I, Spy? (20 page)

“Luke? No. I’m not nuts.”

Macbeth said nothing.

We pulled up at my flat and I stared at the kitchen window which had been broken yesterday but was now fixed. “You want me to check the place over for you?”

I started to say no, then I nodded. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He got a gun out of his jacket and advanced on the door. “You gonna unlock it?”

I tried, and then I found that the key didn’t fit.

“Son of a bloody bitch changed my locks!”

Macbeth grinned. “No problem.” He aimed the gun at the door and shot the lock off. “I just changed them, too.”

I added “call locksmith” to my mental to-do list and followed Macbeth inside.

“No bodies,” he said, coming out of the bedroom. “Nothing broken. You got your TV and shit. You’re fine.”

“Thanks,” I said again. “For everything.”

“Hey, we’re comrades now. If I ever need to, you know…” he waved his hand as he apparently tried to think of something I could do better than him, “accessorise or something, I’ll give you a call.”

I tried not to smile. “And I’ll be glad to help.”

He left, the Corsa trundling away, and I looked at my door in despair. Right. First clothes—I never thought I’d miss a bra that much. I put one on, revelling in the support, and then put a spare in my Ace bag.

Also on my to-do list: buy a Mary Poppins bag. I really couldn’t carry the Ace one around out of uniform without looking like an idiot.

I called an emergency locksmith. I checked on yesterday’s finger. It was there, but the other two, which had been in a different drawer (I had a lot of ice-cream to fit in that compartment, okay?) had gone. So Luke definitely had a key to my flat.

Or at least he’d had one before Macbeth shot the lock off.

I had to start looking up security firms in the Yellow Pages. I wanted Luke-style alarms on my front door and all my windows, especially since they were all on the ground floor. Maybe shutters, too. No more firebombs for me.

I needed to get Angel’s jewellery back to her—I was hoping quite desperately that Luke had locked it away somewhere safe—and see what sort of state her Ladyboat’s dress was in. I also needed to haul ass up to my parents’, get the leftover flooring from the garage, and replace the burnt floorboards in the living room.

And when I’d done all that, I needed to work out who had caused the wood to be burnt and who had shot at me the night before last.

The first thing I did was make some more coffee and take some more painkillers. I brushed my hair and put some make-up on, grimacing at the bruise that had come up on my temple. My whole body was a collection of bruises and grazes but they were all covered up. No wonder Luke hadn’t made a move on me this morning.

Then I got out my toolbox (yes, I have a toolbox. I am a Modern Woman. Look upon me and tremble) and sawed off the dangling bracelet from Luke’s handcuffs. I was stuck with the other one for now, but maybe I could pretend it was a new line in jewellery.

The locksmith turned up, frowning. “I already came out here once today,” he said.

“Yes. Erm. Well, you see, my
friend
thought it would be great fun to get the locks changed on my flat. So I couldn’t get in.”

“So you shot the lock off? You’ve been watching too many American cop shows.”

“Can you repair it?”

“You’ll probably need a new door.”

“If I get a new door can you fit a damn lock?”

He appeared taken aback by this. “Well, yes, but—”

“But?”

“I can’t wait here while you go—”

“Yes,” I said, “you can. And you will. Because I still have the gun that made that hole and I’ve been having a really bad couple of days. So either you sit here and wait while I fetch a new door, or—”

He held up a hand. “I’ll wait! Only fifteen minutes to get to Homebase, anyway,” he added with a weak smile.

I was glad he’d interrupted, because I had a feeling if I’d finished that sentence,
I
might have called the police on me.

“Make yourself at home,” I mumbled, and rushed out to Ted. Lovely, solid, dependable Ted.

When I got to Homebase, I realised that there were a million different kinds of door and a million different sizes. Swearing, I called my home number and snarled at the answer phone until the locksmith picked up and told me what size I’d need.

I grabbed a solid wood door and commandeered an assistant to take it to the check-out and put it in my car. This spy stuff was costing me a fortune.

When I got back the locksmith was watching Sky News, but he hurriedly leapt to his feet and started to fit my new door.

“What happened to your floor?” he asked.

“What? Oh, firebomb,” I said, glancing at the TV and then double-taking. They were showing the Ace desks at Stansted. Ooh, Sven looking hot. I turned the volume up.

“…a massive dip in confidence for this airline, which has been steadily losing business since November. Passenger numbers are down and many people are trying to cancel their flights. But Ace’s policy, like that of most low-cost airlines, is not to offer refunds, which is further angering many worried passengers.”

I stared. What the hell had happened?

“You want the handle on th—” the locksmith began, and I waved a hand for him to shut up.

Then the TV started showing pictures of plane wreckage. Numbers scrolled across the screen—missing, injured, trapped. Dead. Times and places. Weeping relatives. Cardboardy executives.

Ace flight 128 to Glasgow had crashed in North Yorkshire, destroying a primary school and instantly killing seventy-eight children, five teachers, two pilots, three crew, and fifty-five passengers.

I watched it scroll across my TV.
A hundred and forty-three people are dead, and it’s all your fault, Sophie Green.

“You got a letter box?” the locksmith called out, and I marched into the bedroom, retrieved the revolver and aimed it at him.

“Shut the fuck up,” I said. “This is important.”

I tried to digest the details but I couldn’t take it all in. Flight recorders, safety checks, radio transmissions. There were half a dozen survivors, all in ICU. I was finding it hard to breathe.

Eventually I managed to pick up my mobile, one hand still aiming the gun somewhere in the vicinity of the door, and dialled Luke.

“Have you seen the news?”

“Sophie?”

“
Have you seen the news?
”

“What? No, I’ve been—”

“Switch on the TV, or a radio or something. Go online.”

“What’s happened?”

I told him.

“Shit,” Luke whispered. “Seriously?”

“Yes, Luke, seriously. A hundred and forty-three people.”

“Jesus.”

“I know.”

Both of us were silent for a bit. Then Luke asked, “What the hell is that noise?”

The locksmith was drilling. Luke thought I was still at his place.

“I don't know,” I said sweetly, “if I look out of the window I’ll set off the lasers.”

“Sophie—”

“It’s okay. I’m all right. But, Luke, this crash. Don’t you think it’s suspicious?”

“You think Wright’s desperate enough to make a plane crash? You think he’s bright enough?”

“I think Wright is being manipulated,” I said. “I think he has someone very nasty in partnership.”

“Your friend Harvey?”

“Why do you think it’s Harvey?”

“He’s been wherever Wright’s been. Do you know his name isn’t even Harvey? It’s James Harvard.”

“How do you even know it’s the same person?” I asked incredulously.

“I Googled him. Found a picture.”

Bloody hell. I can Google for hours and get nothing. I bloody hate people who can get precisely what they want from the Internet.

“I think you’re clutching at straws,” I told him. “And I don’t think it’s Harvey.”

“Why the hell not?”

I sighed. I didn’t really want to tell him. It sounded like an excuse.

“This partner? Wright said it was a woman.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“He’s not bright enough to do that on purpose,” I said. “And besides, Luke, think of all the most vicious people you know. I bet most of them are female.”

There was a silence. I’d dug myself into a hole here.

“The lady has a point,” Luke said eventually. “Right. I’m going to see what I can get from Ace on this.”

“You’re just going to call them up?”

“No. I’m going to hack into their communications. I’m going to email you all the reservations we have for James Harvard. Every one has a different phone number. See if any of them are live. The password to get online is Sunnydale. Oh, and I’ll see if I can get a manifest for the 128. See if anything looks suspicious.”

With that cheerful request he signed off, and I was left with a bewildered and frightened locksmith, a new door with a mortise lock, and a lot of calls to make.

I paid the locksmith double, really hoping I’d get some nice cash from SO17 for this and knowing I probably wouldn’t, and booted up the computer.

James Harvard had travelled all over the world with Wright. Every reservation gave a different address and phone number.

I hate making phone calls. The Internet was a revolution for me because I could keep in touch with relatives I didn’t like and school friends I hardly talked to, I could order things and learn about things without having to talk to people. But this time I knew I was stuck.

“Hello,” I said when the first number picked up. “Can I speak to Harvey, please? You don’t know anybody called Harvey? I’m sorry, I must have dialled wrong. Thank you. Bye.”

I then repeated this about a million times. Probably half the numbers I dialled weren’t the numbers on the computer. I hardly cared. Harvey wasn’t at the end of any of them.

I mean, really. Luke was talking crap. How could sweet, clever, clean-cut Harvey be involved in killing a hundred and forty-three people?

The computer bleeped to tell me I had new mail. I looked at the sender—Luke ([email protected], how original)—and the subject:
Now who’s innocent?

Dreading the message, I opened it up. It was the passenger manifest for the doomed AC128 to Glasgow. James Harvard had booked a ticket online, but he hadn’t checked in.

Oh God.

I sat back in my chair, trying to put it together in my head. Harvey was in this horrible plot with Wright. Together they were sabotaging Ace Airlines so share prices would come down and they could buy it cheaply. It all seemed so overblown. If Wright wanted the airline that much then why didn’t he pay full price for it?

I opened up Google and typed in David Wright. I got a million matches, half of which were irrelevant. I tried again with David+Wright+Wrightbank. This narrowed it down but mostly to press releases and financial advice sites.

I thought for a bit, then searched within the results for Ace Airlines.

Bingo.

There was a five month old interview from a dull business mag where Wright said he was interested in branching out into the aviation industry. “I think this is the most important part of the travel industry,” he said. “Even more important than cars. People are flying where they would have driven or taken a train. Domestic flights all over the world have taken off—no pun intended. And since September eleventh, fares have plummeted. Passenger numbers have hardly diminished, but fares have gone down drastically. The low-cost sector of the market is incredibly interesting.”

Not as incredibly interesting as you
, I thought. This article had been published at about the time things started going wrong at Ace. I’d hardly noticed the change—there were always delays and tech problems, and over the summer things had been as frantic as ever. Around September, things started to quiet down. End of summer. I hoped.

But if I thought about it, then there had been increasing numbers of problems. Ace rarely cancelled flights but it had happened a few times. There were ATC strikes and delays. Little things, like an increase in the number of credit card payments that hadn’t gone through. The wrong flight booked by mistake. Passenger numbers gradually easing off. Last week’s Titan plane for Edinburgh, because ours was off tech.

And it had all been happening since last November.

I downloaded the interview and went back to Google. This time I searched for James Harvard. I got nothing—or rather, I got a lot of irrelevance. I tried James+Harvard+David+ Wright. Still nothing.

I stared moodily at the computer screen, but that didn’t help, either.

I was halfway through looking up next week’s
Buffy
when my mobile rang. Not my Nokia, but my little old Siemens. I didn’t recognise the number.

“Hello?”

“Sophie?”

The voice was familiar. “Yes?” I said doubtfully, trying to place it.

“It’s Sven. From Ace?”

Oh, yes, and there’s me thinking you’re the other Sven I know.

“Sven! How—how did you get this number?”

“From Angel. She said you’ve been ill.”

“Erm, yes. Flu, or something.”

“Are you all right?”

Still the same grave tone of voice. “I’m better. Still not quite right,” I added hastily, in case I was expected to go back to work, “but getting better.”

“I was thinking if you’re well enough maybe I could come and see you?”

Jesus.

It never rains but it pours.

Sven? Sexy Sven? You know, with everything that had been going on I’d hardly even thought of him. And I used to, all the time, my idle brain bringing up an image of his Caribbean blue eyes or his white-toothed smile.

My eyes travelled around the living room. There were videos all over the floor, plates and glasses piled up in the sink, the hole in the floorboards…

“I tell you what,” I said, staring at the monitor which was starting to blur, “I think it’d do me good to get out for a while. Why don’t I meet you somewhere?”

We arranged for Funky Joe’s in town in half an hour. I could get the train in and not worry about drinking and driving.

Oh, though. What about my one a day? What about emergencies? What about my painkillers? I might pass out.

So I’d not have much to drink. Just one unit. I’d tell Sven the truth. I’m on painkillers.

Well, it’s
part
of the truth.