I don’t get it at all. If it was my family on that 747, I’d want to know why it went down and who was responsible. I’d want justice. For them and for everyone else on board. And for all their relatives and friends who’ve had to deal with the aftermath. That’s what this is about, you know. That’s what this investigation was when I started. A human interest story. What happens to the families and friends of the dead a couple of years down the line when it’s no longer news? How do they cope in the long term? You may not talk to me but there are others who have. I’ve seen their grief. I’ve felt it. Two years plus hasn’t diminished it. They’ve learned to live with it – some of them, anyway – but the wounds haven’t healed. And they probably never will. Every single one of them has suffered and –’
‘Do you think that I haven’t?’ she snapped. ‘That I still don’t?’
‘Of course not. It’s just that –’
‘Just what? Odd that I don’t like to talk about it to journalists? I bet you think my situation is a consequence of the crash, don’t you? That would be a good story for you if it was true, wouldn’t it?’
He wanted to say yes, but said, ‘I don’t know enough about you yet. I can’t tell.’
‘You see? You’re lying like everyone else. I can see your outline from here: a family in ruins, four dead, two survivors, one who copes and one who can’t. Like you said, a human interest story.’
‘My story is changing.’
‘What makes you think I want to see my life in print?’
‘You wouldn’t necessarily feature.’
‘Not unless I improved the story. Then you’d include me. Right?’
For a moment, Proctor considered the temptation to lie. ‘It’s my job. It’s what I do.’
‘Yeah. Fucking people for profit. It’s what we both do.’
She looked in worse shape than she had the night before, outside the Underground station, when her skin had been a riot of goose-bumps tinted by the harsh light falling from street lamps. Now, wherever he looked, she was bones. Her cheekbones were too prominent to be attractive, her wrists looked swollen because her arms were so fleshless, and when her knees showed through the tears in her jeans they looked sharp enough to cut through her blotchy skin.
Proctor said, ‘I’m not writing the same story any more. This isn’t human interest. It’s gone way beyond that. Every day, I learn something new and the angle alters.’
‘Well, you’re a real one-man Woodward and Bernstein, aren’t you?’ He was surprised and it must have showed because Stephanie smiled humourlessly. ‘Yes, I know who they are and what they did. You think just because I sell my body I have the intellect of a footballer?’
‘No. I know that’s not true.’
Stephanie ran her hands through her tangled blonde hair. ‘So, all these other people you’ve been talking to – all the other ones like me – what do they think?’
‘About what?’
‘Your bomb theory.’
Proctor looked at the floor. ‘They don’t know.’
‘What?’
‘I haven’t told them yet.’
Stephanie felt herself tensing again. ‘Why not?’
‘I spoke to most of them before I found out. And when I did find out, I wasn’t sure it was true.’
‘But you are now?’
‘As sure as I can be, yes.’
‘When did you discover this?’
‘Three days before I came to see you for the first time. I never meant to say a word about it but when you refused to talk to me, I just blurted it out without thinking. It was frustration. It was unprofessional. And now it’s too late to take it back.’
Stephanie shivered and then felt hot. ‘Who else knows?’
‘No one. It’s just you and me.’
She made no attempt to conceal her incredulity. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’
‘It’s true.’
‘Why haven’t you told anyone else?’
Proctor bit his lower lip for a moment. ‘Because I’m scared.’
The building in which Proctor lived was a small Victorian mansion block. It was not smart but his apartment had some style, although most of it seemed to have been lifted from a magazine. There was a Bose sound system, a widescreen Sony TV, and Danish furniture – armchairs, lamps, bookcases – all of it minimalist and clean. A beautifully-made wooden table dominated the centre of the sitting room. There were Turkish kilims on the floor, African batiks on the walls.
Stephanie lit a cigarette and noted his reaction, a grimace. When she asked him for an ashtray, he produced a saucer.
She said, ‘What do you know about him?’
‘I know that he’s young, probably no more than thirty, and that he’s a Muslim. I know that he’s living somewhere in this city. And I know that this is known at MI5, SIS and the CIA. And I’d guess we could include the FBI in that group, although I don’t know that for sure.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘He probably has several but I don’t know any of them.’
‘Nationality?’
‘Same answer.’
‘What about a photo?’
‘I haven’t seen one.’
‘You’ve hardly narrowed the field much, have you?’
‘I can tell you that outside of those groups I’ve already mentioned, you and I are the only two people who know about this. And that we’re not supposed to.’
Stephanie’s cigarette was making her feel worse. She stubbed it out, half of it unsmoked. ‘That’s another thing. How come you know all this?’
‘I was contacted by a man at MI5.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
She pinched the top of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to will the pain into recession. ‘Why did he get in touch with you?’
‘Apparently, he discovered what was going on and couldn’t live with it.’
‘But when it comes to leaking classified information, he has no problem living with that?’
‘I don’t know what his deeper motive is. I think it’s possible that he had a relative
