Brand New Friend Read online

  Brand New Friend

  by

  Kate Vane

  Copyright © 2018 by Kate Vane

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

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover design by James, GoOnWrite.com

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  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

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  18

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  67

  Newsletter

  Also by Kate Vane

  1

  Paolo’s mind was still in Yemen when his phone rang.

  ‘It’s me. Mark.’

  He’d been recording a report on the cholera outbreak for The World Tonight, trying, in cool BBC tones, to conjure the faces of the people, the stunning mud-brick buildings, the terror of the bombing. The stink of sewage, the pain of loss.

  ‘I need your help.’

  He couldn’t get the story on TV because it failed the vital test – do we have pictures? Radio. How he loved radio! For a moment he had forgotten that he was in London, on a chill, grey day, in a dark wool suit.

  Mark.

  It was an unknown caller but he always picked up. The habit of years of reporting on the ground in the Middle East. You never knew who it might be, whether they would call again.

  He wondered how many hundreds of Marks he had met in his life and why this particular Mark thought he should know who he was. He wasn’t going to identify him from his silence, so he said, a little tersely, ‘Mark who?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling.’

  The voice thought he should know what this was about and he didn’t. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Leeds, of course.’ It was the tone of beatific patience as much as the location that made him realise. A tone that threw him straight back to the eighties. ‘You haven’t seen the news?’

  ‘I’ve been in the studio. Give me a moment.’ He was already searching for Mark’s name, tapping on a link.

  ‘Can you come? Now?’

  Like he was still a student. We’re going the pub, or Nazams, or a party on Brudenell Road, or maybe Street, or Mount. That was then. Of course he couldn’t come now.

  Yet as he read on, he felt the old tingle that told him this was a story, and he found himself saying, ‘Yes, I’ll come.’

  He phoned Salma and left a message. Said he wouldn’t be home tonight. He didn’t have to explain. That was their life, keeping unpredictable hours, going where the story took them. Or it used to be.

  He got the next train from King’s Cross. The first-class fare cost a little less than he paid for his first house. He took a seat and checked his messages first, despite his impatience, because he couldn’t focus until he had.

  He had told his office he had to leave early for personal reasons but would be contactable. The emails and texts and instant messages and DMs continued to arrive.

  A university wanted to do a case study on him about opportunities for graduates in Arabic. A researcher wanted a contact for a Libyan perspective on the never-ending refugee crisis. BBC Breakfast wanted him on standby for the cholera story. That last was the only real surprise. He texted them to say he would travel to Salford from Leeds in the morning. He’d be exhausted but the make-up would cover it, and they were always asking for more sofa time from the London correspondents.

  That done, he opened his laptop. He started to scour the web for the latest on Mark. Despite Mark’s urgent appeal, he was not splashed across the virtual front pages of the popular press but the story was on a couple of online news sites and was being discussed on social media.

  The story was broken by a news blog called Tilde. They were claiming that Mark Benson, who had been Paolo’s friend all that time ago, a committed animal rights activist, had in fact been PC Mark Swift, an undercover police officer.

  Paolo dimly remembered the stories of the officers who had previously been exposed or who had chosen to go public. He skimmed some of the linked articles to remind himself of the background. The Special Demonstration Squad was set up by the Metropolitan Police’s Special Branch in the late sixties. They were different from the undercover officers who they had run up till then, who had infiltrated criminal gangs and drug dealers.

  In the 1980s, many members of the SDS were given long-term assignments to spy on left-wing, environmental and animal rights groups. They had immersed themselves completely in their roles as activists, only occasionally returning to their families and their handlers. They had adopted their identities so completely that they had often been trusted members and leaders.

  The evidence Tilde had was convincing. They had contacted the Met, who had given a terse non-denial, and had tried to contact Mark, who had not responded at all. There was even a picture of a passing-out parade from Hendon Police College. PC Mark Swift was in the front row, third from the left. Was that his friend? Paolo looked into the eyes staring out from under a police helmet. It could be anyone. He remembered that Mark hated having his picture taken.

  There had always been a rumour that one SDS officer had become so attached to his undercover life that he had never gone back. It had become his real, his only life. Could that man really be Mark? Mark Benson. PC Mark Swift. Paolo’s friend Mark.

  2

  It was dark when Paolo arrived in Leeds. He walked out of the station and felt that special Leeds cold that soaks straight through to your bones.

  He took a taxi. An address in Hyde Park. As if Mark had been there all along, as if the last thirty years had never happened, but of course he hadn’t. Shortly before Paolo went abroad, Mark disappeared. He was at Faslane, everyone said, at the peace camp around the nuclear weapons base on the west coast of Scotland. Paolo had never thought to question it till now.

  The city centre was unrecognisable to him with its shiny tall buildings, but when they reached Hyde Park it still looked the same. He saw runners and cyclists and loiterers under the street lights as well as the inevitable students in groups of eight, heading across the park to the Union or into town.

  The driver deposited him on Hyde Park Terrace. He’d had some mates who lived on this street. Six bedrooms ove
r three floors and a basement kitchen that doubled as a living room. Draughty sash windows, rising damp and one tiny bathroom for them all. He could remember the musty smell, drinking tea in the kitchen out of unwashed mugs, the luxury of an afternoon stretching endlessly before you.

  This house was divided into flats. He climbed the steps to the front door. He couldn’t see a doorbell with ‘Benson’ on it (nor could he see one with ‘Swift’) so he rang all the bells and waited. He heard footsteps on the stairs that went on for far too long, like a bad radio play, and eventually the door opened, as if by itself.

  ‘If you think there are tabloid reporters in the bushes I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.’

  Mark shut the door behind Paolo and headed upstairs without answering. Paolo followed him to the top floor. It was a studio flat – wasn’t that what they were called now? Paolo still wanted to say bedsit.

  There was something monastic about this room. A three-quarter bed, neatly made with a plain duvet. An armchair. A kitchen along one wall with a bar stool next to the worktop. A bookshelf with gardening books on it. A few books on politics and activism and a vegan cookbook. There was a door that must lead to the bathroom.

  ‘You came,’ said Mark and he smiled. Paolo had forgotten that smile. How Mark’s face could look a little severe, even then, with its narrow features and the eyes that seemed to take everything in. But then he would smile and he was a different person. His face, his whole body changed. He lit up.

  Mark was waving Paolo to the armchair. He took a folding camping chair which was tucked in beside the wardrobe, opened it and sat in it with the same insouciance they all would have felt back then.

  Paolo had so many questions he didn’t know where to start. On the train he had started to make notes, like he was preparing for an interview, structuring questions to establish a narrative arc – the political context, how Mark got involved, why he didn’t go back.

  What it felt like to betray his friends.

  Paolo was thinking radio documentary. Did he want to go with a hard-news angle or more of a personal story? Perhaps a podcast. Should he start recording now? Mark’s story, but his too. How it felt to learn the truth about his friend, how it changed him. Something long form, more reflective than news.

  Something that got him out from behind a desk.

  How to describe Mark?

  Mark didn’t look much different from how Paolo remembered him. He was about eight years older than the rest of them – unless he lied about that as well – but he was ageing well. A little grey, his hair cropped shorter than it used to be. His body wiry. Strong. And the clothes...

  ‘Are those the same clothes you were wearing last time I saw you?’

  Mark looked down at himself and shrugged. Paolo remembered that Mark didn’t engage in small talk, and he didn’t argue with people. If he didn’t like what someone was saying, or didn’t think it worthy of his energy, he let it go.

  Paolo never could let things go. He could have sworn Mark was wearing exactly the same clothes as back then. Black cargoes, black canvas boots, black T-shirt, despite the autumn chill and the lack of heating in the flat.

  Maybe, like Trigger’s Broom, Mark had replaced each individual garment over the years, while maintaining the integrity of the whole. Pretty much standard issue for their friends back then, he’d owned similar clothes himself, although he’d mixed them up with paisley shirts and holey jumpers and faded Levis, all trawled from charity shops and jumble sales. No such embellishments for Mark. That had seemed to fit his temperament but maybe it was just part of the plan.

  Just then Mark’s landline rang.

  Mark frowned. His eyes scanned the room and eventually located the handset on a shelf between a faded copy of EF Schumacher’s Small Is Beautiful and a library edition of Naomi Klein’s No Is Not Enough, but he didn’t move. The answerphone kicked in and then a voice began to speak.

  ‘This is PC Allen of West Yorkshire Police. We understand you’re the key holder for Acorn Community Garden. We’ve been unable to reach your mobile. We need to speak to you about a serious incident on the premises –’

  Mark sat and listened with a look of open attentiveness which Paolo had forgotten until now but which was entirely familiar. Then he stood with a swift, fluid movement and picked up.

  3

  PC Allen was guarding the crime scene when Mark introduced himself. She looked askance at Paolo but Mark said he was a friend. She asked them to wait. Paolo hid his impatience. He wasn’t here as a journalist, but still he wanted to know. He wanted to see the body.

  He looked around the site. He guessed it was a former builder’s yard, more broad than long, next to a road that ran along the back of a row of terraced houses. There was no street lighting nearby but the police had set up floodlights at the end furthest from the road.

  There were half a dozen raised beds made from railway sleepers and a couple of smaller ones made of plastic. Round the edges were dumpy bags filled with topsoil. There were also assorted pots, an old bathtub and even a stack of tyres containing soil. Three compost bins stood in a row to one side. They were big, big enough to walk into. They were made from old pallets by the look of it, with the ‘door’ a pallet that could be pulled back, then a small greenhouse and a huge shed, wooden with double doors and windows, more like a home office than a place to stash your tools.

  He could see figures in white coveralls moving with slow purpose around the site. He guessed the body must be obscured by the shed at this angle, because that was where the lights pointed.

  The garden was surrounded by hedges and there was a low gate where they were standing, but it was not locked. It seemed anyone could walk in at any time.

  PC Allen was on her radio, trying to get hold of DS Afzal or DC Brayfield. Her voice rang out in the darkness. Someone laughed at her on the other end, asking why she was using the radio when she could just shout. She didn’t respond, just waited for a better answer. Paolo liked that.

  A young woman in a navy suit approached, the kind of suit that asks not to be noticed, that says, I’m here to do a job, not to look interesting.

  ‘I’m DC Brayfield,’ she said. Her hair was scraped back in a severe bun, she had a tablet in one hand, even her walk was low key and efficient, but you could still tell she was excited to be here, part of the story.

  ‘I’ll need a preliminary statement from you, Mr Benson, or should I say Mr Swift?’

  She knows, thought Paolo. The PC didn’t say anything, or the smartarse on the radio. She’s the first person on this site who’s actually seen the news. It made him admire her a little. So few people bothered now.

  She hadn’t recognised Paolo though.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mark with a slight nod.

  She led them to the quiet lane that formed the left-hand edge of the garden. The hedge here was high but threadbare and stole a little brightness from the floodlights. Mark turned and looked through the hedge and Paolo did the same.

  From here they could see the body. The scene was robbed of colour by the cool lights, the blend of greys like an oil painting of a thunderstorm. It was a man. He was wearing layers of shabby clothes, one coat open to reveal another, and his boots were worn. Silver stubble glinted on his chin and cheeks and a black beanie was pulled down to his eyes. Even the blood pooling down his front looked almost black. His throat had been cut.

  Paolo couldn’t make out any expression on his face. He looked like a rough sleeper. Paolo thought he was old but it was hard to tell. The life didn’t do much for the complexion.

  Mark had gone almost as white as the dead man. DC Brayfield said, ‘Do you recognise him?’

  Mark shook his head.

  A man in a tweed jacket appeared and introduced himself as DS Afzal. He looked tired, hair greying at the temples.

  ‘I’m sorry you saw that,’ said Mr Afzal. ‘Do you need some time?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Mark.

  ‘He’s not exactly a civilian,’ said
DC Brayfield.

  DS Afzal said, ‘Can you tell us about Acorn?’

  ‘We’re a community garden,’ said Mark. ‘Anyone can come in and work here. A lot of local residents drop in when they can, but we also host formal sessions for day centres and support groups. We get funding for those.’

  Mark’s voice was quiet and calm, with no sign of tension, despite the shock Paolo was sure he’d seen on his face a moment ago. But how did he know even that was real?

  DC Brayfield was taking notes on her tablet and didn’t look up. ‘Was there an organised session on yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you here?’

  ‘I was here all morning. I left the garden at about two o’clock. I took a service user to a medical appointment at the Duke Place drop-in.’ He turned to Paolo. ‘It’s a city centre practice that offers a specialist service to homeless and vulnerable patients.’

  ‘And what about afterwards?’

  ‘I got home some time after four. I was alone till about half past seven when my friend arrived.’

  ‘Can you confirm that?’ asked DC Brayfield.

  Paolo nodded.

  ‘We’ll need a statement from you as well, Mr –’

  ‘Bennett. Paolo Bennett.’ Nope. Not a glimmer of recognition.

  DC Brayfield turned her attention back to Mark. ‘And what time did you leave Duke Place?’

  ‘About half past three?’

  ‘You didn’t come back here? Or go anywhere else on the way home?’

  ‘No.’

  He must have called me from Duke Place, thought Paolo. The call came in before three. He could check the call log on his phone.

  ‘What’s the service user’s name?’

  ‘I can’t give it to you without his permission.’

  ‘We need it now.’

  Mark didn’t respond.

  ‘Well ask him. And soon.’

  ‘Were you expecting anyone to be here in the afternoon?’ asked DS Afzal. DS Afzal was apparently looking at a particularly fascinating constellation in the sky, speaking in an airy tone, as if he were raising a complex philosophical problem, not seeking to establish a simple fact.

  ‘No.’