old defiance was still burning there, the old Kelly was buried under the layers of grief and shame. She knew what was right and wrong. She watched a train snake away from King’s Cross, wobbling as it picked up speed. The passports were a piece of good fortune that she had a duty to use. Since Christos would never give her or the children up voluntarily, she had to run, and run far. She thought about Lindsey, her friend from when she worked as a waitress. Lindsey had gone back to the country a long time ago, but Kelly had her email address.
She heard a faint shuffling out in the corridor. It sounded like someone walking around. Maybe Christos was up. She stood uncertainly and came out of the bedroom into the dark corridor. She stared for a long moment into the deep shadows, the flat silent, the faintest hum of night-time traffic outside. Christos had never hurt the children. Yet this didn’t give her comfort, it was the thing that terrified her most: that put her and her children in the greatest danger. She turned with a heavy heart back to her bedroom. She had read about mothers attaining superhuman strength to save their children – women able to lift cars off bodies, break down doors with their bare hands. Because the day he laid a finger on one of them would be the day she was taken away from them, because it would be the day she murdered him.
9
G eorgie watched Mo log on to Google Maps to find the address on the paperwork that was attached to the container of rosewood. She was surprised to see it was almost within walking distance. Mo used the zoom feature to expand a square on a map of east London. The river’s irregular, pale blue expanse was flat and calming, so unlike the real thing. Mo played around making the map smaller and larger.
‘I’ve always thought zooming in makes it look like a slow-motion bomb drop,’ Georgie said.
Mo swivelled round with mock seriousness. ‘Careful – I don’t want you to report that.’
‘You’re safe, there’s no one to hear you today.’ Georgie gestured round the half empty office. It was Saturday morning, and a skeleton shift were at work. ‘Come on, West End boy.’
Mo reached to the back of his chair for his coat. ‘You’re on, East End girl.’
Differences attract, Georgie felt. Working with Mo was one of the highlights of the job. He had been in the service a year longer and was three years older than her but he didn’t mind being paired with her in the least. The third son of Afghan immigrant parents, he had an ability to let insults and setbacks bounce off him without a care. He was never without his iPod buds shoved in his ears and as they got in the car – he let her drive – he belted out their favourite song of the week: ‘East End Boys, West End Girls’.
United over the Pet Shop Boys was a good way to start the day.
Even though the address was in walking distance along the dock, they needed to negotiate a warren of streets that were dead-ends or blocked off or one-way to get to their destination. Eventually they found Casson Street, a faded Victorian terrace and a set of low-rise fifties council blocks, some in the process of being dismantled, that ended in a dead-end by the river. The new shopping complex loomed over the housing. The end of the street also housed a children’s indoor play area that, Georgie assumed, you could walk to from the newly built shopping centre, enjoying the fine view of next to nothing bar the grain silos on the opposite bank of the river as you did so. In ten years she knew her commute to work would be longer as the docks were pushed further east, the pressure on property prices driving trade further downriver. They’d be laying cobbles over the expanses of tarmac and installing fancy floor-level lighting here in a few years. She parked and they got out. A St George’s flag hung from a council balcony; a minaret of the local mosque poked over the terrace.
‘We’re looking for number four.’ They walked
She heard a faint shuffling out in the corridor. It sounded like someone walking around. Maybe Christos was up. She stood uncertainly and came out of the bedroom into the dark corridor. She stared for a long moment into the deep shadows, the flat silent, the faintest hum of night-time traffic outside. Christos had never hurt the children. Yet this didn’t give her comfort, it was the thing that terrified her most: that put her and her children in the greatest danger. She turned with a heavy heart back to her bedroom. She had read about mothers attaining superhuman strength to save their children – women able to lift cars off bodies, break down doors with their bare hands. Because the day he laid a finger on one of them would be the day she was taken away from them, because it would be the day she murdered him.
9
G eorgie watched Mo log on to Google Maps to find the address on the paperwork that was attached to the container of rosewood. She was surprised to see it was almost within walking distance. Mo used the zoom feature to expand a square on a map of east London. The river’s irregular, pale blue expanse was flat and calming, so unlike the real thing. Mo played around making the map smaller and larger.
‘I’ve always thought zooming in makes it look like a slow-motion bomb drop,’ Georgie said.
Mo swivelled round with mock seriousness. ‘Careful – I don’t want you to report that.’
‘You’re safe, there’s no one to hear you today.’ Georgie gestured round the half empty office. It was Saturday morning, and a skeleton shift were at work. ‘Come on, West End boy.’
Mo reached to the back of his chair for his coat. ‘You’re on, East End girl.’
Differences attract, Georgie felt. Working with Mo was one of the highlights of the job. He had been in the service a year longer and was three years older than her but he didn’t mind being paired with her in the least. The third son of Afghan immigrant parents, he had an ability to let insults and setbacks bounce off him without a care. He was never without his iPod buds shoved in his ears and as they got in the car – he let her drive – he belted out their favourite song of the week: ‘East End Boys, West End Girls’.
United over the Pet Shop Boys was a good way to start the day.
Even though the address was in walking distance along the dock, they needed to negotiate a warren of streets that were dead-ends or blocked off or one-way to get to their destination. Eventually they found Casson Street, a faded Victorian terrace and a set of low-rise fifties council blocks, some in the process of being dismantled, that ended in a dead-end by the river. The new shopping complex loomed over the housing. The end of the street also housed a children’s indoor play area that, Georgie assumed, you could walk to from the newly built shopping centre, enjoying the fine view of next to nothing bar the grain silos on the opposite bank of the river as you did so. In ten years she knew her commute to work would be longer as the docks were pushed further east, the pressure on property prices driving trade further downriver. They’d be laying cobbles over the expanses of tarmac and installing fancy floor-level lighting here in a few years. She parked and they got out. A St George’s flag hung from a council balcony; a minaret of the local mosque poked over the terrace.
‘We’re looking for number four.’ They walked
Similar Books
