She took out her phone and saw, with a mixture of relief and anxiety, that she had a new Snapchat message. It was a photo of the café inside the bowling place, with another caption. ‘I’m here, waiting.’
Wendy had changed into her teenage disguise at the station: skinny jeans and a parka with a furry hood, trainers and the make-up that, she hoped, made her look ten years younger. She pushed through the double doors of the bowlplex and headed towards the café.
The noise in here was incredible. From the back came the clatter of bowling balls, the crash of scattering pins, whoops of delight and groans of disappointment. Above that came the cacophony of noise from the arcade machines that took up a large area – driving games and air hockey, machines that spat out chains of tickets that could be exchanged for cheap prizes. A woman stood feeding coins into one of those machines with a large claw, trying to win an Angry Birds toy. The place was full of teenagers and kids who, Wendy thought, should be at home in bed at this hour. There were even some toddlers running about.
But there was no sign of anyone who might be Mockingjay365. She scanned the tables in the café. Lots more teens and families scoffing burgers and soggy-looking pizzas. The smell of nachos reached her nostrils and her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since she’d had a dry egg and cress sandwich at lunchtime.
Where the hell was Mockingjay?
Right on cue, her phone beeped. She had a new Snapchat message. It was a photo of a car park. The caption read: Im in the car park round back. My ex is in Rotunda. Dont want him to see me!!
Wendy tutted. This was getting ridiculous now. But she walked back up the stairs to the ground floor and pushed through the double doors into the freezing air.
She strode along the pavement by the one-way system, eyeing the cars and buses moving in the same direction, wishing she was cocooned inside a warm vehicle, not out here in the bitter wind. There were plenty of people around, mostly teenagers heading in and out of the Rotunda, but as Wendy turned right towards the back of the bowlplex, the noise from the cars and people dropped away to be replaced by near-silence.
Wendy checked her phone again, then looked around her. She was standing in a residential road around the back of the Rotunda. Across the road was a car park on the ground floor of what looked like private flats. That must be where Mockingjay was waiting for her.
Wendy hesitated. It not only went against her police training but her instincts as a woman: you didn’t go into dark, deserted places like this on your own. She badly wanted to talk to Mockingjay – the girl was her only potential lead – but how did she know she could trust her? She could be anyone.
She sent Mockingjay another message. I’m outside the car park. Come out. There’s no-one else here. No need to be scared.
There was no response. Still holding her phone, Wendy made a decision. She would call DI Lennon, let him know what she was doing. He’d given her his mobile number in case she had anything important to tell him. Well, this qualified.
His phone rang five or six times before he answered.
‘Boss? It’s Wendy . . . Listen, I . . .’
‘Oh, Wendy. Is it life or death?’
Wendy hesitated. She heard a woman’s voice calling Patrick impatiently.
‘I’m at the Rotunda in Kingston. I think I’ve made contact with—’
Again, she heard a woman calling Patrick at the other end of the phone line, saying something about a door. Wendy felt a flash of embarrassment. She shouldn’t be calling him, spoiling his birthday dinner.
‘I’m really sorry, Wendy. Can I call you back in thirty minutes?’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry to disturb you, boss.’
‘No problem. I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Happy birth—’
But he had hung up. While she was talking to him, a teenage boy had come out of the car park, fiddling with the waist of his low-hanging trousers, a cat-that-got-the-cream look on his face. He smirked at Wendy as he walked past her and she turned to see him swagger towards the road.
Fuck this, she thought. The car park was reasonably well lit and Wendy knew how to handle herself. She wanted to talk to Mockingjay, find out if the girl was a complete time-waster, and head home to that bubble bath and bottle of wine. She strode towards the car park and squeezed around the barrier.
‘Hello?’ she called.
No response.
She walked farther into the car park. Where the hell was the stupid girl? She took her phone out of her pocket again and started to tap out a message to Mockingjay.
A noise came from beside the far wall, where it was almost pitch dark. Broken glass crunching under her feet indicated that there had once been lights above her. Wendy strained to see, imagined her mum saying that if she’d eaten her carrots, she’d be able to see in the dark. She took another step forwards.
‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Mockingjay? What are you playing at?’
A shape appeared from behind a car, moving fast and, at the same time Wendy registered that this was no teenage girl, this wasn’t the person she’d been chasing, she felt a sharp, hot pain close to her heart. Then another.
And then she was falling, her palms clutching her chest, her dying mind refusing to process the facts, that the warm liquid on her hands was her own blood, that the person who had stabbed her stopped for a moment to look down at her. They had crouched and taken the phone from her hands before running away.
As her life slipped from her she was vaguely aware of another figure – brown skin, wide eyes, a teenage girl; Mockingjay? – crouching beside her, saying ‘OhJesusohJesusohJesus’ while Wendy tried, and failed, to ask for help. Her life didn’t flash before her eyes. All she felt was disbelief, and then nothing.
PART TWO
Chapter 33
Day 10 – Carmella
Carmella and Jenny stood hand in hand outside the Lennons’ front door. In their spare hands Jenny held a bunch of white roses and purple sweetpeas and Carmella a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet, the sweat from her palm making the cold bottle’s condensation even more slippery.
‘I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? Are we late?’ Carmella said in a low voice, tucking the bottle tightly under her armpit so she could fish her phone out of her pocket and check the time – 8.25 p.m. They weren’t late.
Whenever she felt tense, the scar at the side of her belly where the bullet had grazed her began to feel stretched and achy, and it was really taut now, even though it was a year on. To take her mind off it, she surveyed the small, modern house, Patrick’s bronze Prius in the driveway the only feature distinguishing it from the other identical houses in the cul-de-sac.
‘Why are you nervous?’ Jenny grinned at her. ‘I’m not nervous, and I’ve never met any of these people before.’
‘I think I’m just worried that Pat will freak, having us all over for dinner when he didn’t know about it. It’s just so not—’
‘Hey,’ Jenny interrupted, as a shadow loomed towards the other side of the frosted glass panel front door. She leaned across and hastily kissed Carmella on the lips. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, wife,’ she whispered.
‘Happy’ – Carmella, smiling, was about to say the same – even though they had already exchanged cards and handmade gifts when they got in from work – but when Patrick opened the door, slipping his mobile into his pocket as he did so, she changed it – ‘birthday, boss!’ She thrust the bottle towards him. ‘Sorry it’s not wrapped. Um, hello? Are you OK?’