It was enough to put you off flying, Lucy thought. Unless you had a BreatheZero mask, that was. Maybe she should grab one when she was at the factory. Just in case.
44
Tuesday morning, and Lucy was on the train to Wolverhampton trying to get in touch with Mac. They’d played phone tag all last night thanks to his murder case going ballistic and now she thanked God for texts because at least he knew she was alive and kicking as well as where she was staying. Not that he’d been impressed. He’d managed to convey cold disapproval with barely three lines, which she thought was pretty impressive. He seemed convinced that by staying with Dan she’d trebled her safety risk and she’d been highly relieved that he’d signed off with an emoji of a heart.
And what about Mum? She’d barely turned a hair when Lucy didn’t return to stay. She was, Lucy guessed, glad to put off the moment when she’d have to tell Lucy that her father was a criminal. Poor Mum. How awful to have hidden such a rotten past and for so long. But it still hadn’t been right, lying to Lucy all that time. She could see that her mother wanted to protect her, but at what cost? She would much rather have known the truth from the start. What really rankled was the fact she hadn’t given Lucy a choice. Mum had decided what was best for her daughter, no discussion, no debate, and that was that. How they were going to patch things up was anyone’s guess, but Lucy reckoned it would take more than a bottle of Chardonnay.
She gazed out of the window. Hedgerows showed a faint dusting of green and the flashes of yellow – daffodils nodding in the breeze – cheered her in the knowledge that spring was around the corner. New beginnings, she thought, but how her peers and colleagues were going to react when they found out about her father, she could only guess. She sighed. More notoriety was guaranteed.
She arrived at Wolverhampton Station just before midday. Caught a cab to Hobgate Road. The driver wore a turban the colour of tangerines and sported the longest, most luxurious beard Lucy had ever seen. It didn’t take long to get there. They passed a primary school, an MOT station. A church. Blocks of dismal grey concrete flats. Just after a recycling centre, the driver pulled over in front of a factory’s gates emblazoned with a silver sign. BreatheZero.
‘Could you pick me up in an hour?’ she asked.
‘Just text me, love, when you’re ready.’
Lucy climbed out into a chill wind laden with rain. Pulling her collar up, she walked across a forecourt busy with delivery vans and lorries collecting boxes from a loading bay. Half a dozen cars were parked on the left, all fairly ordinary, a mix of bog-standard sedans and the like, but one stood out. A gleaming blue Jaguar E-Pace. It was parked in a space labelled Director. No parking.
Was that Amina Amari’s car? She’d spoken to the woman earlier, pretending to be a freelance journalist and asking for an interview. Amari hadn’t been particularly interested until Lucy mentioned she was hoping to sell an article about the BreatheZero masks in the Daily Mail weekend colour supplement. Lots of quotes, lots of photos. It had been Dan’s idea, and he’d even supplied her with a press card, complete with her photograph, made from Max’s plastic ID card and badge printer sitting in the corner of the living room.
‘I really shouldn’t use this, Dan. If my boss finds out…’
‘Just keep it on you,’ he said smoothly. ‘Just in case. It might help get you out of trouble. It’s certainly helped Max from time to time.’
She raised her eyebrows. She’d never met Max, but now she was intrigued. Dan saw the look on her face. ‘Don’t ask.’ His voice was dry.
‘Careless talk costs lives?’ she suggested.
He didn’t say anything, just passed the card over, expression neutral and giving nothing away, which she took to mean Max was probably an old spook buddy of Dan’s. Thanks to Max, today she wasn’t DC Lucy Davies but Alex Catell, freelance journo.
She pushed open a side door, as she’d been instructed by Amari earlier. Inside was a small hall. A door stood ahead of her, another on her left, a third on her right. She pressed the buzzer on the wall, also as instructed. Faintly, she heard a bell ringing somewhere inside the building. Twenty seconds later or so, the door on Lucy’s right opened. ‘Alex?’ a woman’s voice said. Warm, melodious. ‘You’ve made good time. I hope your journey was okay?’
Brown dress, brown boots, dark wavy hair. Honey-coloured skin. Gold belt, gold accessories. Sinuous, confident stride with a slight hitch, favouring her right leg slightly.
Lucy froze inside.
It was the woman from the custody suite CCTV. The woman who’d given Ricky a sandwich with peanut butter inside it. Chris Malone, who’d tried to kill him.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
‘It was fine, thank you,’ Lucy said. Her voice was hoarse and she hurriedly cleared her throat, searching in her handbag for her press card to cover her shock.
‘Amina Amari,’ the woman said, putting out her hand.
Lucy pulled out the card with her left hand and took Amari’s hand in her right, praying the woman wouldn’t notice how damp her palm had become. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’
Amari’s gaze flicked over Lucy’s jeans, boots and down jacket. She held Lucy’s eyes. Frowned for a moment. ‘Have we met before?’
The words sent a shard of fright through Lucy. Anyone involved with Kaitlyn’s murder might have been following the police investigation and seen her on TV, at the press conference.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Strange.’ Amari studied her more closely. ‘You look familiar.’
‘Maybe I look like someone you know.’
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged. ‘At a press
