The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows: A gripping thriller that keeps you on the edge of your seat. Marnie Riches
unfathomable injustice being his own loss of a trusted super-lackey and friend of old.
The press would be gathered outside, no doubt, snapping the staff of Bloom Group plc, as they entered the hallowed cathedral to bid farewell to their Chief Executive, dabbing at their eyes to show their commitment to the company, whether they had ever met Rufus or not. Nobody had liked him, that’s for sure.
Gordon Bloom allowed himself a wry chuckle as he neared London Bridge. He looked into a café window at all the city office workers, trying to thaw themselves out by wrapping their gloved hands around cups of steaming coffee. He caught sight again of the shuffling figure, some way behind, entering the reflected scene as he exited, huddled up in clothes that seemed too big for him. Perhaps a homeless man, making his way towards a shelter. Nothing to worry about, though Bloom did pick up his pace. Tripped on a kerbstone as he crossed the slush-logged street onto the Bridge itself. He had difficulty with his depth perception these days. The surgeon had said the ocular nerves were too badly damaged. At least the glass eye was the finest money could buy. Couldn’t be helped. If the worst thing that ever befell him was visual impairment, he was doing reasonably well. Better than Rufus, at any rate.
As he crossed London Bridge with snow whirling around him, settling on his hat, drip-dripping freezing water onto his tingling nose where it melted, he imagined himself trapped inside a snowglobe. No escape from this claustrophobic scene. Just falling snow and the same chain of events replaying in his mind.
He and Rufus had had lunch. They had parted company. Now, Rufus was dead. Drowning by snow. Holes in his neck like the Devil’s stigmata.
Who was this Jack Frost that the press referred to? Why had he wanted Rufus Lazami dead? Was he, Gordon Bloom next on the hit list?
Glancing behind, he was pleased to see the homeless man was no longer on his tail.
‘Stop being so easily spooked, you bloody idiot,’ he counselled himself, clutching the handrail as he made his way down the gritted stone stairs to Southwark Cathedral, where he would say goodbye in public.
Cameras flashing, as anticipated. Paparazzi pests, swarming like unseasonal flies on a frozen carcass.
‘Lord Bloom! Aren’t you worried that Jack Frost will come after you?’
He was careful to maintain an air of sobriety. ‘I am here to bid adieu to a dear friend and longstanding business partner. Thank you. Good day.’
Their voices rang in his ears, as he stood in the threshold of Southwark Cathedral’s great stone hall.
‘Are you taking measures to protect yourself, Lord Bloom?’ they shouted.
Inside, an organ ground away at a hymn he didn’t recognize. The place was packed with mourners wearing snowboots and colourful ski-jackets that were at odds with the sombre occasion. All eyes were on him. He nodded to the young man with the plucked eyebrows who stood in the aisle, ushering family to the left and business colleagues to the right. Recognised him as one of his rising stars.
At his back, the journalistic hordes continued to bay for a response.
‘Is it true that the killing was ordered by someone in the criminal underworld? Did Rufus Lazami have many enemies?’
Their questions bounced off him thick and fast; those cadaverous flies throwing themselves against a sealed window. He would not answer. He would not give them the satisfaction. Let the press and Scotland Yard keep digging. They wouldn’t find a fucking thing.
‘What are you going to do?’ Sophie asked, her Doc Martens scuffing up snow onto the hem of her floor-length batik-print skirt. She grabbed George’s hand, as they walked along Millbank.
The Thames was on their left, a white ribbon twisting through a cityscape that looked like it had been dipped in liquid nitrogen. On their right, Millbank Tower loomed: a 1960s brutalist monolith with windows. Somewhere, on one of those dizzying levels that stood sentinel over Albert Embankment, the Open Society Foundation was situated.
George shook Sophie’s hand loose, swiftly switching her rucksack to her right shoulder to prevent her from trying to hold her hand again. She sighed heavily. Wondered whether to say anything about this unlooked-for physical contact. Perhaps some things were better left unsaid. ‘I don’t know. Sally’s on my case. The Home Office is burning my ear about deadlines. If I don’t find that fucking laptop and my USB stick, I might as well apply for a job stacking shelves at Tesco. Maybe my Aunty Shaz can get me back my old cleaning job at the titty bar. It’s at least a years’ worth of work. Gone. Just like that.’
‘What did the pigs say?’ Sophie asked. Her earrings, necklaces and the buckles on her flowery satchel jangled as she walked.
‘Don’t call them the pigs,’ George said. ‘My partner’s a Chief Inspector in the Dutch police.’
‘Your partner? You were slagging him off the other night. Blows hot and cold, you said.’
‘That was then. A lot’s happened since.’ George noticed the expectant expression on her newfound friend’s face. She remembered the awkward moment when Sophie had propositioned her in the pub, and regretted even having asked her back for a coffee with no strings. Today, every gesture of camaraderie seemed like a cloying advance. Every knowing glance on the tube had felt overly suggestive. ‘Right now, I wish I had six foot five of policeman to stand guard over my place. It’s freaky having someone go through your stuff. It happened to me when I was living in Amsterdam.’ She shuddered, thankful for the long johns she wore beneath her jeans, though it was the memory of the Firestarter, touching her things in the little bedsit above the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop that caused the hairs on her skin to stand on end.
The brightness of Sophie’s green eyes seemed suddenly dimmed, or was it just the shadows cast by the covered approach to Millbank Tower’s lobby? George quietly chastised herself for being arrogant.
‘You’re welcome to stay on my sofa again tonight, if you want,’ Sophie said, holding the door open for George. ‘I might not be able to offer you pig protection, but at least I’m on your doorstep if you need me.’
Sophie’s sofa had been less than comfortable. A battered old thing, covered in cigarette burns and cat hair. Next to it, a large coffee table, festooned with carelessly abandoned coffee cups, wine glasses, ashtrays, Rizla packets, a hairbrush, several hefty academic books and the latest by Donna Tartt. But the anticipation that George would join Sophie in bed in the middle of the night had occasioned something far worse than simple discomfort. It had brought on an unwelcome bout of insomnia.
‘Darkest hour is just before dawn,’ George muttered beneath her breath, remembering how the night had felt like it would never end.
‘What?’ Sophie asked.
‘Nothing.’
Together in the cavernous reception area, they signed in. All brown, white and black marble harked back to a time when London was swinging and fabulous. Now, rendered fashionable again by a passion for all things mid-century, George reflected. If she could only afford her own place, she might go for that retro-look too. In fact, she’d settle for bloody Ikea if it came to it. As long as it was hers.
High above the city, George and Sophie sat in comfortable armchairs. Biscuits artfully arranged on a plate. Herbal tea in hand-painted mugs. They were facing a dumpy middle-aged project worker called Graham Tokár. He oozed well-meaning and an energy that almost audibly crackled, directed, quite plainly, towards Sophie. Had Sophie at some juncture also offered him a fuck in a pub over a burger, George wondered?
‘So, I’ve told George, here, about the charity funding initiatives that lessen the poverty and social exclusion of the Roma,’