Blind Spot

  BLIND SPOT

  The Sara Jones Cycle, Book Two

  Terence Bailey

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2018

  Octavo House

  West Bute Street

  Cardiff

  CF10 5LJ

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Copyright © Terence Bailey 2018

  The right of Terence Bailey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.

  ISBN 9781786155085

  eISBN 9781786153821

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A

  For Cambria

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Greg Rees and Katrin Lloyd at Accent Press for all their help. As ever, I thank Dr David W. Grossman and Inspector Alun Samuel for being on hand with advice, expertise and friendship. Thank you to Annemieke Fox, whose knowledge was invaluable, and to Jo Tyler for reading and commenting on an early draft of this novel.

  PROLOGUE

  It’s the same scene, repeating.

  A story that should have happened, but didn’t.

  A moment when a strange element of chance intervened, and a strand of time – this strand of time - changed.

  A non-event that has been flashing, unbidden and repeatedly, through Sara Jones’s mind.

  It starts in the shadows of a small living room. A place lit only by the orange glow from the street – a few household things glimpsed, but indistinct. A brass wall plaque gleaming in the glare from outside; flat-pack furniture and stacks of books; a tea set on a small table.

  And from another room, the sound of wailing. A woman in distress. Her tears of frustration overpowered by a man’s warning voice. The thud of an open hand against fabric and one single yelp of outraged anger.

  The hollow pressboard door flies open. A woman named Fatima Kapadia runs into the living room.

  She is in Aberystwyth, Wales.

  It is not quite three years ago.

  Three very different years ago.

  Fatima snaps on the light and braces herself for an attack that does not come. She devotes this pocket of time to composing herself – smoothing her pyjamas, flattening her hair. Waiting for her husband, Navid, to do or say something. No sound from the next room. Fatima summons up all her willpower and speaks into the darkness of the hallway.

  ‘You earn thirty-seven thousand pounds a year,’ she states with flat disdain. ‘I have to lie to my father. I double your salary, and he still thinks I married a failure.’

  This has the desired effect. Navid Kapadia lurches as far as the doorframe. The muscles in his cheeks tremble, his eyes glow darkly. Not with anger, but with humiliation. A far more dangerous emotion.

  Fatima and Navid quarrel. She wants to return to Pakistan. He swears that the family will stay here in Wales, and he will keep his under-paid job at the university, and Fatima’s rich, corrupt father in Karachi can go straight to hell.

  Along the darkened hallway, in the small second bedroom, are bunk beds. Twelve-year-old Jamila and eight-year-old Yusuf try to sleep through another noisy battle.

  After an hour, their father lumbers into the room and orders them to wake up, to come with him. This is the point at which Sara – watching in a different place, at another time – always tenses. It didn’t happen like this … but that never changes the horror she feels.

  Navid hustles his children’s sleepy forms into the car. Fatima squeals and sobs behind him, but he pulls away, and drives through the amber-lit streets of town. Navid’s thoughts are in turmoil – replaying old arguments and older humiliations. He can feel the puzzlement that lies within the hollow silence behind him, on the back seat.

  He arcs through the town centre and away, towards a supermarket on its outskirts. By the time he gets there, something has changed in his mood. An inhibition has been lost, or a determination found. He pulls into the petrol station and buys a newspaper and a plastic canister. Calmly, Navid returns to the pump and fills his tank and container. There is no further indecision as he drives up the hill, parks once more outside his house and tells the kids to stay in the car.

  ‘Why?’ young Jamila asks. ‘What’s happening, Baba?’

  ‘Shush,’ Navid says.

  Navid takes a section of newspaper and rolls it. Thrusts it into the tank. His throat thickens with angry grief as he douses the rest of the paper with petrol and tosses it to young Yusuf on the back seat. He chokes out the words, ‘Hold this.’

  It is only when Navid wets the front seats with petrol that Jamila lurches forward. ‘Baba, what are you doing?’ she shrieks.

  Navid ignores her, but Jamila tugs at the door handle. ‘Ammi!’ – Mother! – she screams.

  As the car door opens, Navid drops his canister and throws himself against the swinging panel, slamming Jamila back inside. Jamila wails and yanks at the handle. Navid keeps his body pressed against the door, panting, crying, wiping his face on his sleeve. The other side opens with a thunk, and Navid turns to see Jamila crawling over Yusuf, tumbling head first from the back seat. He dashes around, skidding on the tarmac, nearly losing his balance.

  He kicks.

  Navid does not mean to hurt his daughter, but it’s a reflex, the quickest way to stop her. Jamila barely makes a sound as her head takes the blow. She slumps to the pavement.

  In that other place, Sara flinches.

  Anguish washes over Navid as he wails and pulls Jamila up by her nightdress. ‘I’m sorry!’ he sobs, bundling her over Yusuf, who watches with wide eyes, frozen. Navid manages to half-roll Jamila to her side of the seat, then pauses to control his breath, to fight his tears. Inches away from Yusuf’s face, he leans in and kisses the boy on the cheek. ‘I love you,’ he says.

  Navid pulls himself from the car and closes the back door. He forces himself to inhale deeply, and releases a loud, shrill whistle.

  ‘Fatima!’ he cries.

  A light snaps on in the living room. Seconds later, the porch lamp adds to the pale cast flooding the lawn. As Fatima pushes at the door, Navid sparks his lighter and touches its flame to the newspaper jammed in the petrol tank. Quickly, he opens the passenger’s door and slides in, remembering to leave it ajar – fire needs oxygen to burn. He pops the lighter once more and pulls it along the petrol-soaked front seat.

  Several impressions tumble through Navid’s mind at once: Fatima running towards the car; the driver’s seat refusing to catch fire; Jamila back there, motionless.

  Yusuf’s crying now. Navid curses his lighter, curses the petrol for not burning, curses his wife for making all of this necessary. He cannot let Fatima spoil things now. Desperately, he thumbs the lighter’s wheel again.

  Inwardly, Sara screams as the wheel sparks, and the story – this missing moment in time – concludes.

  As a fireball swells.

  And the petrol tank explodes.

  ONE

  Dr Sara Jones always carried a medical bag equipped with a pre-loaded syringe of pentobarbital. This served as a protective weapon, Sara's final defence against the violent souls any psychiatrist with a tinge of bad luck might encounter. Legally – as Sara’s ex-police officer boyfriend often told her – this was an enormous risk. Sara could probably have justified keeping a powerfu
l barbiturate in her possession, but if she were ever caught sticking someone … that was another story. It would certainly be judged medical malpractice, and quite probably common assault. Maybe even actual bodily harm.

  But Sara was less worried about the Offences Against the Person Act than about being punched, stabbed, or bludgeoned. She would rather face court than reconstructive surgery, and so she continued carrying the bag that concealed two hundred milligrams of liquid protection. When Sara faced a client, she always kept it within easy reach.

  Always.

  Until the day when she actually needed it.

  That day was a Monday morning in late March, and Sara was in London’s Chalk Farm. Although a short walk from both the calm of Regent’s Park and the throngs of Camden Town, the area was an impersonal space, with wide roads that felt like canyons, lined with boxy buildings and brown brick walls. Such drab anonymity made the large council estate Sara was visiting seem like an oasis, with plenty of green surrounding its well-scrubbed 1930s housing. Sara tapped on the door of a ground-floor flat, using her assertive-yet-reassuring knock. It was a series of gentle raps with a single knuckle – unthreatening, yet quick-paced enough to be insistent. Immediately, she was assailed by a blast of guttural barking and a body-blow thump against the wood.

  The door rattled; she leapt back. The torrent of barks and howls was joined by the scrabbling of long claws. Whatever frenzied creature lurked behind this plank of wood sounded large. When Sara was young, she had been bitten by a neighbour’s sheepdog. Ever since then, man’s best friend had been her enemy. When she’d lived in Wales, she knew a woman with pair of trembling Chihuahuas, and could just about tolerate their bug-eyed presence. Any larger dog turned her into a hyperventilating wreck.

  Dogs cannot claw through fire doors, Sara reminded herself. But did she really want to take that chance? Just as she was about to retreat to her car, the barking turned into a series of choking rasps.

  ‘Err … hello?’ Sara called.

  ‘Yeah, hang on,’ a voice shouted. ‘Got him by the collar.’ This had to be the young man she’d come to see. Sara hoped he wouldn’t open the door while still wielding his drooling, fanged weapon.

  ‘Go on, mate!’ the voice inside the flat urged. ‘Yummy yum-yum! Go get it!’

  There was the clack of claws on linoleum. Sara heard an interior door closing, and then the stiff clunk of an unoiled key. The front door squeaked open an inch. ‘Help you?’ the voice said.

  ‘Tim Wilson?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Is everything safe now?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Wilson said. ‘Stanley’s locked in the bedroom. He likes salami, does Stanley. I can always tempt him away with a nice chunk of salami.’

  ‘I appreciate it,’ Sara said. ‘I’m very much a cat person.’

  ‘Ah,’ Wilson said, ‘the enemy!’

  The door opened, and Sara got her first glimpse of Tim Wilson. The twenty-four-year-old’s low-rise council block may have been in Chalk Farm, but Wilson himself looked every inch a Shoreditch hipster – all the way from his top-knot down to his skater boy Vans. Sara thought herself broad-minded, but she’d always found something ludicrous about the big-bearded affectation that made London’s young men look like effete lumberjacks. Still, Hipster Tim seemed almost sweet as he peered at her.

  ‘You from the council?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Sara replied. ‘My name is Dr Sara Jones, and I work for the London Fields Support Service. We’re a charity.’

  She handed him her card, and he stuffed it in his pocket with a shrug of his muscled shoulders. ‘Charity’s cool,’ he offered. ‘Sometimes I shop at Oxfam.’

  He invited her in and offered a chair. The room was unsettlingly tidy for a young man’s place. Even the dog’s bowls looked as if they had been positioned with a set square. It was clean-smelling too – lemon bleach and Air Wick. Sara supposed someone meticulous enough to wrap his hair into a perfect top-knot would also keep a spotless flat. She could identify with that: it took an equal amount of care to keep her own hair that exact shade of auburn, and just the right length to tuft into spikes. She and Tim seemed to share an unhealthy perfectionism. The only thing Sara could find amiss in this room was a jagged crack in the window overlooking the street.

  Which was rather dangerous, she thought. Anyone could break in.

  ‘What kind of dog is Stanley?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Rottweiler,’ Wilson said, sitting. ‘They’re a tough breed, but this one’s a crap guard dog. I swear, he’d sit there and watch a burglar take everything I own. I’d be better off with a poodle.’

  Sara smiled. She could probably have coped with a poodle.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘What do you have?’

  Wilson moved over to the kitchenette and tugged open his refrigerator door. In it were several bottles of a fluorescent orange beverage and little else. ‘Err – not a lot, actually,’ he said. ‘Unless you like Sunny D.’

  Sara smiled apologetically.

  ‘Me, I love it,’ Wilson said. ‘It’s about all I drink. I get through one of these bottles every day.’

  ‘It’s a good choice,’ Sara said. ‘I can’t imagine anyone else wants it, so you have it all to yourself.’

  Wilson paused, then laughed. ‘All mine,’ he agreed.

  ‘Tim, let me tell you why I’m here,’ she began. ‘The clinic I work for helps people sort out their emotions.’

  Wilson squinted at her, puzzled.

  ‘In other words, their mental health,’ she clarified. ‘Usually, clients pay a small fee for sessions, but in some cases, we offer our services free of charge.’

  This was not exactly true; providing free therapy was Sara’s own side project. In the past eighteen months, she had approached three other people with this same offer, and had persuaded each of them to see her professionally. Sara hoped that Tim Wilson would join their ranks and make Success Number Four. She watched his brow darken into an expression somewhere between confusion and irritation.

  ‘A mental health clinic?’ Wilson repeated flatly. ‘What are you saying?’

  Sara smiled reassuringly. ‘Tim,’ she said, ‘we both know you have a bit of a temper. I’d like to help you get it under control.’

  ‘Who said I have a temper?’ he asked. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘That’s not important.’

  ‘Was it my social worker?’ Wilson persisted.

  Sara raised her hands soothingly. ‘What is important,’ she persisted, ‘is that –’

  Suddenly, Wilson was on his feet again, his wooden chair skidding across the linoleum. ‘Was it my social worker?’ he shouted.

  In the bedroom, Stanley reacted to his master’s angry voice. The animal threw himself against the door, growling and barking. The sound made every nerve in Sara’s body scream. Within moments, Tim Wilson loomed over her, face purpling, sleeve tattoo bulging with tension. ‘Who've you been talking to?’ he demanded. Flecks of spittle flew from his lips.

  In a flash, Wilson had transformed from a sweet hipster to a threat more extreme than his dog. That was when Sara reached swiftly for her medical bag, and found it wasn’t there. As she groped the empty air, panic burst in her chest and Wilson grabbed her by the throat.

  Sara felt herself gag.

  ‘It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?’ Wilson snarled as he squeezed. ‘Passing judgement, telling me my problems, saying you can help. Just like my fucking social worker!’

  His grip tightened. ‘Charity,’ he spat. ‘That’s what you’re here for, right?’

  He wheezed manically. Sara swooned; her vision spangled like Christmas lights off tinsel. She was losing consciousness – and there was no pentobarbital to save her.

  Distraction, she thought as the tinsel-light dimmed into blackness. That’s my one hope.

  ‘Why … is your window … broken?’ she rasped.

  Wilson stopped and loosened his grip. ‘Huh?’r />
  Sara’s airways opened. A bright flare pulsed behind her eyes and she sucked in deeply. ‘Over there,’ she exhaled. ‘Some glass … is missing.’ She drew a deeper breath. ‘It was cracked … right?’

  ‘Err – yeah.’ Wilson turned to look at his broken window. His fingers slackened further.

  ‘And now the glass has fallen through.’

  As Wilson began to curse the building's sluggish maintenance staff, Sara jerked backwards, pulled away, and stumbled to her feet. She swooned and nearly collapsed as her assailant spun towards her.

  Don’t fall, she told herself. This is your only chance.

  Sara leapt forward, slapped the door handle, and pulled. Behind her, Wilson shouted. Air cooled her streaming brow as she dashed from the flat and ran spasmodically towards her car. She slammed its door moments before Wilson’s Rottweiler came barrelling onto the street.

  Neck throbbing, legs trembling, Sara played dodgem with buses and black cabs on the North London route that led south of the river, and home to Brixton. She had opened the driver’s window; the steady blast of air helped to reduce her shock. Glancing at the rear-view mirror of her Mini Countryman, she caught sight of her traitorous medical bag lounging on the back seat.

  She scowled. How on earth could I have been so careless?

  As Sara made the awkward turn from Bressenden Place onto Vauxhall Bridge Road, her reverie was interrupted by the saxophone opening to Take That’s ‘A Million Love Songs’ – her ringtone, sounding through the car’s speakers. The muscles in Sara’s face tightened, and she stabbed a button on her steering wheel. ‘Yes,’ she snapped.

  ‘Mallorca,’ someone said.

  Sara frowned. The caller’s voice was too distorted by London traffic to identify … but then Sara noticed the background twang of country music. It had to be her closest friend, Ceri Lewis, calling from mid-Wales. Ceri, eight years Sara’s senior, was a uniformed inspector on the Dyfed-Powys police force, and had known Sara since she was a child.

  Sara took a deep breath to control her trembling. ‘Well, well! Bore da,’ Sara greeted her friend with false cheer.