‘Enough danger for everyone to do this anyway,’ Famie said, gesturing around at her colleagues.
Two policemen walked up to the carriage’s doorway; one nodded at a uniformed guard and the doors closed. The officers stood together at one end of the car, eyeing the passengers.
A woman opposite Famie cleared her throat. ‘We’re all IPS,’ she said to the uniforms.
‘We know,’ said one of them. He pulled the ventilation window behind him shut. ‘There was no one on this train till Canary Wharf. Special instructions.’ He adjusted his cap. ‘And we’re sorry for your loss.’
Heads nodded in appreciation.
‘How far are you riding?’ called another voice.
‘Till you all get off. Then we go back and do it again.’
‘So how far are you all going?’ asked the other officer. Most said Waterloo and Green Park, the furthest station being Baker Street. ‘We stay on till Baker Street then,’ he said.
The train pulled into Canada Water but the platform was deserted and the doors opened, then closed.
‘What have you heard?’ said Tommi. ‘About today?’
Both policemen looked unsure of themselves, exchanging the swiftest of glances.
‘Off the record,’ added Tommi. ‘No one will quote you.’
The older of the two, bearded and stocky, shrugged. ‘They wouldn’t tell us, we’re too lowly. We’re as much in the dark as you. Off the record.’
Now it was Tommi who shrugged. ‘So none of us know jack shit then.’
The London Bridge platforms were busy. As they pulled in and the train slowed, Famie, along with most of her colleagues, stared at the waiting passengers – the usual crowd of commuters and tourists, maps, bags and coffees in hand, waiting for the train to stop. She held her breath as the doors opened. She thought about that taxi she had turned down. One of the police officers, the stocky one, walked to the middle of the carriage. Making a show, she reckoned, and she was glad of it.
Of the ten or so new travellers, most sat, a few choosing to stand, the closest just a few metres away. An exhausted-looking woman in her sixties, rucksack on her back, big headphones on her head, held on to the rail with both hands.
Sam was watching too. ‘Why doesn’t she sit down?’ he whispered. ‘There’s plenty of seats.’
Famie smiled. ‘Thanks,’ she said. To his look of puzzlement she added, ‘I thought it was just me. Being paranoid. “People behaving strangely on the tube” will turn out to be a big subject.’
Sam snorted, put his hand in front of his mouth in embarrassment, then joined in the laughter from his colleagues. The woman, oblivious, stared at the floor.
As they approached Green Park, Famie, Sam and Tommi stood, acknowledged their friends and waited by the doors. Famie caught her reflection in the glass, then looked away. How she looked was how she felt – devastated. Her glasses hid the shadows around her eyes but the tube lights found every line, every imperfection. ‘This is no way to live,’ she said.
They walked the connecting corridors and escalators in a grim silence. On the platform once again – ‘next train one minute’ – Famie thought she’d had enough. ‘You guys don’t need to do this. Go home.’
Sam and Tommi didn’t move.
‘Are you mad?’ said Sam. ‘We’re sticking to the plan. We deliver you to your door.’
‘Like you’re a pizza,’ added Tommi.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll be sure to tip you a few quid.’
The Piccadilly Line train was surprisingly quiet and they sat in adjacent seats. Sam looked around. The nearest passenger was at the other end of the carriage and, slumped over the arm rest, appeared to be asleep.
‘So,’ said Sam, his voice as quiet as he could make it, ‘what were they working on? The investigators. Do we know?’
Tommi shook his head slowly. ‘No idea. They never really spoke to me, to be honest.’
Both men looked at Famie. She chewed her lip.
‘I’ve been trying to remember. Mary did talk vaguely about a big story she had. Said they’d dropped everything to see what they could do with it.’ She looked at her friends. ‘And that’s it.’ She shrugged. ‘The whole point of being an investigator is that you don’t talk about the investigation. So it’s not surprising if no one knows about it.’
The sleeping man woke up and lurched upright. They all watched him until he slumped again.
‘Wow we’re suspicious,’ said Tommi, ‘even of him.’
‘Especially of him,’ said Sam. ‘We have to be, don’t we? Until we know who the killers are, don’t we have to be suspicious of everyone?’
Famie put her head in her hands. ‘What a life we have to look forward to,’ she said.
Her headache was back and suddenly she couldn’t wait to get home. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I just need to do this.’ She fished out her headphones, hit play on her phone. She knew Sam and Tommi would be raising eyebrows but she didn’t care. Eyes closed, her Magic Flute had work to do. A few brief moments of peace, then she felt her sleeve being tugged. The train was slowing.
‘Our stop, I think,’ said Sam, loudly.
Famie nodded. ‘I can hear you,’ she said, ‘but I can also hear Mozart. And he’s winning.’
The doors opened and they walked to the steps.
‘Fucking Mozart’s not taking you home though, is he,’ said Sam.
Famie, aware she was being annoying, removed the headphones. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘A bad habit.’
‘Feel better?’ asked Sam.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did we miss something?’ said Tommi, taking a left out of the station.
‘You did,’ said Famie. ‘You missed everything. You should try it some time.’
‘Will it make me as miserable as you?’ asked Tommi.
‘Quite likely.’
They walked to the park that led to Famie’s flat. A pink and white ice cream van was by its entrance, the vendor ensconced behind a newspaper. Famie hurried them into the grounds.
‘My God, I’m even worried about the ice cream seller,’ she said. ‘This is so bad …’
The green spaces of Arnos Park opened up in front of them, one tree-lined path snaking through the centre, a narrower, circuitous route forking left and right. With the exception of a few dog-walkers and a sleeping tramp on a bench, they had it to themselves.
‘Surprisingly empty,’ said Tommi, the note of suspicion unmissable.
‘I’m not normally here in the early afternoon,’ said Famie, ‘but you’re right. Pretty deserted.’
‘In a bad way?’ said Sam, unsure of what Famie was thinking. ‘You want to re-route?’
The wide-open space should have been reassuring but Famie hesitated. Even with her friends, she felt vulnerable, exposed. She resisted the urge to put her headphones back on. Six dogs, four dog-walkers and a hobo was hardly Mean Streets.
‘No, let’s go,’ she said. ‘Gin and tonics in ten minutes.’
She set off down the central path at a brisk pace, eyes everywhere. The smell of newly cut grass, mixed with a ripe stench from the overly full rubbish bins. Banana skins, nappies, half-full coffee cups. The park sloped gently downhill, levelled out for the benches and picnic tables, then rose steeply to the ornate Victorian wrought-iron exit gates. Dog-walker one, retriever, was stooped, poop bag in hand. Dog-walker two, cockapoo, had stopped to talk to number three, wolfhound, the tramp was peeling an apple, and dog-walker four was striding around the far end of the outer perimeter, her three charges straining at their leads.