I move from where I’d stopped behind him, and hurry after him. I know where he’s heading: to the Tube station ahead. I run down the steps, follow him through the barriers, down the escalator to the Piccadilly Line and onto the platform.
My fear that he might see me following him begins to evaporate. If he had thought that I might, he would have turned around at least once to check. A train comes in; I get into the same carriage as he does but through the door at the other end and sit watching him surreptitiously as he stares blankly ahead, his bag lodged between his feet, lost in thoughts I can only guess at. Carl was Ned’s captor, I know it. Why else was he at the memorial service for Justine and Lina, two women that he didn’t know? Unless he did know them. I search my mind, but I can’t recall Justine or Lina ever mentioning someone named Carl.
The train soon fills up but I’m not worried, I can still see Carl. My plan is to follow him all the way to wherever he lives, and once I have his address, harass him day and night until he agrees to speak to me. It’s only when he doesn’t react to any of the stops, not even to check our whereabouts, that I realize he’s not concerned about missing his station because he’s going all the way to the end of the line. My eyes dart to the map on the wall; the terminus is Heathrow Airport, Terminal 5.
My heart thuds. How can I follow him onto a flight? He could be going anywhere. I remember his accent and my heart thuds again. What if he’s going to South Africa or Australia? How could I ever find him there?
The train pulls into Terminal 5. He moves to the door, and seconds later, I follow him out. I wait as he heads toward the escalators, making sure he doesn’t check behind. He moves to the left and begins walking up, past the people standing on the right. He seems in a hurry so I walk up too. He arrives at the top, leaps off, and starts running through the concourse, and for a panicky moment, I think that he’s seen me. But as he runs, he’s fumbling in his pocket and I see him take out his phone. He approaches the security area with the individual security gates, slams his phone onto the reader, and hurries through the barrier.
I arrive seconds later, and stand watching him until he disappears out of sight.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It hits me during the night as I lie curled up on the mattress. What if Carl worked for the same security firm as Hunter had? I saw the name on the front pocket of Hunter’s black jacket often enough to remember it. If I call them and ask to speak to Carl, I might be able to find out something. It’s a long shot—Ned might have called another security firm for a replacement after Hunter was murdered. But it’s worth a try.
I’ve been watching the time since 3 a.m. At 9 a.m., I call them.
“Hello, I’m trying to trace a security guard we employed last year and who was sent to us by your company. His name was Carl—I’m sorry, I can’t remember his surname.”
“Can I have the name of your company, please?” a woman asks.
“Yes, it’s Exclusives.”
“Hold on a minute, let me check … I can’t find a contract in the name of Exclusives, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. He must have been sent by another company, then. Do you have any Carls at all on your books?”
“No, the only Carl we had was our director, Mr. Hunter, and he no longer works here.”
My phone slips from my grasp, clatters to the floor. Blood drains from my face. Dizzy, I push through to the kitchen, then out to the garden, gulping fresh air into my lungs. Carl Hunter? What does it mean? Is it just a coincidence: two people with the same name, one a surname, one a Christian name? Or was Hunter the surname of the man I knew as Hunter? If it was, does it mean that Carl and Hunter were related? And if they were, is that what the kidnapping was about, payback not just for Lina’s murder, but also for Hunter’s?
My head feels as if it’s about to explode. I massage my temples, telling myself that it will be alright, I’ll get to the bottom of it, somehow. But how? Each time I think I’ve made a slight step forward, there’s always something to knock me back.
I go to the kitchen, retrieve my phone from the floor, stand for a moment, thinking. When I have a plan, I call the security company again, ready to disguise my voice so that the woman won’t know it’s me calling back. But this time a man picks up.
“Could you put me through to Carl Hunter, please?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, but he no longer works here.”
“Ah. That could explain why he hasn’t picked up his suits from us. He put them in to be dry-cleaned over a month ago. Do you have a phone number for him?”