SMALL ON THE MAP

SYNOPSIS

A tense and darkly funny conspiracy thriller.

Open Window is a whistle-blowing website, exposing corporate and governmental swindling, whose success has gained them a sackful of enemies. It is fronted by the charismatic, untouchable PR man, Michael Solo.

Bella Raven is a smart, caustic and somewhat bored British Civil Servant who has outgrown her life. She grows a conscience after she witnesses undercover agents posing as Open Window supporters, sabotaging a Fracking Protest March, which results in a terrifying ordeal and a trail of bodies.

Finding the Police unwilling to listen to her information and scared for her life, Bella reluctantly teams up with Solo and unravels a maze of elastic truths involving Big Business and secret Hit Squads.

Framed for murder and hounded by the media and the Police, they don’t know who, if anyone, to trust, as they use their wits to battle powerful and merciless opponents.

CHAPTER 1

The clipped, urgent hubbub of keyboards being tapped hard and voices speaking in short commands in a darkened control room were interrupted by the metallic burr of the voice from the speaker on the wall. The speaker, along with everything else in the room, was brand new, as it was for each job. And despite being unnecessarily expensive for its purpose, it still distorted his voice, which gave him an air of menace. Maybe he did it on purpose. Maybe he sounded like that in real life. No-one in the room wanted to think too hard about it. It had been made clear that they didn’t need to know and so they all very much did not want to know.

“Go when you’re ready. You’re cleared from here”, barked the well- spoken, if robotic, voice.

All eyes moved to the screens at the front of the room. They showed a variety of feeds: CCTV, laptop cams, government offices, hotel rooms, station concourses, street corners. All ongoing situations were suspended, or farmed out, for days like this.

One by one, they all switched to show crowds. A protest march, snaking through the streets of London, seen from a variety of angles and in varying resolutions. A few orange hats in the crowd were picked out by markers. The tension rose in the room as everyone focussed on their man.

“Lockout on standby.”

“#4 in position.”

“#3 with you in five seconds, three, two one.”

No-one spoke to anyone else in the room. They were puppetmasters, that day, guardian angels, each one shepherding an asset to where it needed to be. The men on the ground could get through a crowd to their positions with their eyes closed if needs be. Total control. The all-seeing eyes in the sky.

“You need to speed up, up, up. OK that’s it. Blend now. You are less than three metres behind. Do you have him?”

“Wait, keep an eye on that camera. Don’t turn your head, #2”

“Switching sat feed in thee, two, one, live”

“Ready”

“Ready”

“Locking out local feeds...now.”

A heartbeat now. Clear and regular.

“Activate UAV”

A drone’s view of the crowd. Moving slowly from the front. Facial recognition software’s wireframes casually mapping the faces in the crowd. Three green circles above the men wearing orange hats, forming an increasingly tightening triangle around a younger man with glasses, the circle above his head, bright red and flashing gently in time with the heartbeat.

Many in the crowd were carrying banners. Some home-made and some printed up for the day. Most of them are sporting Anti-Fracking slogans. A few anti-government, or pro-Green causes. The crowd was peaceful and happy, singing and chanting.

*****

Bella Raven had surprised herself this morning by waking up early, for a Sunday, and thinking about nothing but the Protest ahead. She felt motivated, purposeful. It had been a while. The prospect of seeing Peter again didn’t appal her but she was happy to leave it to chance. She hadn’t replied to his email, as usual. He had been quietly persistent, though, she’d give him that. Just right, really. Goldilocks. Maybe once a month he’d suggest something she might like to go to with him and, to give him credit, they were things she was interested in doing. Just perhaps not with Peter.

She’d spent time getting ready nonetheless. What to wear to a political protest? She’d never been on one and it was all quite new. She didn’t have any dungarees or any T-shirts with appropriate political slogans. Or any slogans. Or any T shirts with writing on at all aside from an old Stussy one. She wasn’t fifteen, after all. Newish jeans, her second best trainers and a plain white t-shirt was the final decision.

When she emerged from the tube station at Temple, she realised she’d overthought the whole thing. There was no crowd of half-cut students. It was the same kind of people you saw everywhere in town. Normal people. Lot of people her age. A lot more old people than she’d imagined and fewer teenagers. And no Crusties at all. Denyse had been dead wrong about that and Bella looked forward to telling her tomorrow.

The crowd ambled slowly along the river toward Parliament. Hundreds, maybe thousands, more joined at Westminster. Someone gave her a banner: No Fracking Way. There was singing and chanting. She had often wondered how whole stadiums knew the words to football chants, while watching matches with Bobby. Did they pass out the lyrics?

It didn’t take long to pick the chants up. Soon enough she was bellowing along to chants of “No fracking way, Ban it all today” and the like. The atmosphere was very friendly and people were sharing snacks and drinks with strangers. A couple of older fellas offered her joints. She declined. Weed made her sleepy and she wanted to enjoy this. The sun came out as they turned into Whitehall and Bella felt very good about herself. Denyse had wanted her to go to a party but she had declined. This felt better. What is the word? Empowering? Virtuous? Better than spending another weekend drinking with the usual suspects.

As they passed Downing Street, the chanting got louder and a few eggs flew in the direction of the luminous green Police cordon outside the entrance to much laughter. Luminous green footballs flew through the air to Ooohs and Aaahs. Bella caught one and she saw they had the Open Window logo on the side. That was one of those political gossipy leak sites. Denyse had sent her the odd thing from there. So-and-so from the Government had creamed off three million from rebuilding a hospital, that sort of thing. There was a never ending torrent of odd facts, gossip, nonsense and scandal emanating from that woman’s computer. Equally likely to concern Hollywood, Parliament or radiation levels in fish.

As they neared Trafalgar Square, a boarded-up McDonalds reminded her both that she was quite hungry and also that she had sworn off burgers until the summer. There were three or four Policemen in luminous green outside the burger bar. Bella recalled; it had been targeted before on Marches and they weren’t getting

caught out again. More eggs were thrown. A policeman to Bella’s right caught one and threw it back. More cheers.

Ahead, a tall man in black stood still, as the crowd flowed around him. He pulled something from his bag. She watched him fiddle with it and admired his profile. Deep tan, good jawline, great shoulders. Hair a little too tightly cropped and an orange baseball cap, though. She’d sworn off men with baseball caps too. Bit old too, perhaps. It was hard to tell.

When she got close to him, he turned and looked her straight in the eye and winked with a crooked and not entirely pleasant smile. As he did, Bella noticed an earpiece running into his shirt. He lifted up what he’d ben fiddling with, an Open Window football, and threw it two-handed at the McDonalds. The ball arced cleanly towards the McDonalds logo and another big cheer rose up from the crowd.

The ball hit the plastic M and exploded silently in a bright orange fireball.

Like a Molotov Cocktail, thought Bella, as she felt the heat on her face. The fire rained down onto the Policemen and the crowd surged away from it. A banner struck Bella above the eye and she lost her footing momentarily. A hand grabbed her arm and lifted her back up.

Her eyes were glued to the orange and green. One of the Police had caught most of it and his head and shoulders were on fire. His hands were burning as he patted himself in the face, trying to douse the flames. Bella saw a tall middle-aged woman with long grey hair and a long grey coat run screaming across, in front of her, the end of her coat set with flames a foot or so high, rsing close to her hair. The woman shrieked and turned to see the fire and tripped over a young man in a wheelchair, sending them both flying.

The other policeman surrounded their fallen friend and covered him with their coats. The fire was quickly out but the screaming started immediately afterwards. A man in front of Bella carried a small boy, perhaps 4 years old, over his shoulder. The child dropped a shiny silver windmill and started crying, his screams drowned out by those of the Policeman on the floor in front of her, convulsing under the jackets, inchoate and terrified.

To her left, Bella saw two men, also wearing orange hats converge on a third, younger man in a blue shirt and glasses. One of them

tripped the younger man up and as he fell, the orange hatted man behind went down with him and reached for his head.

The crowd behind Bella had been pushed back and now surged forward again, propelling her toward Trafalgar Square and, she hoped, safety.

The smoke curled upwards from the fire behind her and the acrid hit of burning plastic filled her eyes and nose. Terror had replaced the smiles on people’s faces. Amid the panic, people still helped each other up as they fell, as best they could, but they were all running scared and self-preservation was taking over. The open space of the Square ahead seemed like it would be a sanctuary but the sun was out and there were already thousands of tourists milling around, cluelessly. A run of busses to the left seemed to form a wall, so Bella ran East, for the Tube.

Charing Cross was a few hundred yards away but there was an entrance much closer, on the South East corner of Trafalgar Square. She made it through and squeezed down the steps. Ahead of her, the Station Staff were closing the iron gates at the bottom. Bella’s panic rose yet further as she pictured herself squeezed against the closed gates by the never ending crowd. She was the last one though before they were closed. As she passed through she tripped and stumbled to the floor. Turning back, she saw the bodies pressed up against the gates and the red, sweating faces imploring at the uniformed staff through the diamond shaped holes in the gate. Behind them she could see more and more bodies coming down the stairs, blocking out the sunlight. She slid backwards in terror along the tiled floor and got to her feet. The station was already filled with dazed-looking people, crying and trying to call lost loved ones. The escalators must have been blocked because there seemed to be yet another bottleneck there, past the opened barriers.

She turned back to the gates and saw a gigantic Goth, all leather and blackened hair, facing her, through the ironwork. He reached up and elbowed a young black woman in the face, apologising profusely. He gripped the doors with both hands and pulled them apart, hard. The Station staff had not locked them and they soon opened, causing a wave of desperate humans to surge in, knocking the Goth to the floor and quickly burying him. No-one came in on their feet and the mound of people filled the gateway in a second.

The tannoy announcer started repeating, ““Please stop pushing. People are being injured. There are no trains running from this station.” Over and over, to no effect at all.

Bella pulled a young boy clear from the top and went in to help again. An overweight England fan came tumbling over the top, carrying a can of lager, legs flying and knocked Bella down, his foot pressing into her head as he stumbled clear. Undeterred, she went back in again, along with a handful of young men. They each grabbed a few outstretched hands from the pile and pulled. The whole mass seemed to unblock and people slid to the left and right and rolled free. Bella struggled to her feet in time to see another surge coming down the steps.

Deciding that she’d done her bit and filled with terror about what lay ahead she turned and passed through the ticket barriers. The escalators had been stopped and people were making their way down both sides. The panic seemed to have relented, or perhaps people were just terrified of being trampled on the hard-ridged steel steps, and progress down was a little calmer. Teenagers were sliding down the central divider and making a good fist of it until two of them collided, legs and arms tumbling down the last third, causing a pile- up on the escalator opposite Bella.

Having reached the bottom, Bella ran to their furthest corridor and hoped for the best. Halfway in and the crowd seemed to be pushing back the other way, away from the tracks ahead. The tracks. Christ. She hadn’t thought of that yet. There could be a train coming. And even without one, the electric rail would kill anyone who touched it. As people squeezed past her in both directions, Bella was squeezed tighter and tighter, gasping for air, breathing in panic. She felt her feet leave the ground but, instead of falling, she rose up and started being spun slowly around without moving forward or back. She was no fan of the tube anyway but this was about fourteen of her worst nightmares rolled into one.

Her feet made contact with the floor again and she committed to moving forward. She edged toward the wall so she could drop out to the right as soon as she left the tunnel. As she hit the platform, hands grabbed her and pulled her from the crowd. She moved along sideways and stole a look backwards ant the bodies flailing onto the tracks. The squeezing in the tunnel had been too much for screaming but they were making up for it now. The rail must have been off but people were being trampled on the track. Maybe it

wasn’t. How could you tell? Would there be sparks? Burning flesh? She didn’t have the time, or the inclination, to think about it. She was just glad she wasn’t down there with them.

As she reached the end of the platform the space had filled behind her and there was nowhere further to go. A kindly looking middle aged Jamaican stood on the tracks and beckoned to her.

“It’s OK. The electric of off. You can make it to Embankment. Look, you can see it from here. Fifty metres. No problem. You can’t stay here.”

Bella took his hand and stepped down into the back tunnel.

CHAPTER 2

Bella snapped awake in the darkness. Bolt upright, sweat-drenched in bed.

“Are you awake?” she mumbled.

She reached out across the mattress but there was no-one there. Moonlight shone through a gap in the curtain across the sheets and she remembered that she was alone.

*****

A fast heartbeat and regular footsteps locked into the beat coming through her headphones. Bella pounded through the tunnel, splashing puddles, measuring her breaths and moving toward the hazy light ahead. The sun was rising and, despite it being May, there was a low mist in the park, which looked quite beautiful in the morning light.

She ran circuits for forty five minutes and headed home. Her mind was cleared of yesterday’s horrors as long as she kept moving but it all tumbled back as soon as she stopped.

*****

The lift pinged and Bella entered her office early, for once. Her cubicle, third from the left on the second row, was the place where she spent most of her life and she wasn’t happy about that. Planning and Development was a none-too-thrilling part of the Civil Service and Bella had worked there for five years. She’d received two promotions to get to this cubicle and it impressed nobody, least of all herself.

She stared at her emails for ten minutes, clicking nothing and then pulled out some mail from home and looked at the ominous bank statement on the top of the pile. Coffee first.

While she was dealing with the temperamental office coffee machine, another few lift-loads of her co-workers arrived. The brightly coloured raincoats and cycling tops, shed quickly to reveal suits of varying shades of grey to match the deathless office decor.

As she moves back along the row, the new arrivals were reading various newspapers and the front pages showed a burning policeman – “BURGER INFERNO”; a white tent in a carless street. “FRACKING DISASTER”; bloodied faces exiting Underground “FRACKING HELL” and ambulances lined up outside Underground “4 DEAD IN TUBE STAMPEDE”.

Bella slumped at her desk, breathed a deep sigh and opened a letter from her bank. The colour drained slightly from her face. Her eyes rolled and her hand fell to her side, holding the red letter. She stared off into space and lost track of time.

She was jolted awake by the arrival of Denyse’s butt on her otherwise empty desk. Bella looks up and Denyse started in on one of her monologues; interrupting herself and answering her own questions, while Bella stared in a mixture of familiar bemusement and, today, a growing annoyance.

“You went, then? Amazing. Why on Earth did you go? Cos of your dad, right? They’re so dangerous though, aren’t they? Sarah knows a girl who got a punch in the face at one, black eye, the lot, for no reason. Some crackhead, probably. Arsehole. I’d get claustrophobic just being there. There’s so many of them. It looks...awful. And...Just the look of those people...”

Denyse gestured at an open newspaper on Bella’s desk and shuddered theatrically.

“I mean. Those poor sods trampled to death. Awful. Marches like that are an accident waiting to happen. You’re mad if you ask me. Haven’t you got better things to do on a Sunday afternoon than hang out with a bunch of dirty hippies? I’d hate it.

“We had a Sauvignon-centric lunch and then shopping. I KNOW but I got a brilliant skirt. Makes my tired old arse look like a million pounds. Well, a good few thousand anyway. Not in coins, before you say it.”

Bella smiles weakly as Denyse trundled on, oblivious.

“I wore it straight away to Leanne’s drinks thing. The skirt made me do it. You should have too. Leanne was annoyed you didn’t. It was quite good actually. Down by the river. Marine, Joe’s ex, threw up in a sand bucket on the decking. Mainly in, anyway. In and around. Very loudly though. Leanne seemed to be holding it together, outrageously, until her nose started bleeding in a team photo. All over Briony’s white Fauxmanolos. Briony was literally CRYING. I think she left, actually.

“And there was dancing. I might have danced with a Spice Girl. I don’t believe it either. I said Baby wouldn’t be seen dead in there but Briony insists that her brother owns it. Whatever. Maybe it was her. Print the legend, am I right? I have literally no idea how I got home. Alone, luckily. You were soooo missed and I am so not ready for today. You need to get out more. Move on, girlfriend. You seem quiet?”

Bella, mustering some indignation and office-grade sarcasm, responded with a deep breath, “Quiet? Well, yes, I am very sorry that I’m not dancing on the desk with my top off. It IS only Monday though.”

She picked up the paper and waved it in Denyse’s face, “All that. I saw it. It happened right in front of me. Close as you are. The fire, the stampede, that poor man. It was started on purpose. I saw it kick off. It looked...organised.”

“....Fuck”

“VERY fuck”, said Bella, vaguely triumphantly. “It had been such a nice day. Everyone was super friendly. There were all sorts there. Young, old. Just normal people. It was like a picnic really. Except, y’know, walking. People were sharing. There plenty of kids, babies even. People in wheelchairs. It was sunny and it really felt...good being there. Not powerful exactly - stop laughing - but...doing

something good. Like we’d be noticed. There were absolutely loads of Police but they were nice too.

They were joining in the chanting, some of them. No-one likes fracking. Only those making money out of it and you’ll never see them. Not in the daylight anyway. It was almost at the end. We’d been walking for nearly two hours. So glad I wore trainers. Anyway, we were nearly at Trafalgar Square - when this happened....”

Bella turned the page to show the burning McDonalds.

Denyse saw the chance for a joke and butted in, “You ATE at McDonalds? Bella Raven! What HAS become of you? You are so not borrowing my skirt”

“Be serious, Denyse. This is scary. And horrible. So – listen, would you - I am walking along and a guy in an orange hat, quite handsome actually, stops a bit ahead of me. Stops dead and starts staring off to the side. He’s wearing an earpiece and talking to someone. He stood still and the crowd moved around him, like a river. He had this shoulder bag and he pulls out a yellow football, fiddles with it and waits second and then he throws it. Really hard. Y’know, in football, a throw-in? Like that. Straight at McDonalds and when it hits the wall, the sign outside - it’s like a Molotov Cocktail. Not an explosion - no bang - but a fireball, flames. I could feel the heat. It was close.”

“Fuuuuuck”

“ALL the fuck”, said Bella, warming up. “Total chaos, there’s a Policeman, running into the crowd - on fire. On fucking fire! Other cops jump on him with their coats out. A woman with her coat on fire trips over a wheelchair. It all seemed in slow motion, like a car crash. Slow but unstoppable, like time had turned to treacle. So weird. And so vivid. I had time to take in every detail. Then the screaming starts up and, like that, the shoving starts and everything’s running at fast forward. I can’t see any more cos I’m being pushed away and I’ve got to keep track of what’s in front of me - try to stay upright. Others are falling, getting trampled. I helped a few back up but the pushing would not stop and I had to get out. It was sunny all day but it seemed to get darker in the confusion. I’m being elbowed and trodden on. My feet are a mess. And some of those women were wearing heels. You should see my ankle. It’s got an actual bloody hole in it.”

“Fuck. Spare me. See, Bella, this is why I would never go to these things. I warned you, didn’t I? These troublemakers. Skinny, white men with ratty dreadlocks, who smell like fields and farts. There should be a law against it. Worse than murder. OK, fine, worse than burglary.”

“Denyse! It wasn’t Crusties. Do try to listen, for once in your life. It wasn’t like you see on the telly for these things. It wasn’t like what I DID see on the telly for this thing. They always show Crusties and men in balaclavas, fighting and throwing things. It wasn’t anything like that and HE was definitely not a Crustie. I told you, he was quite handsome actually. No earrings. No dreads. Smart haircut. Good tan. And he was standing up straight. Calm. And then he did...that. And he wasn’t alone. He was waiting. Waiting to throw that thing. And the earpiece. It was all a bit....”

“..a bit what?”

“I don’t know. Organised. Not random. I mean, obviously, right? He had that firebomb thing so he meant for this to happen. He threw it at the Police so he meant to harm them but we’d passed lots, I mean hundreds, of Police earlier. Bigger groups, twos and threes. It must have been heavy too. If it was petrol. Do they use actual petrol in petrol bombs? Whatever it was, a football full of water would be really heavy, right? He carried it for hours, for a reason. He did it there and then for a specific reason”

“What reason?”

“Fucked if I know. Did you put sugar in that?”

“No”

“Good. Thank you for remembering. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“The sugar? Just pretend it’s there. That’s what I do.”

“No, you idiot. Did you not hear anything I said? I don’t know what to do about this man.”

“Do? What are you going to do? Would you recognise him? Probably not. I hope you can’t. You shouldn’t say even if you can. Keep out of it. That’s what I do. That’s what you’d do too. Before you started getting all.....Social. Have you told the Police? That’s all you can do. And even that is probably asking for trouble. This whole thing is trouble. I wish you’d never gone. 101.”

“...what is?”

“The cops. Non-emergency line. Do keep up, darling.”

Denyse is summoned by a tall and very thin man in a pinstripe suit and Bella picked up a phone to report it all to the local Westminster Police.

*****

Denyse returned a few minutes later, carrying another folder under her arm.

“Well...?”

Bella wearily repeated word-for-word, “They thanked me. They have ‘a lot of leads’ and have received ‘a lot of information from the public and are pursuing multiple lines of enquiry’. They are also examining hours of CCTV footage. They will call me to give a statement. Thank you and goodnight”

“But not right now?”

“Nope. Why wouldn’t they want an eye-witness report, right? I saw the guy. I’m sure I’d recognise him. I told them that. I guess I wasn’t the only one. I dunno. Maybe they’ve caught him already.”

They lock eyes and laugh, silently.

“Maybe there were undercover people in the crowd...”

Denyse, nodding darkly, “Yeah....just maybe. So you wait. ”

*****

Denyse bounded up again and placed a cup of coffee on the ring left by the last one. She raised a quizzlcal eyebrow.

Bella answered, deflatedly, “The Cops still haven’t rung back.”

Denyse gestures to the coffee, “The Police are hopeless these days. Mum was burgled, remember. A year ago, more. Lost a laptop and some cash. Nothing nasty, no shitt-ing on the duvet. She was out, thankfully, but it’s horrible knowing someone’s been all through your stuff. She rang me. I rang the Police. They never even came out. Gave me the number for a locksmith, a crime number and told her

to claim. Said they’d come if they could spare the manpower. Manpower? Fuck’s sake. It’s not exactly building the pyramids, is it? Pathetic. It’s cuts. They’ve closed that whole station now. Fuckers didn’t even sound sorry, though. Made mum feel needy for wanting them to come and take a statement. I’ve not got much time for them myself. A few bad apples, they always say. Hmmm. What exactly are they putting in the barrels? That’s what I want to know.”

“So what can I do, Denyse? I can’t call Benedict bloody Cumberbatch, can I?”

“Shame”

“Right? Seriously though. Does no-one care? Should I go to the papers? That’s what Dad would have suggested. Is that supposed to work these days? What about one of your blogs? Would they help?”

“My blogs?”, replied Denyse. “I...you know what you could do. Try Open Window. They’re all about the fracking. And Injustice. They could be your caped crusader. Look! Speak of the devil...”

Denyse pointed toward a screen on the office wall, showing the BBC News Channel with the sound off and subtitles on. Michael Solo is on again, holding a press conference in Madrid with calm assurance. He’s in his early thirties and looks tanned and very healthy. He oozes success and confidence and is looking very smart in an understated linen suit.

He’s standing in front of an Open Window logo and talking in Spanish with English subtitles. There are pie charts and maps intercut with shots of green forests and yellow bulldozers. The report cuts to him leaving the building accompanied by an attractive looking blonde woman in her thirties.

Bella’s jaw drops just a tad and she sighs, “How very....”

“Serendipitous?”

“I was thinking fuckable. But yes, clearly God wants me to do your bidding, Denyse”

“Indeed she does. You know I too move in mysterious ways, right?”

“Only too well. I’ve seen you dancing, remember. I’ll hit him, I mean ...them up”

Bella Googles Open Window and goes straight to their website’s contact form. She fills in her name and writes that she has information relevant to the anti- fracking march and Open Window.

Denyse spied the thin man on the other side of the office, looking left and right and ducked down, “You can thank me later for this, when you and wotsisname are taking a break from fighting crime together, living it down and dirty at some low lit hotel suite”.

Bella replies dreamily, “That would suit me just fine. The flat is getting me down since Bobby moved out. It’s becoming clear to me that he did a lot of the cleaning, bless him. And god knows I miss having someone pay half the mortgage.”

Bella got an email ping from Open Window and read it to Denyse, “THANK YOU FOR YOUR INTEREST BUT SORRY WE DON’T ANSWER EMAILS” A standard form response.

Denyse replied from under the desk, “Ta daa!”

Bella, drily, “Another partial success! What do I owe you?”

Denyse smiled and watched for her moment to slip away,

“Don’t give up, little one. What’s their URL? Let’s try Michael@ and Michael.Solo@ and Mike@? Nah. Cheekbones@. I have a few little tricks I can try. Leave it with me. I’ll have a go after the Planning Meeting Snooze.”

“Thanks hun. I’d appreciate that. I’m going to the Police Station at lunchtime. One last go. See if I can talk to a human. It really shouldn’t be this hard, y’know.”

“In this weather? Good luck. I’ll just stay indoors, I think. Best that way.”

CHAPTER 3

Bella saw the bus coming and ran for the stop, adjusting her pace to miss the inevitable wall of water, splashed by the bus onto the pavement. Feeling pleased with herself, she hopped on and sat next to a steamed-up window. Summer wasn’t far around the corner and yet London was displaying all the weather features in its arsenal on a

daily basis. It had snowed last week and this week was already feeling weirdly tropical. She had put on some pale shoes this morning and was already regretting it. Idly, she drew an Open Window logo in the condensation on the window and rubbed it with her nose.

The bus dropped her outside the Police station. The rain had turned up a notch or three and the 20 metres dash was enough to give her another sloshing. As she walked up the steps to the blue lamp, a kindly looking Sikh gentleman emerged ahead of her and held open the door, smiling a smile of infinite patience.

The waiting room was empty. Plastic pews of uncomfortable-looking chairs were bolted to the floor and the walls offered helpful, if obvious, advice on reporting domestic abuse, keeping drugs out of schools and leaving nothing of value inside your car unless you were standing guard over it. She took off her coat and shook the rain off.

Behind the reinforced glass, window sat a soft, wide man of anywhere between twenty five and forty. His ginger hair was unimaginatively cropped and his chins were resting on his chest. He was either looking at a phone in his lap or he was asleep. Bella cleared her throat. A long second later he looked up and smiled helpfully.

“How can I help you today, madam?”

“I was at the march on Sunday”, said Bella. “I want to report the things I saw. I saw who started it. The trouble. It was started on purpose”

“Ohh kayyy,” said the man behind the counter. “If you’ll just fill in this form, someone will be down to see you momentarily: Name, address, phone number etc.”

“Don’t you want to know what I saw?”

“Me? No. I just work here.”

He paused half-heartedly for a punchline that was not forthcoming.

“I’m not a Police Officer. I’m a customer service representative. Actually, between you and me, I am not even that. I’m Agency. Not been here before. Don’t worry. They’ll want to know, I’m sure. Fill that in and someone will be out to see you as soon as they can. It’s pandemonium in there”, he said, gesturing broadly to the large office behind him, in which there was no sign whatsoever of life, intelligent or otherwise.

Bella filled in her details and managed to fit five words into the box marked “Nature of report”. She went for FRACKING MARCH SABOTAGED SUSPECT ID’D. That ought to do it.

She sat back down and looked around the waiting room to see if she had missed any treats. There was a TV showing BBC NEWS with the sound off. She turned in her seat and wondered just who would design a seat with such pointed plastic ridges on each side. Perhaps they were designed to make you uncomfortable. Police tactics. They would certainly prevent fat people from telling the Police what they knew. What did they know?

She looked at the Wanted posters behind her as the chair cut hard into her thigh. It hadn’t been worth the effort. All the perps were wearing hoods and their faces were totally shaded. Were they kids, men, black, white? They were human, male and skinny and that was about all she could discern. Have you seen any skinny humans? With hoods, in Post Offices? The photographs were blurry as hell too. What was the point of CCTV if this was all it yielded? The crappy photocopying didn’t help. Denyse wouldn’t have stood for it and the machines at work were nearly 20 years old. Maybe they didn’t want to catch the criminals. Maybe the Police were in a decades old vendetta with the Post Office People. God, this was boring.

She became aware of a clock ticking and once her mind had alerted her to its relentless beat, it became all she could hear. It even drowned out the rain on the window. It was 12.30. She fished in her handbag for that tiny Sudoku book that she only ever used at the doctor’s. A phone started ringing. She tried to fit the rhythm of the call with the incessant ticking. It wouldn’t quite synch up and so became twice as annoying. She glanced up at the man behind the counter. He seemed asleep again.

After a minute, the ringing stopped and she heard but didn’t see someone walking around talking on the phone, in that calm, bored Police monotone.

“Yes, up to six weeks, sir....As a rule...... Yes, we will.....Of course...... As soon as I do, yes sir....that’s right... Very funny sir. “

An even larger man, shoved into a suit that was just not having it and had begun to fight back, walked into view at the window. He stared at Bella as he spoke; and winked. What was with all the winking? She was used to getting unwanted attention on the street; men turning to check out her bum or staring straight at her tits but the

winking was new. It reminded her of Sunday and that really was not helping her mood. The chatty man smiled a commendably creepy smile and carried on talking as he moved from view.

“Not sure that’s physically possible, sir, but I’ll pass it on, all the same. Speak soon. Ciao”

He must have hung up. After a second or two, the phone immediately started ringing again and continued unanswered.

Bella started drawing flowers on the side of the Sudoku puzzle.

*****

She looked at the clock: 1.05pm.

Eventually she got up to ask what is going on. She approached the man behind the counter again, however he didn’t seem to remember her.

“Is there any news?”

“News....?”, he glanced up at TV on the wall. “Of..?”

“Is anyone coming down to see me?”

“And you are....?”

“...Waiting impatiently. I’ve been staring at you...” She glanced up at the clock. “For FORTY FIVE minutes.”

“Have you?” The Policeman looked shocked.

Bella let loose one notch on her temper, hugely aware that going fully mental was not going to work in here.

“Have I? I am the only person in the room. I filled in your stupid form. Someone is coming down to see me. I have got better things to do, y’know”

“Of course madam. If you’ll just fill this form, someone will be down to see you momentarily.”

She stared at him in disbelief. Exasperated, she drew a long deep breath and explained who she was again. The Policeman said he’d find out who was dealing with this. She sat back down and watched him. Was he typing? It was impossible to tell.

The whole page of her Sudoku was filled with a mass of flowers, trees and vines.

*****

In the darkened control room, a man stared at a CCTV feed showing Bella sitting in the Police waiting room. She was puling faces as she scribbled frantically at her book.

“Another fifteen minutes, sir?”

The speaker on the wall crackled and that robotic voice spoke again.

“Yes. I agree. That should suffice. Isabella Raven. What do we have on her?”

*****

She watched the second hand on the clock do two full circuits. It arrived at 1.30pm.

The next page in her Sudoku has been filled with a line of men wielding machetes and flamethrowers, approaching the mess of flowers she drew earlier. She imagined them animated and attacking the forest she’d drawn.

She got up again to ask.

“This is ridiculous. Can you not tell me who has my slip of paper? And roughly - very roughly - how long they’ll be, please? I have to get back to work.”

The man behind the counter looked as though he had been switched off. Or died. The instinct to rap someone on the forehead had never felt stronger to Bella. Damn that glass between them.

“I just need five minutes with...whoever...from in there behind you.”

The man moved away from the window, without a word, and came back a minute later.

“The case is being handled by a Squad from the Yard, who specialise in this sort of thing”

“Good. Great,” said Bella. “Can I get the name of an officer to call about this?”

“No, madam, not even an email. Don’t worry yourself. They have all your details, madam. Everything. They’ll contact you if they want to talk to you”.

“If....? How do they I know whether I have important information or not? I really do have better things.... Better than....”

She felt herself give up. It felt good. This had, winking aside, been better than the running, for shutting out the memories of last week’s horror. Maybe a little frustration shuts out worries. Or thinking. She stared out of the window, through the rain, at a huge black limousine that was zipping up the bus lane. It sent a wave of water across the two teenagers standing glued to their phones in the bus stop. She laughed as they tried to tear themselves away from their screens to deal with the water.

*****

Michael Solo sat back in the limo his airline had provided, scrolling through his emails. When the car paused at the lights, he felt the rain pattering on the roof and looked down at his summer suit and suede shoes. This wasn’t going to work as well in London today. He knew, however, that there was no chance he would set foot in a puddle all day, so it didn’t really matter. His carry-on bag was open on the seat next to him and he put away his sunglasses in their little pouch.

His phone pinged with a text from DAVID, “ISABELLA RAVEN. Find Out What She Wants.” His hope of quietly slipping home for an early bath was dwindling.

He dialled the office and asked for Percy.

*****

The limo pulled into the extremely narrow entrance of the underground carpark with practiced ease and pulled up where Michael directed. He tipped the driver and got out. As he glanced up the ramp to where his black Porsche Boxster sat, a woman in a tight grey suit, carrying an enormous red handbag sashayed down the ramp toward him. She has a broad smile and kept eye contact right up until she passed Michael. Today was not so bad. Her smile hopped onto his face as he got in his car and stayed there as left the carpark and headed home.

*****

Still confounded by her experience with the Police, Bella sat upstairs at the front on the bus on the way back to the office, checking the BBC News app. OPEN WINDOWS SUPPORTERS BEHIND DEADLY RIOT was the top story and Bella dived in. The death toll had risen to nine and eye witnesses were pinning the blame for the stampede, which had somehow been upgraded to a riot, on Open Window supporters. And by none-too-subtle inference, Open Window itself.

This didn’t make any sense to her. She had seen that the Orange- hatted man had an Open Window shirt on but, if they were trying starting trouble like that, they wouldn’t advertise the fact. Knowing as she did, that they were firmly behind the feelings of the Protestors, there seemed no chance in hell that they’d do such a thing. In fact, the only possible circumstance that would explain what she saw was that someone wanted to frame Open Window. And even that didn’t make any logical sense. Why not frame them for something more scandalous and believable? So why did the BBC report such obvious nonsense?

Like most people, Bella has spent time with people who spout conspiracy theories. Many of them were obvious nutcases or pub bores but, she had always assumed that some of the stories must be true. This was one of those times. Now the public, or great chunks of them, would think badly of the website for no good reason. Maybe they wouldn’t believe OW’s next revelation. The fact that people would not give the matter the ten seconds’ thought it would take to puncture the story made her angry.

The app went on to start naming the dead. She scrolled through the smiling family photos and froze on the fifth one. Fuck. She sat up in her seat and her phone started to shake ever so slightly. Peter McGaffin. Oh god. She knew him.

Last Christmas at the Office Christmas party, held at the Italian restaurant across the street, she’d met Peter. She’d been on the point of leaving. With about three exceptions, there was nobody in the office she’d choose to socialise with. But these events are semi- compulsory and, despite her fear of forced jollity, she’d gone along and found the white wine they kept filling her glass with to be quite good at keeping the boredom at bay.

Some of the companies they worked with had press-ganged along pockets of their own staff “in the spirit of co-operation”. The ones she spotted had short straw written all over them. Peter had taken a shine to her and after his third attempt at conversation, Bella had started chatting back to him. Despite his dorky glasses and Five Pound haircut, he was quite witty and interesting. Certainly enough in the circumstances, anyway. After half an hour of chat she surprised herself by dragging him into kitchen and then into the giant walk-in fridge. Ten minutes later the ice was broken and they were considerably better acquainted. The ice was beginning to form again however and her passion cooled at a remarkably similar pace. She found herself rebuffing him almost immediately, which was somewhere between unfair and particularly mean. Bella thought it best she disappear from the party and that was the last she’d seen of Peter. Classy.

He emailed her from time to time and was actually very cool about the whole thing. He’d invite her to see a play, or try a pop-up restaurant or go to some frankly quite cool-sounding exhibition in a Shoreditch basement.

Only her shame, over the way she behaved after the freezer fuck, had prevented her from replying. These things were supposed to be easier when you’re a grown up. He’d even invited her to go on the March. She had decided to go anyway to please her father and out of curiosity. It had been her first March. Bella had no memory of even remember signing a petition against anything. Politics, it was fair to say, had never been her thing.

She had thought it was a shit choice for a date anyway, which was a bit rich from someone who’d chosen a meat locker for their first one, but had nearly called him on Sunday morning. She recalled he’d been quite political and would have helped her through any awkwardness. She had sort of hoped she might bump into him, not realising just how big these things were. Peter McGaffin. Fuck.

*****

Bella returned to the office and headed to Denyse’s desk.

“One of those from the March. He’s... “

“I know, I totally recognised him too. He’s been in here a few times, right? Nice shoes. I definitely would. Would have. If he wasn’t gay“

“Why - ?”

“...Didn’t you try to chat him up at that Christmas do? - I do worry about you. Anyway it’s weird...”

“...that we know him or that you presume he was gay?

“So gay, Bella. No, that he was on a March at all. I googled him.”

Bella looked archly at Denyse and bit her lip. She moved to speak but thinks better of it.

“It’s weird”, said Denyse. “That march was against fracking. I still don’t know what the problem with fracking is exactly, y’know, and I just looked it up. It’s all out of sight. Then again, I don’t know why they just don’t make more of those windmills. They look amazing. So beautiful. And quiet, I expect. Are they?

Did you know if you put solar panels on one – small, well, small on the map - bit of the Sahara desert, you could power the whole world. A tiny square. I just read that. Online, though. Is it true, do you know? Why don’t they just do it? Nobody lives there. Just snakes and lizards.

“Denyse!“

What? Oh, right. Well, when I recognised Peter Wotsit, I googled him and fracking and there’s a link. He works for Maxwell, who’ve been consulting with us up North. So he’s essentially a fracker on an anti- fracking march. Or was. How was the Cop Shop? Good times?

“Fucking absolutely Pointless. Ninety minutes I won’t get back. And I ruined my shoes. Did you get anywhere with team Solo?”

“Tried. Nothing. They have a pretty tasty website. They probably found out more about me than I did about them.”

“It’s a bit sus’ that, of all the people there, the one actual fracker died. Do you think they were watching him?”

Denyse adopted her serious face, which meant she was about to repeat a scary fact that she had gleaned from the internet.

“Bella, someone is watching us the whole time. There are five million CCTV cameras in Britain. You can’t walk fifty feet in London without being clocked. I read that.”

“You really are a mine of semi-useful information, Denyse. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“It has been remarked upon. I’d better get back“

*****

Twenty minutes later Bella was texting Denyse from the office toilets. She was doing her lipstick in the mirror when Denyse arrived, with a laptop under her arm; her face trying to conceal her curiosity.

“This is new, Bella.”

“You took your time.”

“My apologies, your Maj. I was doing some actual work. Stick does insist on me doing a little every day. What’s the massive emergency? And why the toilets? I am not having sex with you, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Amazing. I don’t know why I... This just arrived by courier. But if you’re not interested...“

Bella opened a jiffy and tipped a red and a blue flash drive into her hand, along with a typed note.

DISCONNECT FROM THE NET BEFORE USING THIS.

BE DISCREET.

Denyse’s eyes widened,

“Wow. Which one, Alice?“

“I hadn’t thought of that. That’s a bit sinister.”

“Irresistibly, sister...Come on. Fire them up, woman. Chop chop.”

Denyse slotted the red drive into her laptop. The whole bathroom mirror flickers to show Peter McGaffin’s face, then dissolves to footage of a student riot.

A slightly distorted woman’s voice spoke over the images.

“2007. A supposed Student Activist at a student demonstration seen here getting out of a Police Van, being given a baton and passing through Police lines. He put a female student into the hospital and then vanished.

This film made the front pages and the officer was charged with Perverting The Course Of Justice.

“But before it went to trial, footage appeared of the injured Student throwing a petrol bomb. She had no history of any such behaviour and strongly denied the incident ever happened. In vain. Case collapses.

“2010. A strike at an Aberdeen Factory. Shots are fired and the striking workers panic and Police charge. A school bus is set on fire. Two children die. The strike starts to crumble.

There are many similar cases if you look.”

The mirror returned to normal. They both gasped. Denyse put the Blue drive in and the mirror flickered to show two photos; a woman in an orange T-shirt, face contorted, throwing a punch; and the same photo but with her wearing an Open Window T-shirt.

The voiceover continued...

“Sunday’s stampede was started by members of the PROTEST INTELLIGENCE MONITORING SQUAD. PIMS, like the SPECIAL DEMONSTRATON SQUAD before it, places undercover Police in Organisations to inform, disrupt and discredit.

PIMS has more power than SDS ever did and they will hunt down anyone who catches them at work.

Your life is in danger. You need to leave the office right now. Do not mention these drives to anyone.

Take this to Solo. You can help each other. Trust no-one else. Assume people are watching you at all times.”

The image vanished. Bella and Denyse locked eyes in the mirror and mock gasped. Denyse’s laptop popped very loudly and they jumped back and stared at it. The screen cracked and a very tiny curl of brown smoke came out of the earphone socket.

“What the frock, Denyse? Is that supposed to be serious?”

“I just had a heart attack. Did that thing kill my laptop?”

“I think so. Sorry about that. Was that a warning or a threat?”

“No clue. Baddies don’t usually give warnings, I don’t suppose. Shit.”

“Deepest. Darkest. Shit. How’d they find me?“

“Well, you’re not exactly off the grid, are you darling? Plus: You told them, remember! You went to the cops, I told you not to. Anyway, they know where everyone is now, all the time, since the NSA turned everyone’s phone into a bug.

“The NSA. Get a grip. How much coffee have you had today, Denyse? “

“A tiny bit too much, judging by my current cardiac gymnastics.”

“This is bullshit. A wind-up. I am going for a walk. Cover for me. And please Denyse, this is not gossip.”

CHAPTER 4

Bella sat in a coffee shop, a few streets away from her office and stared at the large black-and-white portraits on the mandatory exposed brickwork. She ordered a black coffee and, having stood her ground with a stare that said, you know exactly what I mean when they’d questioned her order, sat down to think about what to think. She didn’t know where to start.

She glanced down at the photo of her father that sat in her wallet and was visible once again now that Bobby’s picture had relocated into a bin. Rob Raven was stood in his garden, with the hills behind him and she admitted to herself for yet another time, he did look happier up there, riddled with disease than he ever had in London.

Her mind drifted back a few months to the funeral.

It had been the first time Bella had seen the sun shine on the hills above the cemetery this century. She had kind of forgotten that there were hills there at all. Compared to Streatham, Bishop Auckland was a lush green paradise. Well, perhaps not paradise exactly, especially that day, but it was definitely beautiful when the sun shone, she’d give him that.

It didn’t last, of course and by the time they got to The Kings Arms, umbrellas were being pulled from handbags as the rain fell in thick droplets that she could hear individually as they hit the ground, just

as they had once pattered against her bedroom window. Bella hadn’t brought an umbrella and no-one offered. She didn’t mind all that much.

The crowd was a mixture of neighbours whom she’d never met and outliers from her father’s side, who all remarked upon how much she’d grown since they’d seen her last. Nice people, as far as it goes, but since they hadn’t seen her since she’d worn a glittery Spice Girls skirt (and matching socks), and all they knew of her was that she’d gone off to That London and hadn’t been on the News yet, so hadn’t slid entirely into the gutter.

She wasn’t in the mood for giving her life story over and over to ladies with broaches and smiles that seemed unsure of their way across the faces that housed them. A funeral is the perfect excuse to just wave away unwanted small talk with a flick of a hanky.

Truth is, she didn’t think there was much to tell really. Life seems to be a steamroller up here, unchanging and relentlessly slow. After a decade or more away, Bella had been here three times this year for weekend visits and the prospect of a nice walk onto the hills, which was always scaled down, due to the reliably inclement weather, to a trudge around town to view the sights past the tiny droplets that ran off the hood of her waterproof or blew sideways into her eyes. The occasional neon lights did look twice as impressive reflected in the black, slicked roads but it still very much looked the same.

At home, the buildings change overnight. London is constantly being rebuilt. Its history is being unwritten in the endless construction boom. You can go away on holiday and then have trouble navigating your way home from the pub. The technicolour backlit storefronts of the new shops and takeaways on the high street spin and change like fruit machine wheels and with the same random chances of success. Three Indian takeaways in a row? What were they thinking?

Life in That London moves fast then, by comparison to here. Except it doesn’t. It took her years to work it out but it’s London itself that moves fast. Hurtling along to oblivion more or less, like the river they just crossed, sloshing its way to the waterfall behind the Kings. In some ways, that was the game of London: to resist being caught up in the flow with the flotsam and jetsam that washed through it. To put down roots and to establish your position and to have a nice view of the water flowing around you.

Bella’s life was stuck in behind a drowned Sainsbury’s trolley now, in one of those bits of the river where worryingly pale brown foam builds up amid plastic coke bottles and rotting branches. Decay had set in. It wasn’t pretty. She had been swallowed up London. They were right. Still, at least she hadn’t been on the News yet, she thought brightly as someone held the pub door open for her.

She absent-mindedly asked for a Sauvignon Blanc and was met with a look that was a halting mixture of embarrassment and contempt. Good start, she thought as she opted for a pint of cider instead, and remembered not to ask for blackcurrant, at least. It causes trouble, apparently.

She looked behind the vaguely familiar barman and surveyed the wonders which the Kings Arms was ready to inflict on its clientele. A variety of baps whose sliced fillings would never be challenged by salad or mayonnaise. Or actual butter, for that matter. Still no sign of an ice bucket or a lemon. I mean, really. She remembered the first gin and tonic she’d had in New York. What a wake-up call. 50/50 gin and tonic poured over a whole tray of ice cubes, fizzing and sparkling with gin mist and begging you to go in on the little straws (or were they stirrers?) poking through the lemon chunks on the rim. Right at that moment she had pictured this same view over this same bar and described it to Bobby, laughing at how far she’d come.

Bella realised someone was talking to her and snapped out of it.

“Will you be alright back at the house on your own, petal?”

“Thank you Joan. I will. There’s a lot to sort through. Dad’s stuff”

“Is Bobby coming up to help you?”

“No Joan. Bobby’s gone now.”

“Oh I thought you two were getting...”

Bella curled her fingers, away from where she knew the old lady was looking.

“No, that’s not happening now,” Bella said with a quarter smile

“Oh that’s a shame”

“I suppose it is”, said Bella, and she meant it.

Things, she had thought at that moment, are going to have to change.

And now they were.

Dad was right, you should be careful what you ask for...

*****

She was interrupted by a text from Briony at work,

“HIYA. Denyse did her vanishing trick again. Any chance you can come back in? Bx”

She looked up at a CCTV camera - lingers quizzically on it, then started tapping at her phone. A portrait flickered, and was replaced with footage of Michael speaking. Images from her phone replaced all the other portraits, one at a time. Open Window news stories, Open Window’s website.

“OPEN WINDOW EXPOSES FRENCH CORRUPTION”

“QUESTIONS IN THE HOUSE, LEAK EXPOSES PM’S FAILING”

“ANIMAL SANCTUARY SAVED”

“WINDFARM TO GO AHEAD”

She Googled: Fuck Michael Solo.

Further images appeared on the portraits: Michael with a Hitler moustache drawn on. Headlines such as

“MENACE TO SOCIETY”

“TINPOT CRUSADER”

“ENEMY OF DEMOCRACY”

She opened Facebook to a memorial page dedicated to the March, and typed.

“Sorry to intrude. I was there on Sunday. The trouble was started intentionally. Police no help. Trying to ID the man responsible. 30s, average height, suntan, short hair, orange baseball cap. Any photos, footage welcome.”

The portraits flickered to show Bella’s desk at work, then again to a small flat. Bella sat alone watching TV, a single dinner plate on a table in front. Rain on a window.

Distracted by rain on the actual coffee shop window. Bella shook her head and the portraits returned to normal. She dialled Denyse, got voicemail. Then she rang Briony.

“Sorry babe, I can’t. I shouldn’t have come in at all this week. It’s been too weird. Sunday knocked me right off. Where’s that airhead got to now?”

“It’s OK, love. Fuck knows where she goes. No-one has that many periods and The Stick is not that polite.”

“Indeed. I need to find her too. Any ideas?”

“Try Where’s My Phone? She used that bloody app on me after the Christmas do - found me where I shouldn’t have been, the nosy cow. Give her a taste of her own medicine. And please please let me know who she’s shacked up with.”

Bella opened the app and located Denyse’s phone. It pinged,

“IT’S IN STREATHAM!”

Denyse’s phone was at Bella’s flat. She stared at the screen in disbelief, then up again at the CCTV camera. Then back at the phone. It rang. Loudly. She spilled her coffee in her haste to answer. Unknown number. A man’s voice.

“Hi. You contacted Open Window. May I help you“

“Right. I don’t - I am not used to - I thought you could help me. I have information. My name is... “

“Bella. We have your email, remember. How can we help your department?”

“What? No, it’s me. Just me. And I am a bit confused. Things are getting weird. Maybe I can help you? I don’t really – look, maybe this was a bad idea.”

Bella looked up at camera again.

“Can you see me?”

“I am looking at you now,” replied Michael, cheerfully.

“What?”

“In Spain. Holiday snaps from Facebook. You have an unusual name.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s. I’m feeling a bit...”

“Would you feel more comfortable talking face-to-face?”

“Yes. And well, yes, I would.”

“That sounds much nicer. Can you get to our office in an hour?”

“Sure. Yes. My friend says it always takes an hour to go anywhere in town, regardless of how far it is.”

“Very true. I assume you just have the address by now. See you shortly.”

Bella got up; caught herself in a mirror and shook her head vigorously. As she headed to the door, she passed a table with a couple talking quietly but intently. The woman looked up and didn’t smile. It was Katherine from her office giving Bella the Evil Eye, sat next a large red handbag.

*****

Solo Communications was a busy, quiet, modern office of about twenty 20 people, filled with natural light, a smartly decked out in a black-and-white colour scheme. The staff all wore single coloured expensive-looking clothes. There was something of a Mondrian painting about the place and it looked intentional.

Bella exited the lift, looking bedraggled and slightly wild. Her hair was wet and her coat open. She juggled an umbrella, a sports bag and large handbag with a laptop poking out, covered in a Tesco bag. Seeing no Reception, she approached the nearest desk and asked the rather handsome young man for Solo.

He stood up and pointed to the glass-walled office at the back. Behind him, on the wall was a sign, saying.....

NO SPOTS, NO STRIPES. NO PATTERNS. NO GREY.

Bella dragged her bags, knocking shrubbery and piles of paper as she moved through the middle of the room. Michael’s office was even brighter, and fashionably spartan. There were floor-to-ceiling windows behind and into the office. The sun shone in and silhouetted him at a large drawer-free table/desk. There were a few shelves on the left wall, a TV hung on the right and a red carpet that seemed to absorb Bella’s feet and begged her to slip off her shoes.

Michael smiled, watching Bella approach, bumping into things. He got up and shook her hand warmly.

“Thank you so much for coming over. Coffee? Water? Towel? Change of clothes? Do take your shoes off if you want.”

Bella shook her head. She dumped her bags in a pile, dropped her coat on top. It slid off. Michael Solo was just as handsome as he appeared on the TV. More so. He glowed, annoyingly. He looked totally at home in this room although she couldn’t really tell what it was that he was doing.

“This rain”, he continued. “So how can I help you? Do you have something for Open Window? I’d be happy to listen on their behalf.”

“I do. I have tried the Police and got nowhere. I’m way out of my comfort zone here and a little - Will you help me?”

“Me?”

“Yes. I wasn’t expecting to see you, right away. I’ve seen your site - you care about fracking. The March last weekend was sabotaged. The papers make it look like hooligans went on the rampage, trampling people to death. It wasn’t like that - it was one man that kicked it off. It had been such a beautiful day, so...

She welled up a bit.

“...and he turned it to shit. He had an earpiece with a curly wire, so he wasn’t alone.”

“Perhaps he was talking to his mother. People walking along the street, muttering. Are they mad? Are they terrorists? Or just talking to their mother?”

“Are you taking the piss? Look. I knew this was a mistake. Forget it.”

Michael watched her gather her bags for a moment. While he thoughts, just for a second, the entire office seemed to freeze, except Bella, walking to the door,

“Forgive me, Isabella I have reasons to be distrustful. Sceptical. I was rude.”

Bella half-smiled, held eye contact and sat down again, crossing her legs.

Michael took a breath and spoke again, in a much warmer tone of voice.

“The likelihood is that you are right. The trouble is almost always orchestrated at these things. The crowd goes on for a miles, yet the trouble always occurs right in front of News cameras.

I can’t accept there is a demented Hooligan Element in all these different groups, who detonate at the sight of a TV crew.”

Bella cocked her head,

“If there was, they shouldn’t be too hard to catch. All they’d have to do is put some Plain Clothes with the News people and wait.”

“Exactly. But there are never any arrests. Well, no convictions. They always catch-and-release a few kids. Look...“

Michael tapped his laptop to reveal

FRACKING PROTEST ENDS IN RIOTING AND DEATH

“The protesters are ALWAYS tainted; a haven for this hooligan element. I read your Facebook posts. You’ve witnessed how easily and effectively powerful people can poison a point of view.”

“Are you saying it’s The Man? What...MI5? The government? “

“Who knows? There is never any evidence. But then, I have no evidence of gravity or love and yet I see the consequences of both every day.”

“What the flowery fuck are you on about now? Oh. You’re dancing around the question. I’ve seen you do this. Make a bold statement and then step back to see who jumps in. Clever. You do care about fracking?

“Open Window cares about fracking. I am just a...”

“...Spokesman. Yeah, I’ve been looking at you online too. So I know this episode. The One Where Michael Emphasises His Neutrality, right? Well, I think you’re being yanked off the fence.”

“By whom?”

“I was sent a photo of the same rioter with and without an Open Window T-shirt on. And a message saying I was in danger and to trust you. On a USB that turned my friend’s laptop into a fucking doorstop.”

Michael leaned in and reverted back to his previous dispassionate tone,

“You are aware, legally speaking, that this could be construed as a threat.”

“What the self-raising fuck are you talking about? I am the one being threatened here, Michael.”

“I am sorry but if our meeting has been arranged, then by whom? Why?”

“To be honest, mate, I was really hoping you’d know. It’s not even a threat though, is it? It doesn’t mean anything. I could have doctored that photo myself. Well, Denyse could.”

“Who is - nevermind. It’s a warning. You’re right about the photos. Obviously fake. They cancel each other out. But it does mean something. Not now perhaps; but on the front cover of The Express tomorrow, it would mean a lot. It would be obviously real.

So it’s a message. It means we need to be careful, if we continue down this rabbithole.”

“We? Rabbithole? So, what, Open Window is under attack? What’s that got to do with me?”

“Maybe. Or someone just wants me to look left, when I should be looking right, and I am about to get run over.”

“Or trampled.”

“Or that, yes.”

It was Bella’s turn to take a breath and open up a little more,

“I had wanted to talk to you about the man, the fucking mass murderer, who started the carnage. But the man from Maxwell who died in the street, before the tube stampede. I knew him.”

“Who from Maxwell?”

“Peter McGaffin. I mean, I barely knew him. We met at a Christmas party. I was bored and drunk and we - just briefly - in a cupboard and then I hid from him. Not my finest hour. He emailed me a few times, asking me out. I ignored him.”

“And he was on a fracking March? Weird.”

“That’s what Denyse said. He had asked me to go on the March, oddly enough. I was probably going anyway. I thought I might just

bump into him. I had no idea it would be that big. He could have been so close. Now that’s weird.”

“It’s unusual - you and him. I will have a think about this. Thank you Isabella.”

Bella stared at him for a second,

“So, that’s it? It’s a bit odd and you’ll - call me? Doesn’t this bother you? This isn’t normal. Not my normal anyway.

Tell me about PIMS?”

Michael stiffened and leaned back in his chair. He glanced at his open laptop.

“I will call but I have to be somewhere. Else. I will have someone look into this. Goodbye, Bella Raven.”

Bella stared angrily. She was about to speak but instead she picked up her bags and left without a word.

*****

A man, sat on an upturned plastic crate in an empty office across the street from Michael’ office took a quick series of quite blurred telephoto stills of Michael and Bella, talking in his office.

He leaned forward stiffly and picked up a walkie talkie.

“Did we get any of that?”

A crackle, then a woman answered him,

“No, I didn’t know these two met. Something’s up.”

*****

A courier stepped out of the lift at Solo Communications, delivering a package. His scruffy brown uniform and greasy hair stood out a mile. At the back, Michael stepped out of his office.

“Percy and Amy, can you join me? The rest of you. Come on, surely you have parties to attend. It’s the weekend. Go get drunk. Push our clients.”

There was an instantaneous reaction. Two young women grabbed laptops and headed toward Michael. The rest, as one, put on coats, slid laptops into bags and left, talking on mobiles, waving silent goodbyes.

Michael, Percy, Amy were silhouetted against the sunset. They briefed Michael on the day’s OW business.

Michael interrupted them.

“Isabella Raven. I’ve forwarded you her details. I want a full check. Into the red please. She came for help but I couldn’t help feeling I was the one being quizzed.”

He held up a hand and looked at his laptop. He let his face fall into his hands.

*****

Bella walked home from the tube station. It felt damp and droplets of water hung from the trees and bushes. She turned a few corners and trudged along a deserted street of terraced houses, looking in at the windows that had the downstairs lights on. There was no sound bar her footsteps and the odd muted TV. A siren sounded in the distance and she flinched.

Her footsteps developed a metallic echo, which slowly moved out of synch. She half-turned to see if she can catch anyone behind her in her periphery. There was nothing.

She stopped and the footsteps stopped a long second later.

“Fucksake”, she thought to herself.

Bella started walking faster. The double footsteps continued.

Suddenly something whooshed past her head. She ducked and her heart did a somersault. It hit a car in front and bounced back at her. It was a football. It did not explode.

A boy of about ten in football boots appeared from behind a car clattered after the ball.

Bella laughed weakly, caught her breath and smiled a reassuring smile to no-one in particular. She sped up and turned a corner, straight into a traffic accident scene. Police lights. A white tent. Ambulance. She shivered, pulled up her collar and hurried home.

*****

Still in his office, long after the sunset, Michael tapped away at his laptop. A headline:

HEAT MOUNTS ON OPEN WINDOW.

The TV News showed pushing and shoving at the Anti-Fracking March. People were wearing Open Window shirts, bandanas, baseball caps, throwing eggs, a woman leered at the camera and the screen froze on exactly the shot Bella was sent.

He closed his laptop, head in hands. A dark cloud had replaced the sunset. Flashes of lightning reflected from buildings opposite.

Michael received a text but didn’t look up. It was not likely to be good news. He was wrong. It was from Alice.

“Round 2? Midland & Royal. 412. Waiting. Surprise me.”

He smiled, snapped the laptop shut and headed for the lift and some better times ahead, if only for a while.

*****

Bella sat in her tiny studio flat, flipping channels agitatedly. She settled on the NEWS. It was showing the House Of Commons. Jeremy Friskett, and arrogant-looking Junior Minister in his thirties shouting weakly n a brittle, slightly nasal, metallic voice. He had carefully slicked-back hair, pinstripe suit and smug demeanour, straight from Central Casting. His attempt at looking like a quietly satanic Establishment figure were undercut by his permanent slightly manic grin and an unmistakable undercurrent of befuddlement.

He was calling out Open Window as a terrorist group, to baboonlike jeers of approval. He mentioned Michael by name, calling him a charlatan. Bella took a gulp of wine. This was getting quite scary. There was no denying it now.

Bella opened a laptop and looked up Peter McGaffin on Facebook. Some holiday shots. Beachwear. Bella nodded appreciatively. She looked for mutual friends. There was only one: Denyse. Bella rolled her eyes, poured the last of the wine and downed it.

She switched the TV off and stated at it. She drifted off. Images from her week flickered across the TV screen, projections from her panicked mind: Michael Solo in his office; Press conferences; the Hitler moustache photo; scenes from the march; her escape via the Underground stations the white tent and blue lights.

Finally, a lingering shot of her desk cubicle at work, empty.

She scowled at the empty bottle.

A moment passed and Bella seemed newly energised.

She gathered some old fishing magazines from under the table and threw them in a bin. She hung her coat up on a hanger then cleared the plate, wine and glass into the kitchen.

There were bank statements on the counter and, with an intake of breath, she opened one. Her face dropped as she reads and then a huge smile snaked across her it, lighting her up from the inside.

She tapped her phone and her online banking appeared on the screen. The balance showed £136,546. Her face ran a gamut of emotions as she glanced round the flat. Her crappy boombox, a broken kitchen cupboard door and her ruined-looking shoes. There were many ways she could spend that money, not least putting a colossal dent in the mortgage.

She kicked off her shoes, headed into the bathroom and turned the shower on hot. Her face in the mirror disappeared as steam roses while she undressed.

She pulled back the shower curtain.

CHAPTER 5

In room 412 of the Midland & Royal Hotel, Lucy Diamond pulled the shower curtain back and stepped out. She wiped the steam from her mirror and looked herself up and down. She looked good.

Glowing, even. She pulled on a robe, and called out to the darkness of the bedroom.

“Are you awake?“

She entered the bedroom to wake Michael. He was sprawled face down on the bed. He had a pleasing all-over tan these days. The sign of a good work-life balance perhaps. Or an idle rich man and she knew he was neither. A huge vase of white roses rested on the bedside table next to his head. That really had been a nice surprise. He really was a very charming man, she thought. A shame really.

She ran her finger up his thigh and slapped his bum.

“That was fun. More intense than Madrid. Have you thought about what I said?“

Michael mumbled back to her, “Yemmm not sure America likes me.”

“Are you fading on me, Michael Solo?”

“Never would.”

“Well, you get your strength up, young man....Michael?

“Totally awake.”

“Mind if I ask you something. Have you discovered anything about your Maxwell man’s death? He was one of yours, right?”

Michael tensed and shivered. He kept his eyes closed and continued to mumble but he was wide awake now, choosing his words carefully.

“It is - not something I am able to discuss.”

“I’m sure you are upset. I just thought you might want to...” She had been trying to sound casual but she knew she’d blown it. Left it too late to build to it casually. She had been enjoying their time together. There was no faking that. She moved back into the bathroom and trailed off.

“Really, Alice, it is fine. I am fine. What time to do you have to leave this morning?”

Michael stared into the dark. He looked serious and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, felt quite definitely worried.

****

In the darkened control room, there was only one man present now. Pictures of Bella filled the huge screens. Candid, passport, party, formal work photos, a blurry telephoto of Bella and Michael in his office.

The metallic voice crackled out of the speaker.

“I need everything on this woman. Friends and family, all phone contacts. Going back 3 years, crossmatched with all Red Flags.”

The lone operative looked up at the speaker.

“Are you suggesting she’s a professional, sir? She seems genuinely unspectacular. She even votes.”

“Then why is she arguing with Solo? She’s Civil Service and that building leaks like a sieve. She’s signed the Official Secrets Act. That alone lifts her out of the crowd.”

“Sir.”

*****

While Lucy slept deeply next to him, Michael was sitting up smoking. Hard. He got up, dressed silently and left without kissing her good bye.

That question. She was better than that. That was sloppy work. Perhaps that meant she had been compromised rather than switched sides. Perhaps it was a nervousness, an unwillingness that she was fighting. Either way, she’d been got to. So the only reason he was there was to hear that question. What about Madrid? That too probably. That job offer she’d dangled. Was that part of it too? That was some real international string pulling if so. Who could do that?

He needed to talk to David.

He left the suite and headed down the corridor and into a door marked STAIRS / CAR PARK. As the door swung closed behind him, the lift opened further up the corridor and a wiry man in black, T-shirt, jeans and a baseball cap stepped out. He was carrying a large canvas sports bag.

*****

Driving through central London at night was one of Michael’s pleasures. It was almost as light as daytime and, while the streets were never empty, there was so little traffic that it felt like you had the city to yourself.

He pulled a packet of cigarettes from the compartment under his seat and lit one. It felt good and, once he realised that, he threw it out of the window and the packet after it. Three months of abstinence out the window too, he thought to himself. He really ought to purge the hidden packets in the flat too. He didn’t need to be told this was classic addict’s behaviour.

Michael dialled David.

“Sorry. You have a problem. I just left an old friend. Rather abruptly. She started asking about OW. McGaffin. She knew he was one of yours. You have a leak.”

There was a slight pause while David took this all in and replied,

“I see. You met Raven?”

“Yesterday. She seems genuine. She knows McGaffin too. I do not like this at all. Where has she sprung from?”

“She’s being watched. I think she might have been targeted at that March alongside McGaffin. Will you help her?”

“Of course. I’ll see her next week.”

“I’m afraid now would be better, Michael.”

David hung up. Michael reached for the cigarettes he had just thrown away. He tightened his grip on the wheel and breathed deeply. Calmer, slightly, he checked his watch and dialled Bella.

“Hi, this is Michael Solo...I do, indeed. It is very nearly 5.45am...You are very welcome. I would not if it was not. Very...OK, if you are sure. Text it to me ... Less than an hour. Despite what your friend says.”

*****

Michael pulled up outside Bella’s block in Streatham and buzzed the doorbell.

Despite the total lack of traffic, he hadn’t noticed the SUV that quietly pulled into a drive across the street from Bella’s block and the

blacked-out rear window prevented him from seeing the man with the long lens camera snapping away at him.

*****

Bella answered the door in a tracksuit. Her hair was vaguely pulled back by what looked quite like a large green caterpillar.

“Well this is unusual. I really wasn’t expecting to see you again, Michael.”

“I can imagine. I am sorry I was short. You were asking questions that lit up all kinds of red lights and I had no idea who you were.

“Nice place. Great view. Truth is, I am not sure what this is and like to be the one that knows what is going on in every conversation I have. Especially ones like this. Could I see that other USB please?”

“Yep. It’s still in the laptop. Coffee?”

Michael nodded a very appreciative yes and Bella, trying to keep up her cool demeanour, headed to the kitchen, while Michael sat with the laptop.

When she returned with two steaming mugs, Michael sat back on the sofa and stretched. Bella passed him a coffee. Michael relaxed and tried to sum up what he knew.

“Whoever sent this wants us together. I am sorry to say this but I think we may be in some danger. “

Bella took a glug of coffee; her fingers gripped tighter around the mug. She nodded at Michael to continue.

“Someone is helping you. Protecting you, perhaps, but anonymous help has its own agenda.”

“But why us together? It seems a bit random. This is your world, not mine.”

Michael got up and tuned the radio on her boombox, which dated back to the previous century, until he found some noisy rock music. Bella immediately recognised this move from watching too many Hollywood thrillers. She watched wide-eyed but didn’t question it.

“Downstairs are not going to enjoy that.”

Michael ignored her joke and continued with a yet more serious face. It got her attention.

“Our connection is Peter McGaffin. I knew him too, although, we had never met.”

“Don’t say Grindr.”

“What? No. He - came to us. We exchanged thoughts, emails.”

“He was a source.”

Michael nodded.

“Back in my office, you asked me about the PIMS...”

“I did. You were quite rude, I thought.”

“PIMS is not on your side. Or mine. They are not what you think.”

“So I’m told. There’s little chance of them capturing this man then?”

“Capturing? No, I would say not. What exactly do you know of PIMS?”

“Almost nothing. My anonymous friend warned me they are not to be trusted. So they’ll cover this up? Should I be - ?”

“You should be concerned, yes. And wary.”

“Fucking hell. People keep saying to be wary. I haven’t done anything, I’m just a witness. Oh.”

As soon as the words slipped out of her mouth, she realised. Her face fell and she put her coffee down and sat down next to Michael.

“Don’t worry”, he said in a voice that actually did reassure her, which was very surprising to Bella. “I can help you. I have some quite pressing errands this morning but we can meet for lunch, if you would like. It might be an idea if you pack an overnight bag, a night or two, just as a precaution. I am afraid it is wiser to assume they are onto you until we are sure they are not.

“Fucking absolutely brilliant. So now I really have to look over my shoulder?”

“Bella, these are serious people. The best you can hope for is to not give them reason to come after you. You will not see them coming.”

“Will you? Are they even after you? Oh wait - you keep your hands clean, right?”

“That’s the idea. I really am just a PR. They are the ones who open windows and let out the bad smells.”

“Keep telling yourself that. If you ask me, your job sounds kind of shitty.”

“It can be. Most of the stories we get are people failing to clear up their mess and hurting others. Shining a light on it often helps clear it up. We try not to judge.”

“You do judge, Michael. You choose who to expose and for what.”

“For what the Law says is a crime.”

“Who said you people could call out who’s good and who’s naughty. Who died and made you Santa?”

“Open Window looks under the rocks that no-one else will. They take on that responsibility.”

“But Michael, the real monsters don’t hide under rocks these days. From what I’ve seen today, just Googling, your lot seem to go hard on the twitchy guy under pressure from his boss...”

“...Or his ego.”

“- to turn a profit that quarter, and fucking it up.”

“Well, there are a lot more of those. The handfuls of real monsters are so unbelievably in bed with governments – protected - that it’s hard to see where one starts and the other ends and they’re a lot harder to expose.”

“But that is a bit cowardly, picking on the little ones?”

“The thing is - it’s the little ones that cause the most damage. Your criminal slash corporate mastermind usually has all necessary contingencies in place to guarantee a tidy profit. But the little man, strung out on greed and gambling, who makes a poor decision and tries to cover his arse. He causes chaos and things start to unravel.

These men have toppled banks but - see – this greed is not just merely tolerated but considered absolutely vital in business. It is jaw- dropping what is deemed acceptable collateral today and that way of thinking is digging away at the ground beneath our feet”

“So you are fighting greed. That’s actually quite inspiring, Michael. You really are an excellent salesman. Where do I sign?”

“It sounds noble but Greed and Ruthlessness are scary enemies to make. The thing is: I am not sure if you have any choice about signing up now you’ve...seen behind the curtain.”

Bella took another swig of her coffee and said nothing.

*****

Back in the darkened control room, the lone guy sipped his long since cold coffee and sighed.

“This isn’t enough, sir”

The metallic voice crackled back.

“Keep at it. Just be a bit patient. He’ll slip up. He’s showing off for her. I am enjoying this. Aren’t you? Has Room Service left?”

“Yessir. Been and gone.”

“Shame it wasn’t quite the meal we ordered.”

“Should I have cancelled?”

“No. That was it for her anyway. This may play better for us over time.“

CHAPTER 6

Detective Sergeant Krister Doyle stepped out of the lift in the Midland & Royal Hotel. He was on the end, well past the end actually, of a long night shift. An affable Irishman in his early Forties, Doyle never seemed to shave. His stubble was set at two days just as his eyes were set at twenty years. That he was given a murder at dawn, rather than some bushy tailed puppy, straining at the leash on the dayshift, had to be payback for some slight he wasn’t aware of causing.

As he approached 412, the two Police officers standing outside a room, straightened up and nodded to him, with half smiles.

“Sir!“

Doyle nodded back and entered a mirror lined hallway. Seeing his reflection, and knowing what lay ahead, he sucked in his gut and entered the fancy hotel suite.

White-masked and overcalled SOCO officers dusted and photographed. Lucy Diamond’s bloody and horribly punctured body lay amid a blood stain, like a giant poppy on the white bed. White roses were scattered over her and the bed.

Doyle sighed and then rallied.

“Great. So gentlemen, ladies, Susan. What do you have for me?”

A plain-clothed detective, Susan Roche, a smart, ambitious and witty woman, who had rubbed some of Doyle’s colleagues up the wrong way in the past, came out of the bathroom. Some at the station didn’t seem to get her. Not Doyle though. He liked her and he knew she knew it.

“Morning sir. Irish national, Lucy Diamond, 34. Cause of death appears to be dozens of stab wounds. They’re guessing sometime between 6am and 8.”

“Was she alone?”

“Are you thinking suicide, sir?”

“Let’s make that the last joke, shall we, Roche? I’m not in the mood today.”

“Sorry sir. Room is a solo booking. She had drinks in the bar last night with an unknown male, IC1, mid 30s. We’re going through receipts now. No CCTV in the bar and we don’t have him entering the hotel. There appears to be a fault with the camera in the lift too.”

“Very convenient.”

“Very, sir.”

“Are we not opening the curtains? It’s morning now.”

“I am not sure sir. Should I?”

“You should, Susan. Our man might be hiding behind them. Then we can all go home early.”

Doyle watched, smiling, as Roche stretched up to open the curtains wide. Years of police work, decades really, had inured him to such

horrific scenes and gallows humour had long since taken its grip on him.

“Thoughts on coitus?”

“Sir?”

“Sex, Roche. Were there signs of sexual activity?”

“Yes sir. Lots, sir. Judging by the room service, they were at it all night, all over. The bath was full of bubbles, candles still lit.”

“And then in the morning, he stabbed her in a violent frenzy. Is that the idea?”

“You certainly could read it that way, sir.”

“Would you, Roche?”

“Would I what, sir?”

Doyle sighed but didn’t blink, “Would that be your conclusion?”

“It’s hardly impossible but it feels wrong. Oysters, sir.“

“Go on.”

“Well it’s one thing banging someone and feeling instant remorse – sir - but the candles, oysters. They were relaxed, indulging in a little theatre. This doesn’t feel like their first rodeo. Although the evidence does rather point to the passion aspect of a crime of passion.”

“Indeed it does. SOCO!”

A SOCO officer turned to Doyle. He had no idea who it was.

“Sir?”

“These stab wounds. Anything jump out at you? First impressions.”

“I’d guess the first wound was a neat nick to the jugular. A mortal wound and the source of all the blood on the pillows. The rest is probably post mortem, or thereabouts.”

“Murder weapon?”

“Nothing yet, sir”

Doyle inspected the room, opened the wardrobes, drawers and cupboards. He stepped into the bathroom and sniffed the air, then moved back into the corridor and sniffed again. There was a nervous- looking and very tidy young man in neat suit hovering nearby.

“Are you the Duty Manager?”

“I am,” he replied. “This really is awful. How can I help, sir?

“Is there anyone in the suites on either side?”

“No to both sir, which is just as well, I expect.”

“Not for me. Could you open one up, please?”

“Of course. Which one?”

The Duty Manager fiddled with his keys.

“You may choose. Take your time”

The Manager unlocked a suite and followed Doyle in. Doyle was about to halt him but changed his mind.

Doyle stood in an identical bedroom and looked around slowly. He peeked briefly into the bathroom and crossed to the bedroom window. He patted himself absentmindedly for a cigarette and his gaze fell on a writing desk. Pads, pens - a letter-opener. Doyle turned to the Hotel man.

“I assume there’s one of these in each room?”

“In the suites, sir, yes.”

Doyle picked it up and returned to Lucy’s room. He coughed loudly.

“Anyone found one of these on their travels? SOCO, could this be what we’re after?”

The same SOCO man replied and looked at the letter opener as Doyle turned it around.

“That...would be ideal, sir. There’s not much slicing, suggesting something pointy rather than sharp.

SOCO fished out an evidence bag and Doyle dropped it inside.

“Soon as you can, please.”

“Sir.”

A young PC entered the room, handed papers to Roche and nodded at Doyle.

Roche skimmed them and turned to Doyle.

“Provisional name for our man from the bar. Michael Solo. 36, British national. Belsize Park address.”

Doyle harrumphed. He wasn’t expecting a clear ID.

“So he drinks downstairs; is at it all night with our friend, sloshing his DNA everywhere, orders room service for stamina, by the looks of these trays. Have they been questioned, by the way?

Roche nodded.

“...Then, cometh the dawn, he goes kill crazy and stabs her to death, and beyond, with whatever he can find. It does loosely fit with the crime of passion, spur of the moment scenario. A bit ungrateful, mind.”

Roche opened her notebook.

“Yes sir. Room service saw ‘two happy looking people in robes.’”

“Did you notice the bathroom, Susan?”

“Lovely bath, sir.”

Doyle mock-glared at her and continued.

“Our man in this scenario is panicking; covered in blood, and has to exit the Hotel inconspicuously. At dawn, when he is going to stand out even more. I didn’t see any blood in the bathroom. None on the taps. No bloody towels.”

“He might have taken it all with him, bundled it all into a bag. Some men don’t leave the towels dirty, sir.”

“He might, he might. See if any are missing. He’s our Number One guy, anyway. Put a BOLO out. Flag up his passport. But let’s not get married to this scenario, Roche. Follow the evidence. We need all the Hotel’s CCTV between midnight and Discovery. Who was it? Breakfast maid?

Doyle’s phone rang as Roche nodded. He rolled his eyes and answered.

“Ma’am. Looks like a crime of passion. A lover spurned, more or less....No, not sure yet. I appreciate that it’s bad for business. It was quite bad for this young woman too....A few days, probably. Soon- to-be-Sergeant Roche is going to help me.....Of course, ma’am. Like church mice.”

Doyle took another good look at Lucy’s body and turned to Roche.

“Roche. I am going for a walk. Find out about the towels. Check for spares.”

*****