She was a coward, she had to admit. If she were to die, she wanted it to be as easy and painless as possible. Pills, preferably. There was no way she could stand Dhaka, so she had to do it somehow. Maybe there would be more opportunities along the way? Maybe she could even catch somebody’s attention and get free — at an airport, for example, or on a flight. It would be a long journey; they would have to escort her through at least one airport, if not more. She was certain that even Tadić didn’t have a private jet. Or did they plan on travelling overland, smugglers’ routes? No doubt that was why she was being kept here so long, so that they could work out the routes and phoney visas. She had already figured out that the photographs they had taken when she first arrived were for a fake passport, no doubt to be supplied by Keane, the man she thought had killed Hawkins and who had once tried to kill Alan Banks.
Alan. Raymond. She thought of them often; sometimes she thought she would burst with grief when she pictured Raymond alone and desolate at Windlee Farm. He would be a complete mess. That would be one way to die, she supposed. Grief. And what was Alan doing? He would do whatever he could to find her, of that she was sure. But it was hopeless.
Despite the fear and the will to suicide, Zelda was hungry again. As long as her body survived, it would demand sustenance, just as it needed movement and air. She could stand up, but she couldn’t move far in her leg iron. She marked time every now and then, just to keep her circulation going.
After that second visit, Tadić’s sneering sidekick had returned to deliver a chamber pot and throw a plastic bottle of water and a Big Mac at her. She had seen the way he looked at her, and knew that only fear of Tadić stopped him having his way. That and the vomit on her T-shirt, perhaps.
The Big Mac was cold, but she had gobbled it down. The water she tried to make last. The chamber pot was a blessing, as she imagined the only alternative — short of squatting on the floor — would be for one of them to accompany her to the toilet whenever she needed to go. A chance to wash and change would be nice, though. Surely, they would want to clean her up before they travelled? A bath, perhaps? Fresh clothes. But what was the point of any of it if she was going to die anyway, either before she got to Dhaka, with any luck, or soon after she arrived there, if the worst happened?
Sometimes she thought that she couldn’t take her own life because she still had dreams of escape, hope of being rescued. It was true, these things could happen, though they grew less likely hour by hour. If she didn’t eat, then perhaps she would get ill and die of malnutrition, rather than by her own weak hand. But she thought that would take much longer than they planned keeping her here.
Also, in some of her darkest moments, she had a strange feeling of elation out of nowhere. It was like a smell — not of the sea, but of the seaside — and a vague image of being a little girl walking with her hand in her father’s at Odessa flashed through her mind. A sense of safety and warmth. But it was also neither a smell nor an image; it was an inchoate memory of total happiness she had perhaps never experienced. How could you have a memory of something you had never felt? But that was what it felt like.
In the embrace of that perfect happiness, she had not a care, not a worry, not a thought, but the sheer pleasure of being. No fear of what was to come or regret for what was past. It was pure and simple happiness, the ghost of childhood’s essence.
But it was rare and fleeting. Most of the time she felt a deep and paralysing sense of fear and dread, edging into despair, that no amount of reason or epiphany could dispel.
Driving in York was an absolute nightmare, Gerry thought as she steered her way along narrow streets lined with parked cars, braked sharply for pedestrians, and missed a turning that forced her to make a long detour. But parking was even worse. Finally, in frustration, she pulled into the forecourt of York Explore Library and Archive and threw herself on the mercy of the woman in charge, who told her she could leave the car there until they were finished.
‘Next time we’ll take the bloody Poppleton Park & Ride,’ Annie said as they crossed the road and walked the short distance down to Pizza Express. The city was bursting at the seams with tourists and locals out enjoying the fine weather, and this area around the bridge was always crowded. It led ultimately up past St. Mary’s and the library to the Minster, which stood at the top dominating everything, a magnificent Gothic construction, its main tower obscured by scaffolding.
Pizza Express was in an old building with a high ceiling on Museum Street near the bridge and opposite the Museum Gardens. The large dining area reminded Annie of a banquet hall in some ancient stately home. They flashed their warrant cards, and Annie asked the girl who showed people to their tables if she might talk to the manager. The girl disappeared through a door to the back and came out moments later with a tanned young man in a suit and tie. He didn’t look old enough to be a manager, Annie thought, but what did she know about the hospitality industry? He introduced himself as Mark Baldini.
She showed him the photograph. ‘Do you remember a woman called Marnie Sedgwick? Does she still work here?’
‘Marnie. Yes, I remember her,’ he said. ‘She left around the beginning of May.’
‘Do you remember the circumstances of her leaving?’
‘It was so sad,’ Baldini said. ‘Marnie was a good worker. She’d been here about a year, but towards the middle of April she changed. She wasn’t concentrating, seemed to be dragging her feet. She wasn’t attentive, she mixed up orders, delivered things to the wrong tables.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I liked her. And as I said, she was a good worker, so I took her aside into the office and had a word with her.’
‘How did she react?’
‘She didn’t react much at all. She agreed she wasn’t doing a great job, said she wasn’t sleeping well, that she couldn’t concentrate. I asked her if she was ill or if there was anything wrong, anything I could help with, and she shrugged and said no. I asked if she thought she could attain her previous high standard of work again, and she said she’d try.’
‘Did she?’
‘Nothing changed. I hated to do it, but I knew in the end I’d have to give her notice. I was going to tell her she could come back when she was better, like, and I’d do my best to make sure she got her job back, but she couldn’t go on as she was.’
‘How did she respond?’
‘I never got to tell her. The next day she got an order wrong, and the customer was very snappy with her. He was one of those pushy, loud-mouthed blokes. You know the sort. Always right, always angry. He shouted at her, called her a stupid cunt, and Marnie dumped the pizza on his lap and ran out in tears. That was the last I saw of her. I made sure we paid her what we owed her, into her bank account, like, a standing order, and that was it. What was it? What was her problem? Do you know?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mr. Baldini,’ said Annie. ‘Was she close to any of her colleagues here? Anyone who’s still here?’
‘Yes,’ said Baldini. ‘Mitsuko. In fact, it was Marnie brought her to us, got her the job. I think they shared a flat or lived in the same house or something.’
‘Mitsuko Ogawa?’ said Annie.
‘Yes. Lovely girl. Terrific waitress.’
‘Is she here now?’
Baldini glanced around. ‘She should be.’ Finally, he pointed to a table in the far corner where a petite young woman was serving pizza and salad. ‘That’s Mitsuko.’
‘Can you do us a favour?’ Annie asked.
‘Depends what it is.’
‘We’re going to have some lunch here, so could you give Ms. Ogawa an early tea break or whatever and ask her to join us at our table? We won’t keep her for long.’