The Heights

by Louise Candlish

  In the dark, from the Butler’s Wharf side of the St Saviour’s footbridge, The Heights stands out more sharply than in the day. Those wide, curved windows are foreshortened, gleaming buttery yellow; a cut diamond of light glows on the roof.

  ‘He lives in the top flat,’ I tell Vic. ‘I’ve looked at the plans and there’s an atrium roof just behind the terrace. Pretty smart, eh?’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ he mutters.

  ‘That’s the word all right. How is he living anywhere, Vic?’

  Glancing, I see the bleakness in his eyes. Confirmation of Kieran’s survival has obviously blindsided him, just as it did me.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, finally. ‘I wasn’t ever told how they actually did it.’

  ‘Or actually didn’t.’ I remember querying at the time whether we’d be sent proof of death. Why didn’t I insist? Because it sounded like something from a thriller, the sinister trophy that only succeeds in getting the client nailed. And because we trusted these contacts of Danny’s to get the job done. ‘Do you think maybe he saw the guy coming and grabbed the weapon somehow and killed him? Then disappeared, got himself a new ID?’ Picturing Kieran standing face to face with his killer, some huge brickhouse of a hoodlum, I find it unlikely that he could have overwhelmed such an adversary. But everyone has a first day at the office, don’t they? Perhaps mistakes were made or circumstances intervened – and who knows what self-defence skills Kieran learned inside. It is often quoted that first-time convicts come out of prison knowing more about crime than they did when they went in.

  I say all of this to Vic, who listens closely, clearly impressed by the flow of ideas. But of course I’ve had longer than he has to consider the variables that might have facilitated Kieran’s survival. ‘But there was nothing in the local papers about a body being found near the park, was there?’ I add. ‘I remember checking constantly.’

  ‘Me too.’ Vic nods. ‘I suppose the other guy’s disappearance might not’ve been reported if he was an unregistered foreign national.’

  ‘You mean Albanian?’

  ‘That’s what we thought, yeah.’ There is a note of defensiveness in his tone. He fears perhaps that I’ll blame him for this catastrophe, but how can I, when we were equally quick to trust?

  ‘The other possibility is he begged for his life and convinced them somehow?’ I consider Kieran’s fabled powers of persuasion. ‘Maybe he promised them money and negotiated the time to earn it – or steal it?’

  Vic’s eyes widen. ‘God, I just don’t know, Ellen. This is a fucking nightmare.’ His gaze returns to the roof of The Heights, where the strip of balustrade gleams silver. ‘He’s really up there, in that flat?’

  ‘He really is.’

  A trio of tourists join us on the bridge and we fall silent while selfies are taken, first with the dock behind them and then the river, the lights of St Katharine’s Dock glittering on the opposite bank. A restaurant boat glides by, its diners in conversation, waiters bearing trays of wine glasses, as if there is nothing remarkable about drifting downriver in a glass light box, and the tourists take videos of that too. Satisfied, they move on.

  ‘Whatever went wrong,’ I say to Vic, ‘we need to get back in touch with those guys.’

  He looks taken aback. ‘How’re we meant to do that?’

  ‘The same way we did before. Through Danny.’

  ‘Danny won’t remember the names, if he ever knew them in the first place. It’s not like there was ever an actual contract. It was cash, you know that.’ His face darkens. ‘There’s no way back, Ellen.’

  Defensiveness is one thing, but this sounds a lot like defeatism to me and I lose my patience. ‘Well, there has to be! They screwed up the job and I want my money back. Then I want to find someone who’ll do it properly. And if the price has gone up since then, I’ll find the extra.’

  Vic flinches. The singular was a mistake, I realize. My money. I want. I’ll find. He feels cut out. ‘We’re not going to be able to get the money back,’ he says levelly. ‘It’s been almost two and a half years.’

  ‘I know how long it’s been, Vic.’ Two years and four months. Two years and four months of veering between the elation of knowing that justice has been served and the dread of being discovered to have been the one responsible for it. They’d just about cancelled each other out, creating a sufferable sense of acceptance, when this happened. ‘Do you really not feel the same?’ I demand. ‘You can’t be pleased he’s come back from the dead like this?’

  ‘Of course I’m not pleased. I’m fucking gutted.’ Vic’s hand grips the handrail of the bridge as his right foot kicks gently against the steel post. Overhead, an air ambulance thunders into range, heading south. ‘But time’s passed, hasn’t it? What good would it do us to pursue it now?’

  ‘The same good it would have done then! Stop him from ruining more lives. He’s still the same person, the same heartless sociopath, he’ll do it again.’

  ‘How? He had a lifetime driving ban, remember.’

  ‘When has that ever stopped people like him from driving? Anyway, I don’t mean he’ll do it exactly the same way. But you watch, there’ll be a story of how someone fell from that terrace after some drugs binge. Someone else’s son or daughter. And when that happens, it will be on us, Vic, because we stood here today and made the decision to let it go. Let him go.’

  ‘It’s not “on us”, that’s insane.’ Suddenly Vic’s frustration matches mine and we’re clashing in a way we haven’t for decades, and in public, too, in range of the enemy himself. ‘What we did back then, tried to do, we weren’t some crime-fighting double act. It was private revenge. It was murder.’

  ‘It was what he deserved.’ I gape at him. Just hours ago, in that hotel lobby, we listened to the audio clips together and felt an identical sense of betrayal and pain – I am sure of it. ‘Has something happened since we met earlier?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’ He throws up his arms. ‘I’ve had time to get my priorities straight. To think it through. And what I think is if you hadn’t seen him again, if you were none the wiser about this, you’d be quite content, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I was never content,’ I say icily. ‘Our son is dead.’

  ‘I know he is.’ There’s a spasm, a single twist of pain, in his face. ‘And I know you miss him. I do as well. But this isn’t the right way to deal with our grief. We were crazy to think it was. If you want my advice, you finish your business with your client here and never come back. The last thing we need is for Kieran to report us to the police. He’s got money now, which means he can protect himself. His complaints will be taken seriously.’ Vic adjusts the strap of his laptop bag, tugs his collar closer to his throat. ‘Look, I have to get home.’

  ‘Will you at least ask Danny?’ I plead. ‘Where’s the harm in that?’

  ‘Where’s the harm? That’s the question you should be asking yourself, Ellen, because that’s exactly what you’re unleashing here. Harm. You need to promise me you won’t hassle Danny about this, yeah? There won’t be anything he can do after all this time. Let him get on with his life. Let me.’

  He strides off into Butler’s Wharf and I stare after him, open-mouthed. I would have put money on his desire to avenge our son’s murder being as true as mine, as enduring. What’s changed in the two and a half years between then and now? What are the priorities he’s citing? His new business is one factor, and his relationship with India. I accept that he doesn’t wish to jeopardize the success of either, but come on, this is Lucas.

  I make my way back to the station, still half-expecting to see Vic in the street in front of me, his step faltering before he turns back to say he is sorry and of course he is still my comrade in arms. But there is no sign of him. Before I go to my platform, I find a cashpoint and withdraw the maximum permitted on my card. It’s only hundreds, not the thousands I’ll need.

  But it’s a start.

  Chapter 25

  The police didn’t come again. In the absence o
f physical evidence and the brick walls of our alibis, they had no cause to. In any case, they presumably had an instinct for these things and, to them, as to the rest of the world – even our own loved ones – we were mourners, not murderers, Vic and I. People like us read about contract killings in crime novels on holiday by the pool; we didn’t know the first thing about setting one in motion.

  Speculation about Kieran’s disappearance continued, of course, both online and in real life, and I knew it was important to maintain a realistic engagement, not least with Justin, who soon noticed how I startled every time the doorbell rang.

  ‘Relax, Ellen. I really don’t think he’s coming back any time soon.’

  He certainly isn’t, I thought. ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Just the psychology of it, from his point of view.’

  ‘His point of view?’ Sensing reluctance in him, I pressed for more. ‘Go on, what’s his point of view?’

  Justin grimaced. ‘Okay, well it’s not easy, that’s for sure. You come out of prison and you go back to your old haunts, see who’s hanging out. Maybe it feels like a laugh at first, like nothing’s changed, but then you realize you can’t escape the comments and the looks. Maybe you spot your victim’s family, see the grief on their faces, the permanent, physical impact of what you did. You try your best to reconnect with your friends, one of whom happens to be your victim’s ex-girlfriend, but it’s too hard for both of you because she’s changed too. Her mother knows your victim’s mother, your foster mum’s getting grief, it’s all interlinked and everyone still blames you. Even people who’ve never met you before recognize you from the papers. You’re abused at your new place of work. There’s no way you can stick around and expect to stay even half-sane. Your supervision is the only thing keeping you where you are – you’re counting down the days for it to end.’

  All of this was said in one seamless gush, and I could only stare at Justin in surprise. My belief that he would never again defend Kieran had clearly been naïve. He’d put himself in Kieran’s shoes and stretched his toes while he was at it.

  ‘Anyway, what I think doesn’t matter,’ he said, seeing my face. ‘The way our society works, he gets a second chance, and we should just be grateful he’s chosen to take it somewhere else, somewhere we don’t have to meet him.’

  ‘Well, I agree with that,’ I said, and the subject was dropped. What in God’s name would Justin say if he knew the truth?

  Sheridan was among those brave enough to phone me in the aftermath of Kieran’s disappearance. ‘I saw Prisca over in Elmers End,’ she said, after pleasantries had been exchanged. ‘She was putting up more posters.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘She’s convinced someone must have seen something that day. If he made it as far as the park, he wouldn’t have been the only one running, would he? And what about dogwalkers? They’re always out at the crack of dawn. It’s quite the mystery, isn’t it?’

  There was the faintest trace of exhilaration in her tone, as if she’d momentarily forgotten she was talking to someone whose life had been blown to pieces by this missing man. ‘At the risk of sounding rude, I’m afraid I really don’t share Prisca’s concern,’ I said coolly. ‘From my point of view, it’s just a relief to know he’s moved on and I’m not going to come face to face with him when I walk down the street. I hope this “mystery” keeps him away for ever and I’m sorry if that sounds callous.’

  ‘No, of course it doesn’t sound callous. I completely understand. I feel the same, to be honest, but…’ She broke off, presumably thinking of Jade. She couldn’t possibly have actively approved of him as a boyfriend to her daughter. How long before Jade gave up on him? If her mourning for Lucas was anything to go by, not long.

  Believe it or not, I did feel for Prisca, however. Putting up her posters and praying that someone would come forward with an explanation, something to help her sleep at night. I knew that, like every mother, she had no choice but to cling to the last fibres of hope that he would return.

  * * *

  Vic had been smart to predict I would run into Danny. Though I’d rarely attended family events at his Sydenham home since Vic and I split, our neighbourhoods were close enough for there to have been accidental meetings now and then.

  It was about three months after we’d got rid of Kieran and I was on the tram to East Croydon when Danny got on a few stops down. We made eye contact straight away in the half-empty carriage.

  ‘You’re normally in your van,’ I said.

  ‘It’s in the garage. MOT.’

  ‘Day off then?’

  ‘It happens – once in a while.’ He smiled, causing lines to ripple outwards from his mouth and eyes. He looked much older than the version I’d held in my imagination these last years. It was a phenomenon I’d grown used to: just as Lucas remained always nineteen, so did those I associated with him remain the age they’d been when he died.

  I asked after Jo and the kids, answered questions about Justin and Freya. I told him about the holiday we’d booked to the States at half-term. New York and Washington, something absorbing for Freya. The opportunity to forget her ravaged life in South London.

  As ever, even with Danny, I knew to introduce Lucas’s name first to save the other person from the excruciating awkwardness of deciding whether to avoid the subject or not. ‘When Lucas was younger, he and his friends witnessed a knife fight on this line. Two guys were fighting over a girl. The oldest story in the book.’

  ‘I remember Vic telling me about that,’ Danny said. ‘Lucas and his mates rang the emergency alarm, didn’t they?’

  ‘That’s right. I had to go and collect him from Sandilands station. I was far more upset about it than he was.’

  Danny started to say something, but cut himself off as if thinking better of it and there was a strange charged moment between us. I glanced either side of me. We were approaching East Croydon and the other passengers had congregated at the doors, waiting to be released. ‘What were you going to say, Danny? No one can hear us.’

  His eyes, fixed on mine, were ambivalent, unsure. ‘I was just going to say… I still think of him as alive.’

  ‘Kieran?’ I whispered.

  His cheeks flooded with colour. ‘No, no. Lucas.’

  Of course he meant Lucas! I floundered, my face reddening deeper than his – fifteen minutes together and I’d already breached our sacred rule. I had no choice but to act as if nothing had happened. ‘Well, he always will be, in a way. In our hearts, that’s the cliché, but it’s more than that. He’s… he’s everywhere.’

  Danny nodded in that exaggerated way people do to convince themselves. ‘Yeah. That’s the way to think of it, isn’t it?’

  I felt such deep gratitude for him then, for ignoring my blunder, for keeping Lucas at the centre of our secret and not Kieran, for agreeing to help us in the first place. You saved my life, I thought, looking at his careworn face and seeing Vic’s and my own reflected in it.

  ‘It’s the only way,’ I said.

  Chapter 26

  I am at Jacob’s Wharf supervising the rewiring, when Selena says, ‘You know that guy you were asking me about, in the building opposite?’

  I almost blurt out Kieran’s name, catching myself just in time. ‘Oh, yes? You’ve seen him again, have you?’

  ‘No, but I met one of his neighbours at a drinks thing the other night. A woman called Asha. We had a really good chat.’

  My gaze follows hers to the portion of The Heights visible through the nearest window. It is a building designed for after dark, I think. Unlit, empty of its worker occupants, it looks innocuous, even drab. ‘Does she know him then?’ I ask, casually.

  ‘I asked her that, and she said only to say hello to. He works from home, apparently, is a software designer or something. He’s known in the building as a bit of a recluse. I’ve been keeping an eye out and he comes onto the roof terrace every morning to do these tai chi moves. Sun salutations, you know?’

  Sun sal
utations, seriously?

  ‘Anyway, she said she wants to redo the lighting in her kitchen and bathroom. She’s still got these original Nineties fittings that she hates. I said I’d give you her number, I hope that’s okay? I wasn’t sure how busy you are, but it’d be fun to have a poke around one of those flats, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I tell Selena. ‘Thank you. That would be fun.’

  * * *

  With time to spare before heading to my next appointment, I pick up a coffee and pastry from Bean Box, lingering a few minutes to survey the entrance to The Heights – it’s about the same time of day Kieran picked up his white Americano last time. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, however, not when a ‘recluse’ is involved, and I decide to get some exercise and walk east along the river to Bermondsey Beach.

  The tide is low, the river lapping the foreshore in foam-edged waves. I tuck my coat under me and settle on the stones. The autumn sun, filtered by thin cloud, is pleasant on my face. Gulls skim the water. In a garden downstream, a man jerks back and forth on a rowing machine, moving in and out of my peripheral vision. I wonder, does Kieran still run? Has he ever rested in this spot? These years I’ve presumed him dead, how many times have we been in the same street, even the same building?

  It’s a while before I become aware of someone watching me from the path. Just as he addresses me – ‘Excuse me? I wondered if I might introduce myself?’ – I recognize him as the older man from Kieran’s flat.

  Quelling the automatic flurry of panic connected with our previous encounter, I answer him smoothly. ‘I already know who you are.’

  ‘You do?’ He moves towards me, squinting into the light. He has warm amber eyes behind the kind of horn frames Gregory Peck might have worn.

  ‘You’re James Ratcliffe.’ At closer proximity I can easily match his features with those of the face in the old photo. His skin has the kind of gloss that speaks of a professional shave and other indulgences. Is that how Kieran lives now, too? Lackeys to take care of his personal hygiene. Cosmetic enhancements on tap. ‘I take it this meeting isn’t a coincidence?’