the very first time, I think we’re one step ahead.