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  “Don’t panic,” I say aloud to myself. Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. DON’T PANIC. I’m panicking. I stand up again to stare through the window, as if I could haul Sam back home with the power of thought.

  All this time I’ve been holding on tight to Ollie’s camera, squeezing it in my grip like a stress ball. I don’t even notice until I accidentally switch on the power button and the zoom lens nudges through my hand. Glad to have anything to stop me feeling helpless and sick, I sit back on the sofa fiddling with the controls on the back of the camera until I’ve worked out how to bring the images onto the little screen there. The first one that comes up is the group of three clustered together in the living room of Prince Albert Road. I’ve caught it just as Sam seems to be asking Amina a question while the uncle, oblivious of the camera at that moment, is bending his head over the pair to listen. Sam has both hands in her coat pockets, more natural-looking than Ollie out in the street with his determined hold on the phone. The other woman is slightly smaller than Sam and of a similar build, as far I can tell, which marries with my memory of Amina that day she was pushing the buggy. The uncle, now I have a chance to study him without inhibition, could well be the guy next to Amina in that press photo I saw in the library – something I’ll have to check.

  I use the back button to flick through the pictures I took upstairs. Nothing special there, just reminders of the layout. One with Samantha in it, smiling in that exaggerated way people do sometimes when they catch sight of a lens pointing at them. Further back again and I’m into snaps Oliver must have taken on his travels. A dog on a leash for some reason. An anonymous couple posing for the camera in what could be a city park. A couple of indeterminate images of the street, possibly shot through the bus window. The front of a pub – actually the pub where Ollie and I had lunch after our library visit. I can’t remember him taking that one; I wonder if he came back on another day to add it to his collection. Maybe I just missed it - the next one back is me on the bus, my face in shadow because of the light behind. And the one before that is outside my flat, just the building with the Audi parked in front. I’d guess from the angle that Ollie was standing at the bus stop over the road.

  I keep on flicking idly back, but with less and less interest as by now the random images have nothing to do with anyone or anything I know, except for a medium close-up of his mam in her dark glasses and outdoor coat, apparently on a trip to somewhere – the shops, maybe. The pictures go on and on – Ollie doesn’t seem to have acquainted himself with the delete function – and I’ve almost given up hope of getting to the end when... I’m gazing at the proffered rump of a naked female, arsehole protruding, pink labia below. The vagina is so generously inviting in the close-up that I can only assume some unseen fingers are stretching the outer lips apart. I’m at once dumbstruck, revolted and aroused. How can this filth have found its way into Oliver’s camera?

  I stare until decency overcomes lasciviousness and the moral thumb presses down to click away from the image. It’s as if I’ve pulled back the camera lens, for I’m now watching the same (I suppose) female rear from a distance where I can see her jeans and knickers pulled down, a blouse flipped over her back. On this shot the woman’s hands are prising at her own backside to separate the cheeks. Another click and she’s front end to camera at pelvis range, showing off her snatch in the same way. Next it’s a mid-range shot of a bare torso, blouse open and bra held up to allow plump naked breasts to poke out below, jeans and knickers down to reveal dark pubic hair. I can see enough of a brick wall in the background to deduce that the photos have been taken outdoors, maybe in a back street somewhere. The reverse sequence of naughty poses ends (or begins) with a head-and-shoulders-plus shot of the girl getting her tits out and pouting amateurishly at the camera. I can say girl with confidence now because this is the first time I’ve seen her face, street-pretty with two-tone hair in need of attention, and a couple of teenage spots not quite covered by orange make-up. Then it’s back to the bland, indiscriminate shots that are more typical of the Oliver Dunn oeuvre.

  I shut off the camera and try to bring myself back to the reality of the room, but my mind is racing with the thought of Oliver, in his bright yellow waterproof, snapping away as this young tart performs her low-grade striptease for him in a back alley. Starters before the main course? Or is he content with the voyeurism of the camera, perving to be recollected in tranquillity? My preconceptions about Oliver Dunn have just taken a flip-flop. I can’t get my head round this. I just can’t imagine... But why not? Perhaps Oliver has more need than most of us to find relief in this kind of interactive pornography, or actual sex, what could be more natural? I’m assuming he’s paid for it, saved up cash from his delivery job and... And what? Where has he come across this girl? Presumably she’s local. Did he just bump into her on a street corner? Did he proposition her? She him? Of course, it happens all the time, doesn’t it? Why shouldn’t it happen to Oliver? Well, it never happened to me, not until I specifically went out in search of Edona. It’s a subterranean world that belongs to the street-wise and the low-lifes, not.... But what about that old civil servant type who Boris sent to Edona’s room, the night of the escape? He was quite plainly neither street-wise nor low-life. How did he get to be in that place at that time, consorting with pimps and criminals and prostitutes?

  I recall an especially lively phone-in night after I’d talked to a studio guest from an organisation called Outsiders. Whether they’re still going I don’t know, but this charity specialised in helping disabled people with their sexual problems, including helping them to find sexual partners. The phones went hot directly after my guest told me about their Sex Angels scheme that had volunteers or sometimes people who were paid to have sex with their members. It caused something of an outcry on the show, and for a while in the local press, with some listeners deploring the whole idea, others applauding it, some even wanting to get involved. My guest told me there was a strict vetting procedure for these angels. Judging by some of the people I talked to that night I guess there’d have to be. It was amazing how the whole subject of sex and the disabled got people going, in every sense of the phrase.

  I wonder whether Ollie was tuned in that night. Not that he’s disabled as such, but... Maybe it gave him an idea, a contact. Maybe this girl in the pictures is a sex angel herself, who knows? What do we really know about how people live their private lives? I’ve had my eyes opened so much over these past two or three weeks.

  All the time I’m having this discussion in my head, and deluding myself about my liberal credentials, there’s another part of me getting the creeps from what I’ve learned about Ollie in the last few minutes, even to the extent that my concern for Sam is switching from the threat of Emmanuel to the threat of... I once called Ollie my stalker. Does he have somebody else in his sights? Why does he always carry that camera around? Why, come to think of it, is he always around? What are his motives?

  That’s absurd, ridiculous. Now it’s the other part of me rightly slapping me across the face about my feelings. What makes me superior to Ollie? What’s the difference? Who am I to be disgusted by what he might choose to do? Where’s the crime?

  But the strongest voice is the one that says, Come on, Sam. Walk through that door right now. Come home to me.

  Half an hour later (it seems like two hours) she does, apparently unmolested.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Been on the phone to Mrs Dunn’s GP. You know, she’s been on the waiting list nearly six months for her cataract operation. Apparently she’s got so many health complications she’ll have to go as an in-patient, so it’s a question of bed availability. He promised to chase it up, so it was worth ringing.”

  “Why d’you have to get so involved? I was worried. Didn’t see any silver BMWs on your tail, did you?” I don’t mention my new concerns about Ollie, but I’ve put his camera away in a drawer in case she starts trawling through it like I did. Sam has a bit of a soft spot for Oliver
, and I don’t want to shatter any illusions.

  “No,” she says. “What about you – any phone calls?”

  “Not yet.”

  Nor do we hear from Amina for the rest of the evening, though we spend plenty of time talking about her, and about what we’re going to do with Edona. Our conversation is still going on when we’re lying side by side in bed. Something troubling Sam is the fact that, while we procrastinate, not only are dangerous characters like Emmanuel roaming round, they’re still in business in Warkworth Street and maybe other places too. At least Edona is in a safe place for the moment, but what about the other women in the house, still being abused on a daily basis? Sam is all for going to the police, but I’m more cautious, telling her what Edona said about possible police involvement in the sex rings. I prefer to see what Fern comes back with, though we’ve heard nothing from her since she promised to check out what the various agencies might be able to offer.

  Sam responds to my argument with another idea. “What if we went in at the highest level with the police?”

  “I don’t think you can just walk into a police station and demand a private meeting with the Chief Constable. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “I know one person who could get to him,” says Sam.

  “Who?”

  “Neville Crawcrook. He’s best pals with all the higher-ups. Probably all masons together. He’s our best route in, get him to invite the top guy for lunch or whatever, and get ourselves invited as well. Or you, anyroad. Then you can work on him.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Why not?”

  “Listen, there’s no way I’m going to involve Neville Crawcrook in this business. The guy’s a prick and a fake. Bad combination.”

  “You’re just being pig-headed. If it’s going to help Edona, or protect...”

  “No way. Arse-licking to Crawcrook so he’ll do us a favour then take the credit... I don’t even want to talk about it.” Being careful to kiss Sam first to demonstrate she hasn’t put me in a huff, I turn on my side and make it clear that I’m going to sleep. But, just as they say eating cheese before bedtime gives you nightmares, so this unsatisfactory end to our discussion weighs heavily on me and, what with all the other disturbing episodes of the day, I have a deeply troubled night.

  Emmanuel and Stefan are the bogeymen of my dreams, crashing into the apartment and dragging Sam naked out of our bed. I try to run after them, but I just slither onto the floor. I’ve lost the use of my legs. Now I’m dressed in a Bruce Willis vest, rolling myself along mean unlit streets in a wheelchair, my calls for Sam hampered by having to bite my lip against the awful debilitating ache in my arms from the strain of pumping the wheels. Sinister, tantalising things are happening just beyond my view in dark corners and alleyways. A man that might be Lev the barman (but in the way of dreams looks like the shopkeeper from Mr Benn) steps out of the shadows and asks if I want cheap steroids very dear. Without waiting for an answer he brings out a huge hypodermic syringe from under his fez and stabs the needle into my nearest arm. It’s agony. I’m lifted out of the wheelchair with the pain. I’m aware he’s given me a lethal dose of Toxic 7 and now I’m on a stretcher in an ambulance. Next to my head, stuck up in the ambulance, I can see dozens of pornographic pictures, unknown women offering up their backsides for medical inspection. I feel a hand on my prick and think it’s mine, but when I turn the other way there’s Fern the social worker at the side of the stretcher, her hand under my blanket, smirking, and saying Care in the community. Behind her is Ollie, dressed in a high vis jacket, eating an Orange Maid. I try to get off the stretcher and find I’m lying on a marble slab, unable to lift my shoulders. Somebody’s saying Warn Marc. I can only move my head, and when I do I see Sam on her marble slab on one side of me and Edona on hers on the other. The three of us are naked and exposed. We’re in a huge church, all marbled stone, with Warn Marc echoing around the roof like a whispering gallery. When I strain my head to look between my feet I can see a sloped aisle with big doors at the far end and a congregation of nuns on either side, hands to their lips in prayer or to hide their whispering. They are all facing me, but they can’t keep their sly eyes away from the aisle. Sam says something. I turn to her and she says again, Awaiting entry, but she’s looking past me, talking to Edona. The doors open with a flourish and in walks Amina’s uncle, splendid in white ecclesiastical robes, with a trio of men behind him, all wearing loose white cambric shirts, open at the chest, and pirate breeches, carrying knives across their hearts as if they are about to cut off their own left breast. The three are Neville Crawcrook, the old civil servant, and a man I recognise as the Chief Constable but who has the face of the traffic cop. As they process up the aisle all the nuns open their hymn books and start singing together.

  Hey, where did we go? Days that the rains came.

  Down in the hollow, playing a new game.

  “There’s a synch problem,” I say to Sam, who’s stretching her arm from her slab to mine. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll fix it.” She keeps tapping me, agitated. “No, it’s interference,” I explain. “Another signal leaking in.”

  “Marc! The phone!”

  “Yeah, got it.”

  “Marc!”

  I open my eyes. Van Morrison is filling the bedroom. The mobile on the table is glowing in the dark. “Christ!” I leap across Sam and grab the phone, hitting receive just before my recorded message is due to kick in. “Yes, hello, this is...” I stop myself. Who am I? Marc? Tom? Oliver?

  “I am Amina Begum Khan.” The voice is an urgent whisper.

  “Yes. Yes, I know.”

  “I only have a few seconds while they let me use the toilet.”

  “Who’s they? Is it Emmanuel? Boris?”

  “I don’t know these names. Please don’t talk, listen. I am being held against my will. I am not trusted. Something is planned for the Jihad bis Saif. I don’t know what.” Sam turns on the lamp and I make a rapid writing sign. She scrabbles about looking for pen and paper while Amina continues. “It must be local – the plan is to call you, I heard them say.”

  I can’t stop myself interrupting. “Call me?”

  “Your show. For publicity. When it’s too late to stop it. Hassan will call.”

  “Hassan? Your Hassan? Is he still alive?”

  “Dead to me now.” There’s a noise in the background, another woman’s voice. A pause, then it’s Amina again, briefly. “I have to go.”

  “What’s it called, that thing you said?” I have the pen ready, but we’re cut off. I write Jeehad bus? Jihad? + ...? on the paper. Sam crawls over the bed to me, watches what I’m writing.

  “Has she gone? Did she say where she was?”

  “In a toilet. That’s as much as I know. There was another woman, other side of the door maybe. You were right, she is being held prisoner.”

  “Is it the same? The ones who had Edona?”

  “I don’t think so, she didn’t know the names. No, I think this is a different thing altogether. Have you heard of this?”

  Sam looks at the words on the paper. “I’ve heard of jihad. Is that what it is?”

  “I think that’s what she said. Jihad, something else. That’s an Al Qaeda thing, yeah?”

  “Something of the sort. I don’t really know much about it.”

  “Nor me, but I guess we’re about to find out. I’m being sucked into some kind of terrorist plot.”

  “Oh my god, Marc.”

  Sam moves in to hold me, and we embrace on the edge of the bed, both naked and shivering, though the room is warm enough. I stroke Sam’s hair and kiss her once gently before I say, “No more argument from me. This is way too serious. Forget lunch, but I think we’d better get Neville to call his friend.”

  XIV

  Once Neville Crawcrook has calculated what’s it in for him, and worked out how to position himself so he can gain maximum advantage from a successful outcome, or disown anything that might go tits up, he makes the call and fixes a meetin
g. Which causes the first of several rows I’m destined to have with him over his handling of the affair.

  “In his office? Have you not explained to him that I’ve got people on my case? I can’t afford to be seen wandering into police headquarters – they’ll know we’re onto them, and Amina could be in even more danger.”

  “Philip Finch is a busy man. If it’s more convenient for him...”

  “Bugger that. Call him back, you’re going to have to change it. Meet him here, or better still somewhere neutral. Find a hotel suite.”

  Neville looked obdurate behind his big desk until I mentioned the hotel suite, which must have been sufficiently swanky-sounding to get him to change his mind, though I notice this time he gets his PA to ring to change the arrangements, the better to save face and bolster his own importance, and underline the fact that he too is a remarkably busy man.

  Chief Constable Philip Finch, I find, is either a wise man or a fool. Soberly suited like the others in his retinue at the meeting, he sits and listens carefully to my story, then leans forward and says with forensic calm, “Have you considered the possibility that this could be another hoax?”