The Killing Files. Nikki Owen

after you were acquitted—and he turned out to be working for MI5.’

      ‘He was working for the Project.’

      ‘That’s what I said.’

      ‘No. You said MI5. Kurt—although his real name is Daniel, a Hebrew name meaning God is my judge—when he was meeting with me he was only working for the Project. By then—’

      ‘By then the NSA prism scandal had been exposed and MI5 wanted to ditch the whole Project because they were scared of a similar blow-up.’

      My eyes rest on the wall, on my drawings and newspaper articles and lines of connections and notes.

      Balthus sighs. ‘I don’t know, I just … What they did. I still can’t believe the Project framed you for the murder of that priest just to get you in prison and out of the way, so they could then get rid of you.’

      ‘So they could kill me to eradicate any connection to the Project.’

      ‘Yes.’ He pauses. ‘Yes.’

      The window in the lounge is open, and in the breeze the muslin curtain drifts in and out, the white cotton veil of it brushing the tiled floor as it passes quietly through the room.

      ‘Anyway, look, Maria,’ Balthus says after a while, clearing his throat, ‘the other reason I wanted to call was just to let you know that there’s been no sighting or word from the MI5 officer who posed as our prison psychiatrist—Dr Andersson. You were asking about her.’

      Dr Andersson. Her face instantly springs into my mind. Swedish blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, freckled pale skin. A vision of her making me take apart laptops, timing me to complete a Rubik’s cube—all the tasks she was doing to monitor me without my knowledge. I shiver. ‘She has not approached you or any of Harry’s family?’

      ‘No. No, I don’t think so. But Maria, listen—how are you about Harry now, since his death? It’s been six months since Dr Andersson shot him on the court steps when she was aiming to kill you. Harry wasn’t just your barrister or even simply your papa’s old friend—I know you had a soft spot for him.’ He pauses, three silent seconds passing. ‘I just worry about you. It’s a lot for any of us to process, never mind for you.’

      I am momentarily stuck for words as a strange tightness presses against my chest. ‘The Kubler-Ross grief model says I should be at acceptance stage now.’

      ‘And are you at that stage, Maria? Do you accept Harry’s death? He cared for you a lot.’ I can hear him swallow. ‘We both did—do.’

      I swallow and clench my jaw as conflicting feelings of anger and sadness wash through me. A tear escapes. I reach up, smear my cheek dry.

      ‘Dr Andersson killed Harry. MI5 killed Harry.’

      ‘Yes.’

      Over on the window ledge, a small bird with golden-brown feathers lands on the white wood. It dips its head once, then going very still, it looks up, free, and flies away. For a few seconds, I watch the now empty, open space where the bird stood then, inhaling, I look back to the cell phone.

      ‘Did Patricia get parole?’

      ‘Yes,’ Balthus replies. There is a rustle of paper on the line. ‘I told her you were okay, in hiding from the Project, let her know what you did—sending the texts to MI5 and the Project on Kurt’s phone in London so they both thought you were dead. She understands you’re hiding, that you can’t contact her.’

      ‘And Dr Andersson has not been trailing her?’

      ‘No. I’m in touch with Patricia—all seems well. You two struck up a good friendship in Goldmouth. I’m glad, I’m …’ He stops. ‘You need friends, Maria. I hate the thought of you being on your own.’

      My eyes catch the room. The solitary chair, the bare, whitewashed walls, the cell phone lying on the upturned crate with Balthus’s voice trapped inside.

      ‘Look, Maria,’ Balthus says after two seconds, ‘I don’t know why, but something about this Raven memory of yours … Well, I know I mentioned it just before, but it … well, there’s something about it that rings a bell, but I don’t know what.’

      ‘Is it a recent recollection?’

      ‘I don’t know. I …’ He trails off. ‘It’s just, well, something Ines told me when she called me when you were in prison. I don’t know if it even means anything, but it was weird.’

      ‘The word ‘weird’ means a suggestion of something supernatural.’

      ‘What? No, no, I didn’t …’

      ‘Weird can also mean connected to fate, to a person’s destiny.’

      ‘Okay. Well, anyway, she was specific, Ines, about talking to me, about calling me and telling me what she did.’

      ‘When exactly was this?’

      ‘It was before the retrial.’

      ‘What date?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Maria, my memory’s not as accurate as yours. But, look, it was strange. We hadn’t spoken for years—since Alarico’s death, in fact—and then, after her visit to you in Goldmouth, she calls out of the blue talking about … God, what was it …? Something about secrets … Damn it. I can’t remember. I just know she was acting odd.’ He breathes out. ‘It’s probably irrelevant anyway.’

      ‘How did you know she was acting odd?’

      ‘What? Oh, I don’t know, her tone of voice, perhaps? It was like she was under pressure or something, as if there was someone there, maybe. In danger? I really couldn’t say for sure.’

      I go quiet, not understanding how a simple tone in a voice can lead to so many unconfirmed conclusions.

      I pick up a book, one of many on computer coding and language, a routine, orderly subject, and place it on a tower of other research, and turn to my board. The faces containing different expressions, different photographs of people who I know, sketches of those I vaguely recall from hazy, drug-filled dreams. Ines, my mama, sits there, a photo taken from her Spanish parliament file, her face sculptured and clean, coiffured black hair, gold jewellery, shoulder pads and rouge. Next to her my brother, Ramon, thirty-five now, tanned, lean, a slick of tar-black hair on top of defined cheekbones, the black suit he wears to his legal firm tailored in place. And then my papa, an aged, more lined photograph, yet still I can see very visibly his eye creases, his lined skin, his crisp white linen shirt, and by his side is me, my hair long and dark, and Papa’s arm is over my shoulder, holding me, the only person, back then, I would allow to touch me without instantly jumping or yelling. I close my eyes. I can still smell him—the spice cologne, the ink from his quill where he used to write in his study. I open my eyes and look at an image pinned to the right—a fading picture of Balthus, Harry and me taken just after we won the retrial, after I was acquitted. My fingers trace Harry’s face. His skin is plump and black, and when he smiles, he too, like my papa, has eye creases that crinkle outwards, his tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of his rounded, shiny nose. Next to him is Balthus. Balthazar Ochoa. Name meaning lone wolf. In his picture he is tall, athletic even for his fifty-plus years, his skin washed with the Mediterranean sun, his black hair silver at the tips, his face consumed by two brown pools of eyes. But while Harry and Balthus’s bodies are relaxed and smiling, mine, in contrast, is rigid and tight, flinching at close group contact, my olive skin pale from months of incarceration, hair dark and sawn into a jagged cut that grazes my temple and neck, eyes sunken into razor cheeks. I touch my neck. The Salamancan sun has drenched my skin now into a deep golden hue, my dark pixie cut is bleached blonde and my once-brown eyes are replaced by green contacts. A fake look for a fake world.

      ‘Maria? Are you still there? Look—I was thinking. The flashback you had, the one with that woman—I think you need to understand where that facility is and