the difficult task of identifying the missing and wounded as quickly as possible. Once again help-line numbers were flashed up.
An unsmiling photo of Tessa floated behind the man’s head.
‘One of the confirmed dead was ballet teacher Tessa Lethbridge,’ the bullet-headed man said vehemently. ‘We need these deaths not to go unmarked. If you know anything at all about the events of Friday morning, if you saw anything, were in the area, please, don’t hesitate to get in touch. You will be doing your public duty.’
Now the weeping woman began to talk about her missing brother. I turned the television off, rubbed my aching head fretfully. Fear was building in me until I felt like I might explode. I banged my head desperately with my flattened palms, palms that were itching desperately, the eczema flaring again. Why could I not remember? Why did I feel like I had done something very bad?
I returned to the sofa. The sun set over the rooftops, sliding into cloud, tingeing the sky with a pink luminescence. I felt an ache like a hard stone in my belly. I couldn’t cry any more. Something was very wrong and I didn’t know what. Tessa was slipping into the darkness, and she didn’t belong there.
TUESDAY 18TH JULY SILVER
Silver had stared at the girl’s face for what seemed like an age, and then called up her name. With a flash of relief he saw that it wasn’t Jaime Malvern. Misty Jones, 20, the name read. The girl Malloy had bumped Bobby Elwood for; reported missing at the end of last week, just before the explosion by a worried flatmate and friend, Lucie Duffy. No other details yet. He sat behind the desk, head in hands, trying to laugh at himself. Ridiculous to think it could have been her.
Silver had debated calling Lana and reassuring her – but he didn’t; he simply couldn’t face it now. He clocked off; glad to see Kenton back at her desk, brave lass, and then fought his way through the traffic wondering for the thousandth time why exactly all Londoners seemed so imbued with rage, glowering and swearing in their vehicles. Silver put on his CD of Duke Ellington and managed to maintain his calm by imagining his kids on the beach in Corfu. At a set of lights, he pulled up next to an elderly Rastafarian swaying to music by Burning Spear, crumpled spliff in hand. He smiled politely at Silver, his beard grizzled against his darker skin. Silver nodded back.
In the lively house in New Cross that was presently home, Silver retreated to his attic room and ate a bowl of Cornflakes sitting on the bed. He slid his boots off and lay down on the chintzy bedspread, fully clothed, sick with tiredness, thanking God most of his landlady’s noisy tribe were out.
When Silver had first come to London three years ago, when Lana had fully recovered, he’d stayed in the Section House nearest the station. But he’d found the boxy little room and the cool anonymity depressing after the noise of a large family home, and when one of his constables moved out of Philippa’s, Silver took over the large attic room as an experiment. He’d been expecting to stay for a few months at most, but somehow, a year or so later, here he still was. It was cheap and predominantly cheerful; Philippa cooked for him, which meant his tolerance of chilli pepper was impressive now; plus living here meant he could afford the small cottage at the base of the Pennines that sat empty for ten months of the year; that he planned to make home one of these days. Before too long, he told himself. For now, he felt comfortable where he was.
But tonight there was no rest to be had. Each time he shut his eyes, Jaime’s face floated in the ether, her name whispering through the red blood that thumped in his ears.
He dozed for a fitful hour and then he was back up again. It was dark now and he could hear the younger children below, the jolly and incessant jingle of the Wii. He called Craven.
‘Any news?’
‘Nope. None of the Islam-a-twats are holding their hands up – yet, anyhow. Fucking monkeys.’
‘No call for that, is there, Derek?’ Silver said lightly. ‘Need a favour, actually.’ It pained him to even ask.
A sigh. ‘Go on.’
‘I need some details on a missing person. Girl called Misty Jones.’
‘Misty Jones? As in Clint?’
‘Clint?’ Silver switched the kettle that lived on the table in the corner of his room, and wiped the surface down. It was spotless already, but he wiped it anyway.
‘Eastwood. Play Misty For Me.’
‘Oh right.’ He pulled the coffee off the tray. ‘I’m not a big Western fan personally.’
‘Not a Western. More – creepy. About a bunny boiler with big tits, I seem to remember. Anyway,’ Craven ate something noisy down Silver’s ear. Crisps, by the sounds of it. ‘Misty. Kind of a made-up name, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe.’ He didn’t want her to be made-up: she had to be Misty. Flesh and blood and real; nothing to do with Jaime. ‘That’s what I need to find out.’
‘I’ll have a dig around.’ Craven finished whatever he was eating with relish. Was the man actually licking his fingers? ‘Get back to you as-ap.’ He pronounced it as two words. Irritating. He did irritate Silver, a lot. All faux-jollity, resentment and latent bigotry, big belly spilling over a thin crocodile-skin belt.
‘Cheers, pal.’ Silver hung up. His emotional intelligence might be out of kilter, but his gut instinct was working hard now at least. He had tried to convince himself all afternoon that things were all right – but he knew deep down something was definitely wrong.
TUESDAY 18TH JULY CLAUDIE
In the evening, I managed to open the front door to my best friend Zoe. Good old Natalie had rung her, and despite all my best protestations she had been insistent that she’d cook Paella and sit with me tonight. Zoe had a new Spanish boyfriend called Pablo and was learning Spanish cuisine for his benefit, which was infinitely preferable to the toasted cheese sandwiches she normally lived on. She arrived at six in her latest incarnation – Zoe was the eternal chameleon when it came to men – Capri pants immaculate, ingredients spilling out of the wicker basket she lugged up to the flat, neat auburn ponytail and gold hoops swinging from her ears as she unpacked her wares, black eyeliner flicked above her watchful eyes. We drank white Rioja and didn’t talk about the explosion, apart from the plaster on my cheek. We talked about love; she was thinking of moving to Barcelona to be with Pablo.
‘Hmm,’ I mused. ‘It means your babies will play for Barca and not Man U. Your dad will be devastated.’
‘My mum will be relieved, that’s all I know. She knows my clock is ticking.’ She shot me a quick look.
‘It’s fine, Zoe,’ I murmured, staring into my cloudy glass. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘So,’ she said brightly, ‘how’s it going with that nice Rafe guy? Will you be moving into Number 10 together soon?’
‘It’s not going.’
She stared at me.
‘Are you joking?’
‘No.’
‘I thought he was good for you.’ She looked so disappointed, I almost felt guilty. ‘And so bloody successful.’
‘Good for me?’ I drained my drink. ‘Like Vitamin C or broccoli?’ I thought of Francis’s botched attempt earlier at making me feel better. I thought about my new fears that the disassociation I’d experienced after Ned’s death was returning. I wondered whether to mention it to my oldest friend.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Do I?’ I stood to stack the plates.
‘Don’t be difficult, Claudia.’
‘I’m not, really. It’s just – it’s meant to be love, not – not health.’
Zoe gazed at me until I felt uncomfortable. ‘And it’s not love?’
‘No.