Alias (15 page)

Freddie was obviously back – walking boots in the middle of the kitchen, sopping-wet rucksack by the back door – but out. Good. Last thing I wanted was banter. Liam had left a couple of messages. I texted back saying I was still feeling rough. I watched the news, lying on the sofa, as exhausted as if I’d run a marathon. I didn’t think about what had happened, because there was no point. I couldn’t abandon the plan because someone
might
have thought they recognised me.

Bed was extremely welcome.

Turned out that foolish Freddie had been on the Otley Run on Saturday night. Eighteen pubs, starting at Woodies Ale House. After three bouts of vomiting had punctuated Sunday morning, I decide to see if he was going to live.

‘Do you want something for your stomach?’ I asked through his door.

Groan.

‘Shall I leave you alone?’

Groan.

The most I’d ever drunk was three cans of cider
with Hugo – I didn’t much like the feeling. I tended to have one, to fit in, and then make it last. Bomb-makers with stolen identities and alcohol didn’t sound like an ideal combination anyway. I needed to keep my wits about me at all times. Who knew what other curveballs were coming my way?

The shock of hearing someone shout my name at the lecture was waning, replaced by frustration that my lab visit had been scuppered. Without the right chemicals, I was nowhere.

For something to do, I walked to the lock-up – taking my list of names and addresses and the faces of the dead.

It was a relief, on Monday morning, to settle down to the routine tasks a customer services agent at a worldwide courier company has to perform. As usual, I made sure I didn’t whizz through everything too quickly – didn’t want to show up the others. At eleven, I offered to get coffees, which was just an excuse for a breath of fresh air and a chat. I didn’t ask Liam. There was a kind of understanding that we lowly types were in a round together. Management had their own.

‘Thanks, Saffron,’ said Elisa. ‘Do you want to have lunch today?’

‘OK, but do you mean lunch or Topshop?’

‘Lunch. But cheap.’

‘Fancy a tandoori chicken flatbread?’

‘Now you mention it …’

Before we went I had a quiet half-hour, so I typed the letter that was going to the journalists, using the words I’d been crafting in my head for weeks. I was ahead of myself, but didn’t want to have to rush when it got nearer the time. I printed six, erased the document and locked the papers in my cabinet.

‘Come on, then, Saff.’

I took Elisa to the café I’d taken refuge in on my first day at work. Elisa was in full flow when, like déjà vu, the round head of Dan Langley’s lawyer appeared once more on the telly. I was freaked out. Fate was playing games.

I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten that it was 23rd June – extradition day. The whole of the café watched in silence.

Astonishingly, the courts had decided to pack Dan off to the States. Judging by the report, it was totally unexpected. His age, his ‘innocence’, the fact that his actions saved the lives of Londoners, all counted for nothing versus the Americans’ desire to blame someone. Dan was nowhere to be seen, but his lawyer gave a rousing speech, pledging to fight and fight.

‘I feel really sorry for him,’ said Elisa.

‘Me too,’ I said.

Elisa went back to her frame-by-frame description of Saturday night, complete with vomit, walking in bare feet on broken glass and two taxis refusing to give her a lift. I sat there wondering if Dan Langley was in a cell somewhere, regretting what he’d done to me.

‘We’d better go,’ she said as she mopped her plate with the last corner of flatbread. ‘Don’t want Liam on my back.’

She winked, which I assumed was her way of letting me know that she had suspicions about us. I didn’t rise to the bait.

Bang on two o’clock we were back at the office.

What the —?

Standing in the reception of SendEx were two police officers – a woman and a familiar man with a statement moustache.

‘What are they doing here?’ said Elisa.

‘No idea,’ I said, hurrying past, head down, leaving Elisa hovering. It was uncharacteristic of me not to stop and speak to the receptionist, but I was thrown. I got to my desk, unlocked my cabinet, took out the oh-so-incriminating letters and walked to the shredder. I watched them disappear, went back to my desk and pulled some random sheets from my in-tray. The typefaces danced in front of my eyes.

Breathe, Saffron.

I’d been too complacent. Whoever it was that saw me at the lecture must have called the police. Maybe the security services had been working all weekend, cross-referencing data. I couldn’t imagine how a bank account, a tax reference and an NHS number could add up to something suspicious, but what did I know? Another thought blasted its way to the surface – maybe Dan was being extradited because the Americans had
new information … and that information somehow led to me. Was I careful enough when I bought my new identity …?

The possibilities charged round my body like electricity.

‘This is Saffron,’ said the receptionist.

I stood up and faced them.

‘Saffron Anderson?’ said the man I’d last seen in the park, aka Sergeant Collins.

‘That’s right,’ I said.

‘We’ve met before,’ he said.

I was saying nothing until whatever he had to say became clear.

‘We’re here to follow up on a possible assault in Hyde Park on …’ He checked the date.

I continued to look baffled, although inside I was immensely relieved that it was Maggie – and not Interpol – that had prompted the visit. I let him explain all about seeing me in the park with her, before I pretended to register what he was on about.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘It was nothing. We sort of tripped over each other. I think she was drunk and I was in a rush …’

‘She’s been charged with the assault of a social worker. Gave the poor woman a nasty wound. It’s our duty to bring any other evidence that might help secure a conviction, such as her assault on you.’

He could huff and puff as hard as he liked, but I wasn’t blowing over.

The woman police officer joined in.

‘There’s no need to be afraid. We could start with a statement.’

‘She stumbled and I got in the way,’ I said. ‘That’s about it.’

‘That’s not how I saw it,’ said Sergeant Collins.

I didn’t respond – easily the best way to shorten a conversation.

The woman gave me a victim-support leaflet and her card.

‘If you change your mind, we’re here,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ I said, switching my focus back to the paperwork on my desk.

I listened to them striding off. Told myself to keep things in perspective. My too-chatty flatmate must have told the too-nosy Sergeant Collins where I worked. No one suspected anything. I’d been unlucky, that was all.

I made two fists to try to stop my hands from shaking. Released them as the sound of one lot of feet receding was replaced by another set approaching.

‘What was that all about?’ asked Liam, unusually flustered.
Normal people don’t have run-ins with the police,
I reminded myself.

I explained, making it sound very pedestrian.

‘I’ve got to pick up my brother from Cubs again today,’ he said, head bowed so that our conversation stayed private. ‘Do you want to come —’

‘I haven’t got a leather woggle … or a penknife,’ I said. Sad face.

‘— come round to my mum and dad’s after, I meant to say?’

‘Sure.’

I totally got why people had affairs at work. The frisson whenever he stopped to chat totally relieved the boredom.

In between getting on with the business of the day, I went back into the Gadget Man account to check a few things, like the number of packages sent internationally, how many of those went to North America and the weight of the heaviest packages. I needn’t have worried about a couple of pounds of explosive and a pressure cooker – they occasionally sent ride-on Minis that topped the scales at twenty kilograms plus. Hurrah for spoilt kids.

I checked the system and saw that we had some of their stuff going out on a van, so I popped across to the depot to have a look. I didn’t want anyone who handled their goods regularly to notice anything out of the ordinary.

‘Coming out on the road with me?’ said one of the drivers.

‘Not today, I’m afraid.’

‘My loss,’ he said.

There were three brown boxes – the smallest was the size of a pair of Converse, the biggest could easily have contained two pressure cookers. I checked the labels – it was all as expected.

Poor old Gadget Man was going to have to fight to clear its name once the parcels started arriving.

Liam’s dad was a lorry driver, only home every few nights. Liam’s mum was a nurse – a shift-worker, which explained Liam’s weekly date picking up his brother.

‘It’s a job to keep track of each other,’ she said, big smile, deep creases in her cheeks. ‘Let alone this little scoundrel.’ She tickled Liam’s brother. I liked her immediately.

‘Stop it, Mum,’ said Luke. ‘I’m not a toy.’

‘That’s his latest saying,’ she said. ‘It’s better than last week’s – that was, “You’re not the boss of me.”’

Luke stuck out his tongue.

‘And Liam says you’re from London.’

‘That’s right. Shepherd’s Bush,’ I said. Volunteering information is more credible than having it squeezed out of you, and gives you more control over what you say and what you don’t.

‘I haven’t been more than half a dozen times,’ she said. ‘And I only ever seem to see Oxford Street.’

‘Whose fault is that, Mum?’ asked Liam, his arm clamped firmly round my waist.

‘You can talk,’ she said. ‘Can’t get you out of Topman.’

‘Shh! I’m trying to impress Saffron.’

He grinned at me and then, to my horror, kissed me on the lips. Having never had a boyfriend (apart from the thing with Hugo), my experience of all things sexual was strictly in private. I felt a blush creep up my cheeks, despite the fact that neither Liam, his mum nor his brother seemed bothered.

‘Will you come and see my badges?’ said Luke, still hyper from running around doing survival skills.

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘Tea’s in ten minutes,’ said Liam’s mum as I followed Luke out of the door.

His room was tiny and crammed full of stuff – books, Nerf guns, Transformers …

My mum had wanted a boy after she’d had me, but all she got were miscarriages. Life would have been different if I’d had a brother.

‘Has he bored you stupid yet?’ asked Liam from the door ten minutes later.

‘No. We’ve done the Global Conservation Activity Badge and now we’re on the Collector’s.’ I looked at the patchwork of circles decorating his sleeve. ‘I think we’ve got a few to go.’

‘You can show her the rest next time,’ said Liam, pulling me up onto my feet and propelling me along the corridor to what he called ‘my old room’.

He shut the door.

‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said, kissing my eyelids, cheeks, nose and finally lips.

‘You’re not bad,’ I said, ‘but I think I’ve fallen for your brother. It’s all those badges …’

‘Witch.’

Liam’s mum called us down for tea before there was time to get into too much trouble.

‘Can I stay at yours?’ I said as we tucked in our shirts. Undercover cops were forever climbing into bed with unsuspecting women – they argued that it strengthened their cover. Sounded good to me.

‘Yes, please.’

The four of us stuffed our faces with sausage and mash, followed by apple pie and custard. I don’t know what it is about being fed by a mum, but there’s nothing quite like it.

‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘It was really tasty.’

‘Anytime, Saffron. It’s a treat to see Liam with a nice girl.’ She raised her eyebrows.

‘Why? Does he normally bring home nasty ones?’

‘Yes,’ said Luke. ‘Chelsea was horrible.’

All three of them laughed.

‘I need details,’ I said.

An hour later we left to catch a bus back to Liam’s flat in Headingley.

‘They loved you,’ said Liam.

‘They’re just glad I’m not Chelsea,’ I said.

‘So am I,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re you, Saffron Anderson, the most fabulous girlfriend in … all of Brudenell Road.’

‘Surely Queen’s Road too?’

‘Go on, then.’

For the next ten hours or so, I didn’t give one thought to the parcels, the explosive, the detonator, the target,
Jaddah
or Lamyah. I became Saffron Anderson, Liam’s girlfriend, customer services agent, kind to strays and Cubs and maker of mean French toast.

I left work early to visit a virtual dentist and positioned myself outside the chemistry building. I couldn’t wait for another open day so was hoping to find my would-be lab guide and reschedule our tour. I bought a copy of the
Guardian
to help pass the time. Dan was on the front page, photographed with his girlfriend coming out of the courts. It was a really sweet picture, and for a second I felt sorry for him. All he’d done was be a bit too clever, and have the part of your brain that makes good decisions missing. Bit like me, some would say.

An hour and a half later, my patience was rewarded. Along came the chemist – short brown hair, maroon jumper, jeans and trainers, just like last time.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘We met at the open day.’

‘You’re the one who wanted a tour …’

‘I’m so sorry, I had to dash. But I wondered whether we could do it another time?’

‘Do you live in Leeds, then?’ An entirely predictable question.

‘Yes. I know it’s not ideal to stay at home when you’re a student, but I’m worried about the loan …’

‘Fair enough. I’ll be about fifty grand in debt by the time I leave.’

‘That much?’

‘I’m a post-grad, for my sins.’ (I hate that expression, but smiled anyway.)

‘So, would it be possible? A tour? Only I want to make the right decision.’

‘It’s a good course, and a good uni. Typical offer’s AAB. Go for it!’

‘I’m predicted A*s and As,’ I said. ‘My dad wants me to try for Cambridge.’

His attitude changed ever so slightly. I wasn’t a good-looking girly any more, I was an
intelligent
good-looking girly.

‘I was off for a drink at The Fav …’ He looked at his watch. ‘But I suppose we could do it now, if you like.’

‘That’s so kind. As long as you’re not going to stand anyone up?’ I was being hideously flirty. Someone shoot me.

‘No one important,’ he said with a swagger. Someone shoot him.

Clearly intent on making the most of his role as chemistry guru, he started to talk non-stop as we walked along. Suited me. I lapped it up. When he occasionally paused for breath, I asked clever questions about second-generation biofuels and the like. He looked impressed – all thanks to my seventh-hand chemistry book.

He used his ID card to get into the building and then into the lab, holding the doors for me. Someone tailgated us, but my guide didn’t say anything. Security clearly not top of his agenda. He showed me the mass spectrometry equipment, the Joseph Priestley lab with its fume cupboards and the iPRD lab. I feigned interest in everything, patiently waiting to see if he would mention the storage of sensitive materials.

He did. Thorough should have been his middle name. He covered the flammable cabinets, bench storage, refrigerated storage, poisons and other substances kept under what he called ‘key control’. A few well-chosen prompts had him spouting lists of chemicals kept in each location. It was almost too easy. I’d found what I was looking for without arousing a jot of suspicion. The practicalities of finding a way to rifle through the contents of the locked cupboards could wait for my next visit. I just had a couple more pieces of the puzzle to put in place.

‘It’s really quiet,’ I said. ‘I suppose that’s because most of the students have gone home.’

‘Not really, the undergraduates only get about nine hours’ lab time. It’s quiet because most post-grads and post-docs are in the pub by now!’

‘So do you all work as a team?’ My question sounded fake, but I needed to know whether a strange face in the lab would raise eyebrows.

‘Not really a team. We work on a diverse range of projects. But there are technicians that assist.’

‘But you know all the other chemists, right?’

Be careful, Saffron.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Two professors share the lab, both with large teams. I probably know less than half.’

A white-coated, goggled-up girl with a ponytail called across to a similarly dressed bloke.

‘Have you got the key, Richie?’

He held it up.

‘Sorry!’

‘Why do you never put it back?’ she said grumpily, striding past us to fetch it.

I watched her open the cupboard, take out a brown bottle, close it again, lock it and put the key in the third drawer of a grey metal cabinet.

‘
That’s
where it lives, Richie.’

Was that what the university called ‘restricted access’? I made myself keep the grin inside. It was about time I had some luck.

‘Doesn’t anyone work through the night? You know, if they’re onto something.’

‘No. It’s a right royal pain with security if you want to work after eight o’clock. Or at the weekend. They’re like bouncers, in more ways than one.’

He smiled, pleased with his put-down. I smiled too, even though I thought he was a complete moron.

‘If you’ve seen enough, do you want to come for a drink?’ he asked, not unexpectedly – the well-groomed Saffron Anderson got a lot more attention than Samiya ever did.

No, I’d rather cut someone else’s toenails.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy, to thank you for the tour.’

He didn’t let me, insisting that it had been his pleasure. I think he was hoping for some more pleasure, but after a half of cider I said I had to go.

‘If you want to know anything else, just give me a call,’ he said.

I took his number, knowing I wouldn’t be ringing it.

Based on what I’d seen, one visit to the lab on my tod and the three chemicals I needed – a catalyst, a depressant and a primer, to ensure the bomb exploded rather then fizzed – would be in the lock-up with the rest of the components. Good job.

Back at Freddie’s, there was a copy of
Metro
on the kitchen table with a familiar face on the front page.

No way!

One day and everything had changed. Slippery Dan Langley wasn’t going to be extradited after all because the American government had withdrawn its request. Good. No extradition meant no court case. No court case meant Dronejacker got archived with the rest of yesterday’s news.

Until the next time …

For a second I allowed myself to imagine the day when the Americans finally acknowledged that firing missiles at innocent people had consequences.
Major
consequences. It was electrifying.

I reined in the feeling. It was dangerous to focus
too much on the prize. It wouldn’t happen unless the planning was meticulous. And this time, no loose ends.