tunnels, empty walls.
Rowe indicated an empty chair and Cordon slid it across.
‘Till we started using this new system,’ Rowe said, ‘storing all the imagery that comes through just wasn’t possible. Fifty, sixty per cent at best. And retrieving what you did have, that wasn’t so easy, either. Things would get lost. But now …’ He clicked once, twice, a third time and, less than a hundred per cent sharp, an image flicked into place. ‘Okay. Finsbury Park station, Piccadilly Line, West Platform, 9.31 in the morning. Tail end of the rush hour. Still busy, as you can see.’
Cordon leaned forward.
‘There she is now, your Maxine, just coming on to the platform, looking round.’
Cordon saw a figure that could indeed be her, three-quarter-length coat, scarf; the face, when she turned, darkened by shadow.
‘Here now, you see, another camera. She’s looking across the track, probably checking her destination. And then she starts to walk away.’
A dozen steps and she was lost to sight, a small surge of passengers moving in behind her, blocking her from view.
‘And this,’ Rowe said, as the angle changed, ‘is where we pick her up again. More or less on her own for what? Twenty, thirty seconds, before other people come into view, result of an announcement, most likely, asking customers to use the full length of the platform. Several people there now, you see, quite close …’
Cordon sees a young couple, both smartly dressed, partly facing: the woman has long, shoulder-length hair that in the picture is bleached almost white; the man bends his head towards her, says something close to her ear that makes her smile. A businessman behind them, middle-aged, striped suit, tie, briefcase, folded newspaper.
‘Let me see her face,’ Cordon said.
The image stops, reverses, zooms in, then freezes. The face is pinched, eyes small, dark, uncertain, and Cordon thinks of something trapped, cornered.
‘Move it on, just a fraction.’
For a moment, hardly more, Maxine seems to be looking directly into the camera, head raised, mouth opening as if to speak … Then, as if in slow motion, she turns away, towards the track, the train; a movement, blurred, down across the frame as she falls and she’s gone.
A dark space where she had been standing.
The camera shows a bustle of movement in the wake of her going, the white blur of faces, a mouth opening in a shout or scream, someone pointing. The young woman has buried her face against her partner’s chest and he appears to be stroking her long hair.
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
Cordon sat back with a slow release of breath. ‘See it again?’
Nothing changed.
In all of three viewings, nothing changed. At the end of each, Maxine Carlin was still dead under the train.
Cordon’s shoulders ached.
‘I looked at the report before you came,’ Rowe said, swivelling in his chair as the screen went blank. ‘Read through the witness statements, fifteen of them. People who were on the platform that morning, when the incident occurred. All of those you’ve just seen. Most, anyway. One or two we couldn’t trace. Some of them claim to have noticed her before it happened. Not many, but a few. Standing worryingly close to the platform edge, one said. Nervous, said another, as if she wasn’t sure where she was going. If this was her train. One thing they all agreed on, those who were close enough to see: the moment before the train arrived she either jumped or fell.’
‘No suggestion that she was pushed?’
‘None.’
‘Not even accidentally? Passengers eager to get on the train. Find space. End of the rush hour, like you said.’
Rowe shook his head. ‘If you’re looking for some other explanation, something to hang on to, maybe there’s an outside chance. But after what you’ve just seen, the evidence as it stands …’ On his feet, he offered a hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
Cordon nodded. ‘Thanks for your time.’
Rowe led him through towards the outer corridor, the stairs. ‘Tell Jack he owes me one, okay?’
13
Not expecting overmuch, Cordon sought out Letitia’s last known London address, culled from the scrap of paper Maxine had thrust into his hand. A brief walk from where she had met her death.
Rain fell, almost invisibly, from a sky of palest grey. Paving stones slick and slippery beneath his feet.
The house was midway along a residential street, all of them double fronted, once grand, now shabby, down at heel. Both upper floors of the number he was seeking had been burned out. And not too long since. Woodwork blackened, trails of sooted smoke residue clinging plume-like to the brick. Up close, you could still catch the faint smell of burned wood on the air.
A matter of days, then, he thought. Round about the time of Maxine Carlin’s death or just after.
On the raised first floor the windows had been temporarily boarded over; those in the basement partially covered by old sheeting. Bins at the front overflowed with rubbish; several charred mattresses and a broken bed frame leaned precariously against the wall. A sign had been partially removed from the glass above the front door, the faintest outline of letters still advertising some earlier existence:
A while since it had been that, Cordon ventured.
A double line of bell pushes was attached to the side wall, faded name cards alongside, all blank. Cordon set his hand against the front door, prised up the flap to the letter-box and peered through.
‘Done a bunk, mate. Scarpered and good fuckin’ riddance. Set fire to the place before they left an’ all. Someone hadn’t nipped in quick with the alarm, whole soddin’ street’d’ve burned down.’
Cordon had spotted the man earlier — ex-boxer, ex-wrestler, scar tissue around the eyes, muscle gone to seed — his dog off the leash ahead of him, in and out of gardens, cocking its leg, rummaging in bins.
‘It was serious, then?’
‘Serious enough. Half a dozen engines round here, more, middle of the bleedin’ night, how serious d’you want?’
‘This was when?’
‘Last week, just.’
‘How about casualties? Anybody trapped inside?’
The man leaned a shade closer. ‘That’s the thing. Right up till that happens there’s people in and out all the time. Blokes, all of ‘em. Regular knocking shop, that’s what it was.’
‘A brothel, you mean?’
‘Call it what you like. Never see the same face twice. Then this happens, fire brigade, police all arrive, ‘side from cockroaches and the like, the place is empty. Someone after the insurance, either that or clearin’ out ahead of gettin’ their collars felt. Mind you, don’t take many blow jobs to get most coppers lookin’ the other way.’
‘The people who lived here? Whoever was running the place, you’ve no idea what happened to them? Where they went?’
‘Why’s that then? What’s it to you?’ At the hint of aggression in the man’s voice, the dog growled and snapped and the man cursed it softly and aimed a kick at its ribs.
‘Just looking for someone. A friend. Might have worked here a while back. Letitia Carlin. Early thirties, most
