Borrowed Light Read Free

that?’
    ‘Yeah. One problem. Did I mention the building itself?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘It doesn’t exist, Baz. They never even started it.’

Chapter One
PORTSMOUTH: TUESDAY, 27 JANUARY 2009
    Faraday went to his GP the morning after he arrived back in the UK and handed over his medical file from the hospital in El
     Arish. The GP studied the X-rays, took his blood pressure, shone a light in his eyes and asked a series of questions to establish
     that he could still add up, still tell the time, still function. Faraday passed each of these tests with flying colours and
     when the GP offered to refer him to a consultant for a further check-up he declined. He could do with a bit of time off, he
     said, to get his mental bearings, then he’d be back to work. The doctor returned to the file and muttered something about
     seat belts before typing an entry into his PC. A sick note would be in the post by close of play. In the meantime Faraday
     was to go easy on the booze and take painkillers if the shoulder or the ribs got troublesome. Ten days’ rest, the doctor said,
     would do him the world of good.
    And so Faraday retreated to the Bargemaster’s House on the city’s eastern shore, shutting the door against the world and putting
     another call through to Gabrielle. He’d already talked to her, after he’d got in from the airport yesterday. She’d been vague
     about the details but it seemed she’d made contact with some Palestinian charity in her home town of Chartres. They had links
     to Saudi Arabia. There was a definite possibility Gulf money could fund Leila’s casevac flight and medical care in the UK.
     There might even be enough to pay for a translator to be with her full time. The fighting in Gaza had stopped now, she said,
     but the ambulances were still arriving from Rafah. More casualties, many of them kids.
    ‘So how’s Leila?’
    ‘Still sick. But not so bad as before.’
    ‘And the burns?’
    ‘Horrible. Her back, her chest, most of all her hands.’
    The doctors, Gabrielle explained, had been studying the few scraps of paperwork that had come with the child. The little girl,
     it seemed, had been living near the refugee camp at Jabaliya. Blast from an Israelimortar shell had knocked her over, and after that it had rained white phosphorus. Bits of burning phosphorus had set her
     T-shirt alight. She’d tried to tear it off. Hence the damage to her torso and hands. This stuff burned and burned, deep, deep
     wounds. And it was poisonous too, damaging her liver and kidneys.
    ‘Does she have a family, this little girl?’
    ‘All killed. Every one.’
    ‘
Every
one?’ Faraday didn’t believe it.
    ‘
Personne ne le sait.
Gaza was on fire. Just like Leila.’
    ‘And is that her real name?’
    ‘
Ca personne ne le sait
.’
    Nobody knows. The conversation had come to an end at this point, Gabrielle breaking off to take an important incoming call.
     She’d promised to phone back as soon as she could, but so far nothing. Now, nearly a day later, Faraday tried her number again.
    No answer.
    The following afternoon Winter arrived at Gatwick from Dubai. Bazza Mackenzie’s son-in-law Stuart Norcliffe was in the arrivals
     hall to meet him. Norcliffe was a big man, prone to comfort eating, and lately the extra weight he carried was beginning to
     show.
    His Mercedes S-Class was in the short-stay car park. Winter settled into the tan leather, adjusted the seat. The interior
     of the car, brand new, smelled of Dubai.
    ‘Baz sends his apologies. He’d have come himself but he got nailed for another interview.’
    ‘With?’
    ‘Some freelance. Claims to be doing a piece for the
Guardian
.’
    ‘What’s he after?’
    ‘She. The usual, I imagine. Baz thinks it’s a laugh. Checked the woman out on Facebook. I gather he liked what he saw.’
    Winter returned the smile. His employer’s taste in newspapers seldom extended beyond the sports pages of the
Sun
, though lately Winter had noticed copies of