Good Bait

Kiley still had contacts in the force and used them when he could, favours carried out and called in, information bartered and exchanged; friends in low places he’d collected through the years — Soho, Notting Hill, bits and corners of the East End.

He’d met Cordon three years before, chasing down the wilful teenage daughter of a merchant banker who’d done a bunk from Cha

After days of intense negotiations, during which many tears were shed and money, a considerable amount of money, was to change hands unseen, the painter joined Kiley in convincing the girl her future happiness lay in the bosom of her family.

He owed, Kiley acknowledged, Cordon a great deal for helping to bring that particular farrago to such a beneficent conclusion.

The two of them enjoyed several evenings in the Ti

‘You’re ever up in London,’ Kiley had said. ‘Give us a bell.’

Cordon had leave owing and plenty of it. Brooking no argument, he took what was his due.

‘Sure you don’t want me to meet you off the train?’ Kiley said with a chuckle. ‘Trip to the big city. Might get lost.’

‘Fuck off.’

Cordon caught the Tube from Paddington, made the change, stepped out from Tufnell Park station into a cold January day, collar raised, duffle bag, army surplus, slung over one shoulder.

Half the shops in the street were shut down, to let, windows fly-posted over. A man of around Cordon’s age, no older, sat on the pavement near the cash machine, a sheet of soiled cardboard stretched out beneath him, begging for change.

The charity shop below where Kiley lived was doing brisk business, women mostly, searching through rails of cast-offs to find something for their kids, a new skirt or top for themselves if the money stretched; neat piles of once-read books, videos no longer played, children’s games, unwanted presents from aunt this and uncle that, a loving gran.

Kiley’s place was on the second floor: bedroom, tiny kitchen, bathroom with a shower and toilet but no bath, a larger room at the front which was office and living space combined. Filing cabinet and metal shelving stood along one wall; a couple of chairs, laptop, printer, answerphone, slimline TV. On the wall opposite hung a painting, pale and undefined, the sea from Porthmeor Beach, part of the deal. If he swivelled round from his desk, Kiley could look down into the ever-busy street.

Cordon dumped his bag, glad to be rid of the weight, and looked around.

‘So where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’

‘The couch. You said I could sleep on the couch.’

‘Figure of speech.’

Cordon looked at the floor, thin rugs across bare boards.

‘It’s okay, you can have my bed. Just a couple of nights you said, right?’

‘And you?’

Kiley inclined his head. ‘Just round the corner. Stay with a friend.’

‘She have a name?’

‘Jane.’

‘Nice. Straightforward.’

‘You want coffee?’

‘Why not?’

While Kiley was in the kitchen, Cordon looked along the higgledy-piggledy rows of books and CDs. Names he knew; names he failed to recognise. Junot Diaz. K. C. Constantine. Gerry Mulligan. Ro

Mulligan he knew.

He was checking the playlist when Kiley came back in. Track three: ‘Good Bait’.

‘Don’t you ever keep these things in order?’

‘What for? Most of them I pick up downstairs. Lets me sort through sometimes if he has to pop out, needs someone in the shop. Good half of them I’ve never even played.’

‘Or read.’

‘Or read.’

The coffee was strong and slightly bitter. Good. They sat in facing chairs, angled slightly away. ‘So,’ Kiley said, ‘tell me.’

When he was through listening, he leaned back, legs crossed above the ankles, hands locked behind his head.

‘Let me get this right. The younger one, the daughter, she drops from sight, no letter, no phone call, nothing so special about that, happens all the time. But mum gets worried — mums do. Comes up to look for her, ends up under a train.’ Kiley shook his head. ‘Just about every damn time I go to catch the Northern Line, severe delays due to a person under a train at Finchley Central, a person under a train at High Barnet — somewhere.’

‘Finsbury Park.’

‘Huh?’

‘She went under a train at Finsbury Park.’

‘It used to be an incident. That’s what they’d say. The a

Cordon nodded. ‘I just want to be sure.’

‘If she jumped or fell?’

‘Yes.’

‘Or was she pushed?’

‘That, too.’

‘You’ve got reasons for thinking that might be the case? Pushed?’

‘Not really. No.’

‘Don’t tell me. It’s a feeling; a feeling in your gut. Won’t go away.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I read it. Read it in the book.’

‘Yes?’

‘A hundred books. This feeling deep inside, something he just couldn’t shake.’

‘Doesn’t ever happen to you?’

‘Course it does. I take Re

Cordon said nothing, stared.

Kiley leaned forward a little in his chair. ‘It happened here just a few weeks back. Someone under the train. Tufnell Park. Police cars coming from every direction. Ambulances. Emergency Response Unit there within minutes. Station sealed off, roads closed. Bloke piloting this hospital helicopter, bright red, brings it down smack in the middle of the crossroads. Major operation, every time. Drilled, rehearsed. Report prepared for the coroner. Detailed investigation. Pushed, jumped or fell, I think they’d know. I think they could tell.’

‘I’d like to talk to someone, that’s all. Someone involved. Look at the CCTV.’

‘Put your mind at rest.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Then you can go on and find the girl.’

Cordon released a breath. ‘Maybe.’

‘Regular white knight.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘You said it.’ Kiley sat back and looked at Cordon for a long minute. ‘You’re doing this why?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Not to me.’

Cordon shrugged.

‘What’s her name again?’

‘Letitia.’

Kiley gri

‘Thanks.’

Kiley wandered off to make more coffee; Cordon went back to the CDs, made his choice, Gerry Mulligan’s baritone sax taking ‘Good Bait’ at a gentle lope.

12

Cordon sat in a room that was squat and square, old copies of British Transport Police press releases on the walls. Whatever mode of transport Londoners choose, a team of dedicated officers will be there to reassure them and tackle crime: the Chief Operating Officer of London Underground. Cordon felt reassured. The air in the room was stale. Somewhere on the other side of the door were banks of screens, computers retrieving and storing images from every part of the network.

When he’d woken that morning in the unfamiliar surroundings of Jack Kiley’s flat, it had been some moments before he realised where he was, remembered exactly why he was there. Instead of the anguished cry of seagulls, the slow acceleration of buses away from the traffic lights on Fortess Road, JCBs from the nearby Murphy’s yard rumbling their way to work.