‘Hi. I’m Julia. I’ve come about the room,’ she said, when it was clear the woman wasn’t going to speak first.
The woman’s spine relaxed a fraction and she looked Julia up and down for some moments before saying, ‘Julia? You don’t look like a Julia. My name is Genevieve.’
The retort, You don’t look like a Genevieve, would have been ill-applied. No one could look more like a Genevieve. Julia would have been very disappointed if she were named Mildred.
Unsure how to respond, Julia stayed silent, half expecting the woman to turn her away, but she said, ‘Come in,’ stepped back and flung her arm out to usher Julia inside 72 Downs Avenue.
Chapter 3
2017 – Central London
The Georgian square I’m standing in, the small green, the autumn leaves, all feel distant. Someone is screaming at me.
‘You dozy cow! Look what you’ve done.’
I stare transfixed at the photo link on my phone.
‘It’s all over him. He could be scarred for life.’
I recognise those hills and those beech trees on my screen.
Someone grabs my arm and yanks me backwards.
‘Are you on drugs or something? I said you’ve scalded my son.’
A woman wearing a puffer jacket thrusts her face into mine. I pull away and look down. It’s the toddler from earlier, his red coat stained and dripping with coffee.
‘I … I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’
She still has hold of my arm.
‘I don’t think he’s hurt.’ It’s Paulo. He gently detaches me from the woman’s grip.
‘What – are you a doctor?’ she says.
Paulo kneels down to the boy. ‘Are you hurt, pal?’ he asks.
‘Wet,’ the boy says.
‘See, he’s just wet. No harm done, eh?’ Paulo says.
‘No thanks to her.’ She glowers at me. ‘Look – she doesn’t even care – high as a kite at eleven o’clock in the morning.’
‘Let me deal with this,’ Paulo says.
He picks up my coffee cup from the ground and pulls me onto the nearest bench. Some survival instinct impels me to place the phone face down on my lap. I sit there, shaking.
‘Bad news?’ Paulo asks.
He glances at the phone. I keep the screen downwards.
‘Yes. I mean no. It’s nothing.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘Thank you. I’ll just sit for a moment.’
‘Sure.’ He looks concerned. ‘I’ll be over there if you need me.’ He points to his friend.
The mother’s still glaring at me, after he leaves. I think she’s going to come over, but the boy is pulling at her sleeve and pointing at a squirrel running up a tree and she turns away.
I flip the phone over in my lap and press on the link. It takes me to a news website.
Environmental Science students from the University of Surrey have discovered human remains while taking soil samples on the North Downs, just outside Guildford. Police have confirmed that the death is being treated as suspicious but refuse to speculate further.
No further information is being circulated at this time.
I knew this day would come. I always thought I’d face it with grim resolve and a rational, cool pragmatism. It feels like I’ve been hit by a train. My lungs won’t draw air, my limbs are weak and shaky.
I need to act normally. I’ve already been foolish. Paulo might remember this. Tactfully, he’s turned away from me and is talking to his friend. I have to pull myself together. I steady my hand, go to the phone settings and delete the message and browsing history.
Once I’ve managed to stop shaking and am able to breathe, I put the phone in my pocket and walk over to Paulo. He looks up as I approach.
‘Everything all right now?’ he asks.
‘Fine. Sorry about all the drama. Some family trouble, I over-reacted. It’s all good now.’
‘Great,’ he says. ‘See you back at the office.’
A light drizzle has started. Drops slide down my neck. I shiver and turn up my collar. The man I saw outside the Sensuous Bean slips into the nearest newsagent. I’m alert to him now. Is it a coincidence he arrived at the same time as the text? It doesn’t matter. I must act normally – whatever that is.
I have to calm down and think. The shock of the news, the picture of the Downs bathed in golden light, the shaded dells hinting at the darkness, the tightness in my gut – all this has stopped me from asking the most important question. Who sent the text?
Chapter 4
1994 – Guildford
Stepping past Genevieve and into Downsview Villa for the first time, Julia was struck by its sense of space. The entrance hall was double-heighted, stretching to the roof and opening up the whole house. A window spanning both floors flooded the room with light. It was as far from her friends’ poky dives in North London as Audrey’s was from the dog hair and coffee-mug rings of the charming cottage she’d viewed earlier.
‘And where have you come from today?’ Genevieve asked.
‘Flaxley, Worcestershire. You won’t have heard of it. It’s a tiny place just south of Birmingham.’
Genevieve’s face expressed a mixture of horror and pity.
‘Oh dear, never mind, you’re here now and you’ll very much like it – so much greenery.’
‘There’s greenery in the Midlands too.’
Julia suddenly missed the fields and woods in which she’d played, growing up.
‘I thought it was all factories,’ Genevieve said. ‘Queen Victoria used to insist the curtains of her railway carriage were lowered when travelling through Birmingham. Like me, she was unable to tolerate ugliness. I’ve never been north of Cheltenham, except for Norway, but that’s something quite different. Have you ever been?’
Julia was unsure if Genevieve was referring to Cheltenham or Norway. But as she’d visited neither, she simply said, ‘No.’
‘You’re young, there’s still time,’ Genevieve said.
Perhaps the first house hadn’t been so bad. The mug stain could be cleaned and the dog smell Shake n’ Vac’d from the carpet.
‘Can I see the room?’ Julia asked.
‘First, you must see the rest of the house.’
Genevieve skipped around her and opened the door on the other side of the hall.
‘This is the kitchen,’ she said. ‘My lodgers are free to use this room. The lounge and dining room are for my personal use, but the kitchen is large enough for you all to socialise in. And there’s a television if that interests you. Can’t bear the dratted thing myself.’
The room was large, its mahogany cabinets outdated but not unpleasant. Patio doors opened onto a terrace with steps leading down to a well-maintained garden. At the far end, a woman in a burgundy body warmer pottered about clipping at plants and placing discarded stems into a bucket. Another woman, Julia’s age or a little older, twenty-five perhaps, was sitting at a wooden table in front of the doors, eating a cheese sandwich. Her mouth was full, and she merely lifted a hand in greeting.
‘This is Lucy,’ Genevieve said.
‘Hi, I’m Julia.’
‘You can ignore her,’ Genevieve said curtly. ‘She’s leaving us.’
Lucy shrugged and smiled.
‘I’ll show you the room now.’
For a woman in her fifties, Genevieve was light on her feet, as if she’d been a dancer. She floated up the stairs and Julia had trouble keeping pace. The staircase was in two flights. The first led to a landing running along the large window at the front, before going up another flight to the first floor. A separate staircase led to the attic.
‘My rooms are on the top floor and the bathroom is at the back of the house,’ Genevieve said. ‘And this one will be yours.’
The bedroom was on the far side of the staircase. Genevieve opened the door and allowed Julia to enter before her. The room was small, with a single bed and a double wardrobe. The walls were m
agnolia, the carpet beige, and pine-scented furniture polish hung in the air. It was neat and orderly, too bland to be objectionable. It would do.
Julia walked to the window. A green bank rose sharply above the hedge on the opposite side of the road. She couldn’t see the tops of the hills but was aware of their presence and how abruptly the town ended and gave way to open countryside. Genevieve followed her gaze.
‘The Downs,’ she said. ‘I told you, I can’t tolerate ugliness. It’s wonderful to wake every morning to this beauty, the pure blue colour of the sky you only get here. I grew up just down the road. I don’t suppose many people appreciate it as I do. Even when I lived in the Alps, I longed for the Downs, to lie on the grass on a summer’s day and look up at the clouds blowing across the sky.’
It was a performance, Genevieve’s lines rehearsed and repeated many times before, an impression reinforced by her switch to a pragmatic tone when the discussion turned to business.
‘It’s two hundred and eighty-five pounds a month including bills,’ she said. ‘Payment sharp on the first of every month and two months’ rent in advance.’
Julia was tired. And if Genevieve was a little annoying, at least the place was clean, and she wouldn’t be sharing with Norman Bates.
‘I’ll take it,’ she said.
‘Wonderful,’ Genevieve said. ‘Come downstairs and we’ll sort it all out.’
They returned to the kitchen.
‘I’ll need the deposit now. Make the cheque out to Genevieve D’Auncey,’ she said. ‘I’ll just pop to the lounge and get my receipt book and you can sign the contract.’
Julia took her chequebook from her bag and sat at the table, as Lucy was finishing her sandwich.
‘So why are you leaving?’ Julia asked.
‘Moving in with my boyfriend.’
A shard of pain sliced across Julia’s chest. Until two months ago she’d used the same casual tone as Lucy to say, ‘I’m moving in with my boyfriend.’ As if it were the most normal thing in the world. Instead, here she was with strangers, two hundred miles away.
Julia realised Lucy was looking at her and expecting her to speak.
‘What’s it like here?’ she asked.
‘OK,’ Lucy said. ‘Genevieve’s a bit …’
‘Theatrical?’
‘I suppose,’ Lucy said. ‘That as well.’
‘As well as what?’ Julia asked.
‘She’s fond of—’
Light footsteps, scampering across the hall, signalled Genevieve’s return.
‘Ah Lucy,’ Genevieve said as she entered the room. ‘Haven’t you anything to do?’
By way of reply, Lucy stood up and took her plate to the dishwasher.
‘Who else lives here?’ Julia asked.
‘Well, there’s Alan,’ Genevieve said. ‘Been here five years – a fixture you could say – though he’s not in much. And the other three rooms will be free once Lucy’s left. You’ll be taking one of them, of course. I wasn’t sure when you first came to the door, but now I can see you’ll be perfect. I have a good sense about people. It’s a … a …’ She wound her hand in a circular motion from the wrist but didn’t finish her sentence. Out of the corner of her eye, Julia saw Lucy smirking. ‘Yes, you’ll do very well,’ Genevieve concluded.
Julia finished writing out the cheque and handed it to Genevieve, who folded it and slipped it under her silk turban.
‘I’ll see you in two weeks,’ she said.
Chapter 5
2017 – Central London
On returning from the park, I go back to my desk. All I can think about is the text, concentrating on work is impossible. Without leaving a cyber trail, I have to find a full news report about the body unearthed on the Downs. I’ve already been careless with Paulo and using my phone. I’m itching to leave but I must not arouse suspicion by any unusual behaviour. Why did you leave work early on 4th October?
Only two people on the planet could have sent that text, and both know not to contact me. We agreed, twenty-three years ago, how to behave if it ever came out: no phone calls, no unusual activity, no change in routine. Few people had mobile phones back then, and we made no specific stipulation regarding texts, but the principle remains. And it’s difficult to believe either of them could be so stupid.
Sitting at my desk becomes intolerable. I stare at the laptop, then remove my glasses and rub my eyes. The screen blurs into streaks of black and white. I replace the glasses and reread my current e-mail. It makes no more sense in focus.
How can I find out more, without using my phone or laptop? We were careful to leave no trace at the time. I can still smell the acrid fumes as we found every photograph and negative we’d ever taken in that place and burnt them. I must not be careless now, but I have to find out more. Do they have a name? Do they have suspects?
A pay as you go from a phone shop would accept cash, but they would probably have CCTV, and all mobiles have serial numbers so that each handset has an individual identification. How do criminals go about it? I think of the khaki-wearing drug dealer. He must be in constant communication with buyers and suppliers. I need to go and see him. I start to invent fake emergencies – burst pipes, a family death – just to get out of the office. I get lucky when Jonathan snaps his laptop shut.
‘Got a meeting with Ulrich,’ he announces.
He should be gone for a couple of hours at least.
I wait a minute in case he returns for his keys or wallet then leave the office. I check behind me as I pass the Sensuous Bean. The man in the padded jacket has gone. Probably, he was just someone passing through, another face in the crowd.
It’s raining hard now and the square is clear of visitors except for the man I’m looking for. He’s sitting on a bench, the glow of his roll-up just visible under a large golfing umbrella.
I cross the green to reach him. He looks up and smiles in recognition.
‘More coffee already?’ he says.
‘No. I came to see you,’ I say.
‘I see. And what can I do for you?’
He shuffles along the bench and pats the space next to him. The wood is dry beneath the umbrella and I sit down. He stinks of weed. I try not to wrinkle my nose.
‘Tell me,’ he says.
‘I was wondering.’ I’m suddenly aware of the formality in my voice, the clear and precise enunciation of my mother ordering a slice of Victoria sponge. ‘I need to get hold of a phone.’
His face splits into a broad smile.
‘Do you now – and what made you think I could help?’
‘I don’t know.’ I can’t admit to watching his drug sales. ‘I just thought you might.’
He gives the faintest nod. ‘You come here to drink coffee, one of those tech lot, been here a few months.’
No one in London notices other people’s comings and goings. One of the things I love about it. My mind returns to that feeling of being observed. I make a move to stand up. He places a hand on my forearm. It’s not a menacing gesture, it’s even comforting in some way.
‘Don’t worry, love. I’m not a stalker. Got to watch people in my game – keep an eye out – know what I mean? I’m Garrick, by the way. Everyone knows me around here.’
He extends his hand and I take it.
‘Garrick, like the theatre?’ I say.
‘My mother was a hoofer back in the Sixties. Tells me I was conceived there.’ He smiles. ‘And your name is?’
‘Audrey,’ I say.
I don’t know why I’ve given my mother’s name, perhaps because I’m speaking like her.
‘And what is it for, this phone, Audrey – up to a spot of adultery?’
I don’t answer. Garrick grins.
‘Not a problem, Audrey. No information required. It’s not as though you’re going to be moving in on my patch, are you now?’ He laughs at his own joke. ‘How about you go to the cashpoint up near the station, withdraw two hundred pounds, go for a little walk and by the time you come back I may have a phone f
or you.’
‘Two hundred?’
‘That’s the price.’
Two hundred pounds – I’ll be living off boiled rice for the rest of the month.
‘It needs to be a smartphone,’ I say.
‘Are you sure? Some people prefer the old-style ones, harder to trace.’
‘No. It has to be a smartphone.’
‘As you desire, milady.’
He takes a shallow bow and withdraws the umbrella, so that it no longer shields me from the rain.
‘I’ll be seeing you, Audrey.’
I stand and walk towards the Tube and the nearest cashpoint.
Garrick won’t want to speak to the police any more than I do. I look at the road behind me as I cross. A man in a dark-coloured padded jacket is standing at the corner of the street, under the newsagent’s awning. The same man as before? The rain leaves his face and figure indistinct. He could be anyone.
Once I’ve taken the money from my bank account, £14.38 is all that’s left before it hits my overdraft limit. God knows what I’m going to do for money. I can’t ask Audrey for any more. I could borrow from the petty cash until my next payday but knowing my luck I’d be found out and get dismissed, which is all I need. I stuff the money into my bra for safekeeping and turn around. A few people are milling about in the rain, but the man in the padded jacket is gone. I still can’t get over the feeling of being watched.
Garrick’s gone when I return. I walk across the square and back to the main road but still can’t see him. I’ve started to circle back when I hear a whistle. I turn around. Garrick’s slouched in the doorway of one of the Georgian houses. As I walk towards him, he forks two fingers, peers down them and scans the road.
The Verdict Page 2