Fragile Minds

‘See, this little thing arrives at the Academy around 6.47.’

Silver watched a short teenage girl in a beanie hat enter via the front stairs, holding a gym bag. At 6.49 another taller woman, using a stick, walking as quickly as her limp allowed, came out and, standing at the top of the Academy stairs, made two calls, scanning the square as she did so. Then she went back into the building.

‘Tessa Lethbridge possibly? TBC. About five minutes later, the girl comes back outside, apparently to have a cigarette. Then this courier bike arrives,’ Malloy pointed at the screen, ‘and hands her this package; she goes back inside at 7.03.’

Silver found the flickering footage made him feel almost seasick.

‘Now look.’ At 7.08 a white car drove up, an old Golf, stopping outside the Academy, the driver apparently on a mobile phone.

‘Who’s that?’

‘No fucking reg of course, from this angle.’ Malloy cracked his knuckles. ‘But we need to identify him.’

Two minutes later a couple of builders in hard hats and yellow high-visibility jackets walked past the Academy, presumably heading for the Hotel Concorde building site in the adjacent corner.

On the other side of the road, a figure in a full-length burqa pushed an empty pushchair to the edge of the pavement, then began to cross the road. Silver found he was riveted despite his slight nausea. A car passed through frame, then a black Range Rover. The figure in the Golf saw the girl come out of the Academy doors again, holding up a hand in greeting as she ran down the stairs to the pavement, and then a figure follow behind her, but before their identity was revealed, a double-decker bus pulled in front of the camera, obscuring any view.

Another thirty seconds: and the picture went white.

‘What the hell—’ Silver sat back, intensely frustrated, as if he’d just missed the end of his favourite soap opera.

‘Exactly. What the hell? The only people visible to us in the square and they hardly look like your typical group of fundamentalists do they?’

‘Except burqa-girl.’

They replayed the video. This time Silver noticed the way the girl smoking a cigarette outside of the Academy, who had accepted the courier’s parcel, was pacing back and forth as she waited. He watched again as the woman in the burqa seemed to react to something behind her.

‘Of course, burqa-girl might be totally unlinked.’ Malloy scratched his head, his grey crew-cut like burnt stubble in a field. ‘It’s just she seems obvious to me. Why’s the pushchair empty? It’s just a foil, surely. But Counter Terrorism disagree. And upstairs, they’re so fucking paranoid about inciting religious hatred at the moment, they won’t say boo to a goose, which don’t help.’

‘But then,’ Silver rubbed his face wearily, ‘there’s no actual evidence from any of that, that any of them are directly linked to the explosion.’

‘No, of course. But what the fuck were they up to?’ Malloy slammed the laptop lid shut with a thump. ‘Strike ’em off the list, and I’ll be happy. We need to find all of them: the courier bike and the bloke in the car, burqa-girl, and the dancer. And fucking pronto. Christ, Joe,’ he stood up and then sat again. ‘We’ve got fourteen dead, the fucking world’s media breathing down our necks, not to say the Commissioner and everyone at County Hall. I’m setting you up a new team; take Roger Okeke and Tina Price for now.’

Silver felt the surge of adrenaline that came with a new investigation. Okeke was good; young and baying for blood; Price was new but came with good reviews from Southampton. And now Kenton seemed back on track after her initial shock. It was shaping up to be a nice little team. Except, perhaps, for Craven.

‘While we wait for Explosives to pull their heads out of their tiny little arses, we need to identify who this little lot are,’ Malloy’s blue eyes were burning, ‘and what the fuck they were up to before they got blown to kingdom come.’

Silver felt enthused for the first time in weeks.

‘Get on with it, Joe.’ Malloy’s attention was already distracted by an email. ‘And take the CCTV footage with you. You need to liaise with Counter Terrorism. I need fucking results, and I need ’em yesterday.’

Five days on from the bombing, the phones in the office still rang incessantly: frantic relatives who hadn’t seen loved ones for weeks or even months and were now beginning to panic. The vast divisions of family became more obvious at times like these, Silver knew; loved ones ignored for years suddenly became the world’s nearest and dearest. The help lines were so busy they kept jamming, and eventually some of the Traffic team had to be seconded in to answer calls.

Lessons had been learnt from 7/7 and the chaos that had ensued then, but for the Met, a disaster like this was still a nebulous mass that was hard to manage. They had to think on their feet; very often, frustratingly, they had to chase their own tails.

When Silver returned from Malloy’s office, Kenton was filling in the whiteboard at the end of the room with today’s date and updating the lists.

MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD

Silver called Kenton over.

‘How are you?’

‘Fine, sir.’ She practically stood to attention. He grinned. He liked this girl; despite her dodgy hair, she was as solid as her stocky frame; diligent – with fire in her belly.

‘Here’s some CCTV footage of the bombing. I think you should take a look, if you can cope with it? See if you recognise anyone.’

She paled slightly, but nodded at the same time. ‘Sure.’

‘Did you see Merryweather?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well. The facility is there if you need it. Don’t forget.’

‘Thanks.’

‘By the way. Misty Jones.’ Silver straightened his cuff with nonchalance. ‘The girl you were going to Crime Live! about. Have you got details of whoever reported her missing?’

‘Girl called Lucie Duffy, I think.’ Kenton frowned. ‘Flatmate, and yeah. Everything filed in the A drive, under Contacts.’

In the safety of his own office, Silver called the mobile number listed. A girl answered sotto-voce, piano music thumping in the background; he explained who he was.

‘I’m in rehearsal, I can’t really talk now,’ she murmured.

‘I need some more details. Why you think your friend’s missing.’

‘I’m on lunch in an hour. Can I call you back then please?’

‘Where are you, Miss Duffy?’

‘Covent Garden. Royal Opera House.’ She had a small, rather husky voice. ‘Tech run for Swan Lake at 4 p.m.’

Silver had no idea what she was on about. He unwrapped another stick of gum. ‘I’ll meet you there. One o’clock.’

‘Fine. Ask for Rehearsal Room 3.’ She hung up.

Silver should have sent one of his team; Misty Jones was nothing to do with Operation Nightingale, and he had more important matters at hand. The beauty was, though, no one would stop him. Before he got on with the bigger questions in hand, he had to satisfy himself that Misty Jones had no connection with Jaime Malvern.

Silver sent half of his team out on various dead and missing enquiries, including tracing the family of Australian ballet teacher Lethbridge, one of the first to be identified, who were proving elusive. Kenton and Craven were given the CCTV footage and the task of beginning to identify those featured. Silver wasn’t sure they’d work together well, but Kenton was a good foil for the bull-headed older policeman – if she could bear his outdated chauvinism. Now Silver headed out himself. Parking up near Holborn he walked the last half mile. Rehearsal Room 3 was on the top floor of the Royal Opera House; he was in good enough shape to jog up most of the stairs without being out of breath. Or much out of breath anyway, he thought ruefully, on the top step.

Through the glass-paned door he watched a slight mixed-race girl with dark plaits being whisked up into the air by a strapping youth in shorts so tight they made Silver wince. The ballerina’s back arched until she was curved almost fully into a circle, her short practice skirt rippling as one strong shapely leg extended gracefully before her. Silver had not the first clue about ballet and even less interest, but even he could recognise this as impressive. Lana would have enjoyed it. He remembered Molly trundling round the church hall aged five in her little pink leotard with a tummy swelling gently over her frilly skirt, constantly wobbling the opposite way to everyone else as the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy was crashed out on the ancient piano, and he grinned. Happy days. Lana had high hopes for her only daughter – bright lights, big cities; chances she’d never had – chances a relentless diet of reality talent shows had rendered seemingly attainable. Hopes that most definitely weren’t ever going to be fulfilled by flat-footed Molly in the performance arts.

Satin-clad feet firmly back on the ground, Lucie Duffy had a quick discussion with her partner, who was annoyed about something. He was wiping his face on his muscled forearm, gesticulating and swearing in heavily accented English. Lucie placated him, stroking and patting him gently on the chest, before she caught Silver’s eye through the glass door.

She padded over with a towel round her neck, smooth caramel cheeks faintly pink, still panting slightly. Sweat had collected in the cleavage of her silver leotard and there were damp patches beneath her pert bosom as if someone with wet hands had placed them around her breasts. Silver looked away.

‘Sorry. Bit out of breath.’ She blinked up at him, her huge grey eyes framed by doll-like lashes. ‘We’ve really got to nail this today or we’re in trouble. Kiko is fed up with me.’ She blinked again, bottom lip almost quivering; like a true innocent. ‘He’s such a flipping perfectionist. He hates the way I lean in for the lifts.’