for you here and not in Brewer Street.’
‘How’d you know I’d come this way?’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t. But I guessed you didn’t live there so you’d be coming from somewhere else. And then I guessed you’d come on the Underground, not a bus. And since this is on the shortest route between the nearest station and Brewer Street …’
‘Smart,’ she said, flatly. ‘But I could’ve come another way. I often do.’
‘You could’ve. But you didn’t.’
According to Proctor’s information, Stephanie Patrick was twenty-two. The woman in front of him looked at least ten years older than that. Her dyed blonde hair was dishevelled and with her make-up removed, her face was as colourless as the rest of her. Except for the dark smudges around both eyes. But now, in the morning, they were natural, not cosmetic.
She wore a tatty, black, leather bomber-jacket over a grey sweatshirt. Her jeans were frayed at the knees and down the thighs; given the weather, this seemed more like a financial statement than one of fashion. Her blue canvas trainers were soaked.
‘How long have you been here?’ she asked him.
‘Since nine-thirty.’
She glanced at her plastic watch. It was after eleven. ‘You must be cold.’
‘And wet. And in pain.’
He saw a hint of a smile.
‘I can imagine. He’s not known for his subtlety. Just for his thoroughness.’ She examined Proctor’s face. ‘You look like shit.’
Proctor hadn’t slept. When the paracetamol had failed, he’d resorted to alcoholic painkiller, which had also failed. And not being a seasoned drinker, the experience had left him with a hangover to compound his misery. His body was peppered with bruises, his left eye was badly swollen, his ribs ached with every breath and his right ankle, which had been twisted on the stairs, was aflame.
‘Look, if you’re not going to talk to me, fine. But let me ask you one question. Are you or are you not Stephanie Patrick, daughter of Dr Andrew Patrick and Monica Patrick?’
He needed to hear the answer that he already knew. She took her time.
‘First, who are you?’
‘My name is Keith Proctor.’
‘Why are you asking me these things?’
‘It’s part of my job.’
‘Which is what?’
‘I’m a journalist.’ Predictably, she grew yet more defensive, her posture betraying her silence. Proctor said, ‘Your parents were on the North Eastern Airlines flight that crashed into the Atlantic two years ago. So were your sister and your younger brother.’
He watched her run through the phrases in her mind before she chose one. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you. Leave me alone. Leave it alone.’
‘Believe me, I’d like to. But I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it wasn’t an accident.’
The bait was cast and she considered it for a moment. Before ignoring it. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I don’t expect you to. Not yet. Not until you’ve given me a chance.’ She shook her head but Proctor persisted. ‘I need a cup of coffee, Miss Patrick. Will you let me buy you one, too? I’ll pay for your time.’
‘People pay me for my body, not my time.’
‘They pay for both. Come on. Just one cup of coffee.’
Bar Bruno, on the corner of Wardour Street and Peter Street, was half-full. It offered fried breakfasts all day. There was a large Coke vending machine just inside the door. Behind a long glass counter, sandwich fillings were displayed in dishes. The table-tops looked like wood but weren’t. The banquettes were covered in shiny green plastic.
They ordered coffee and sat at the back where there were fewer people. Stephanie wriggled out of her leather jacket and dumped it beside her. Proctor’s eyes were immediately drawn to her wrists. Both were seriously bruised. She looked as if she was wearing purple handcuffs. They hadn’t been there the previous night; he was sure he would have noticed. She saw him looking at them.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she snapped.
‘It doesn’t look like nothing.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk. Have you looked in a mirror this morning?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
Momentarily angry, she thrust both wrists in front of Proctor’s face for closer inspection. ‘You want to know what this is? It’s an occasional occupational hazard, that’s what it is.’ Then she was calm and stirring sugar into her milky coffee, before changing the subject. ‘Have you got any cigarettes on you?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘I didn’t think so, but you never know until you ask.’ Proctor watched her produce a packet of her own from her jacket pocket. She lit one and dropped the dead match on her saucer. ‘So, you’re a journalist.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t look like one.’
‘I didn’t realize there was a look.’
‘I’m not saying there is. I’m talking about the way you look. Good haircut, nice suit, expensive shoes and clear skin – apart from the bruises, of course. You look like you take care of yourself.’
‘I try to.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘I’m freelance. But I used to work for The Independent and then the Financial Times.’
‘Impressive.’
‘Not to you, I shouldn’t think.’
Stephanie took a sip of coffee. ‘You haven’t a clue what I think.’
More than anything, she looked nervous, despite the aggression in her small talk. She fidgeted incessantly and her eyes never settled on anything. Proctor took a sip of his own coffee and grimaced.
‘Your parents were murdered,’ he said for effect. She seemed oblivious, as though she hadn’t even heard him. ‘Along with everyone else on that flight.’
‘That’s not true. There was an investigation –’
‘Faulty electrics in the belly of the aircraft which produced a spark igniting aviation fuel fumes, causing the first of two catastrophic explosions? I read the FAA and CAA findings like everyone else. And until recently, I believed them.
