Sarah wants to lean across and pour hot coffee into the woman’s lap.
Savita raises her own coffee cup like it’s a champagne glass. ‘You, Sarah, are such a dark horse.’
SEVENTEEN
Ella Fulton lived midway between Archway and Highbury Corner, on a narrow side street off the Holloway Road; the top floor of a drab, three-storey block. Climbing up the noisy metal stairs after being buzzed in, Thorne guessed that the place had once been an office building of some sort; council, maybe.
Utilitarian, re-branded as edgy, and doubtless horribly expensive.
‘Used to be the local dole office, apparently.’ Ella had been waiting for him at the top of the stairs, and Thorne had asked the question as she’d shown him in to her flat. ‘Still has some of that intimidating charm.’
‘Blimey,’ Thorne said, looking around a space that clearly occupied the entire floor of the building. He was breathing a little more heavily than he would have liked.
There were photographs everywhere. Poster-sized and hung in frames, leaning against the bare brick walls or stacked in trays on either side of a huge computer screen on the desk. Thorne could see immediately that many of the images featured local landmarks. He recognised the listed exterior of Holloway Road tube station behind the young Rasta gurning at the camera, his mouth filled with gold teeth. An old couple kissed on the canal-side next to the Islington Tunnel and a homeless woman lay sprawled among bags in the doorway of Argos at Nag’s Head. Other shots were non-figurative: blasted trees and rusting metal; the sky reflected in dirty puddles or rainbow-slicks of petrol.
‘Flat-cum-studio,’ Ella said.
She was wearing jeans and a comfy-looking cardigan that came down to her knees. Crocs and socks. Her hair, which had been curling around her shoulders the first time they’d met, was tied up rather more loosely than it had been at the funeral two days before. Thorne nodded towards one of the photographs. The camera equipment he could see lying around was enough of a clue, even for a detective having a bad day, but he asked anyway. ‘So, did you …?’
‘Yeah, but sadly, these aren’t what pay the mortgage.’
‘OK.’
‘I make videos, as well. You know … arty, black and white shit without a plot, but nobody wants to pay me for that, either.’
‘So …?’
‘I take pictures of food.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. If you can eat it, I’ve shot it.’
‘What, like in magazines?’
‘Sometimes, but that’s not the bread and butter stuff.’
‘You take pictures of bread and butter?’
‘Oh, I have done,’ Ella said. ‘I do stuff for menus, mostly.’
‘Classy,’ Thorne said.
She laughed. ‘Well, it depends where you’re eating, doesn’t it? I’ve done some swanky places, but I’ve also done those pictures above the counter in kebab shops. So …’
‘Doesn’t matter where it is,’ Thorne said. ‘The food never tastes as good as it looks in the photo.’
‘Yeah, well there’s a good reason for that.’
As he continued to move slowly around, looking at Ella’s photographs, she followed, talking him through a few of the food-stylist’s secrets; the tricks of her trade. Ice cream was more often than not mashed potatoes and food colouring, she told him. Cakes were decorated with paint, while grapes were made to look dusty and delicious using talcum powder.
‘So, what about kebabs, then?’ Thorne asked. ‘I know that people have usually had a few when they’re buying one, but they always look so tasty and … shiny.’
‘Motor oil,’ she said.
Thorne saw that there were books about photography piled up on several tables and a collection of vintage cameras displayed along the wooden bench that ran beneath a grimy, full-length window.
‘I know, I’m basically a hoarder.’ Ella walked across to pick up one of the old cameras. She wiped something off the lens and gently set it down again. ‘It’s all a bit chaotic, to be honest.’
‘Same as your aunt,’ Thorne said.
‘Absolutely.’ Ella smiled. ‘She reckoned it was all about being creative.’
‘Her kitchen was spotless, though.’
‘Yeah, well at least I don’t have to worry about that, because I haven’t got one.’
‘There’s no kitchen?’
‘Bed and shower up there …’ She pointed to the spiral staircase in one corner, a smaller mezzanine level above. ‘And the rest of the place is for work. So, do you want tea, or something?’
‘I thought you said—’
‘I do have … facilities.’
She walked across to the desk, which was when Thorne spotted the small fridge next to it, a plastic kettle and a box of tea bags sitting on top. She flicked the kettle on and took a carton of milk from the fridge, then reached up to the bookshelf above for two mugs.
‘I eat out a lot,’ she said.
When the tea was ready, Ella carried the mugs across to where Thorne was staring at some photos that he’d missed, on the wall by the door. A flock of umbrellas on Waterloo Bridge. A street performer shot from behind, the awestruck expression of a toddler, watching. ‘These are great,’ he said. He looked at her, wanting her to know that he meant it.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
Art of any sort always unnerved Thorne a little, made him feel as though he was out of his depth, but he’d always preferred photographs to paintings. They seemed more honest, touched him – he supposed that was the word – though he knew how much the likes of Phil Hendricks would take the mickey if he ever said as much out loud.
‘They’re not shiny kebabs, but you know …’
He turned to see a series of photographs arranged on the opposite wall. A row of abandoned and derelict underground trains. The washed-out carriages were twisted and covered in graffiti, while the pictures taken inside showed seats that were torn and sodden, littered with fragments of glass smashed from the windows. It looked like a graveyard.
‘I should probably take those down,’ Ella said.
They sat on a worn leather Chesterfield, a multicoloured throw tossed across the back. Elsewhere in the building, laughter was echoing from a stairwell and they heard a siren grow loud outside, then fade as an emergency vehicle raced south.
Thorne said, ‘I wish I could tell you that we got anywhere, or that I’ve got any ideas about where to go next.’
‘Patrick Jennings …’
‘We managed to get his prints and a DNA profile, but he isn’t in the system.’
‘Right.’
‘I mean there’s always a chance he’ll do something stupid at some point in the future. If he’s arrested for anything, we’ve got him.’
‘He never struck me as particularly stupid,’ Ella said.
‘No.’
‘So, that’s it?’
‘Well, ActionFraud are obviously going to be looking at it. We’ve passed all the information on.’
‘They’re good, are they?’
‘There’s nobody better equipped.’ Thorne looked away briefly. Wasn’t that exactly what Brigstocke had told him, before Thorne had chosen to take matters into his own hands? Before he had decided to proceed as though he was chasing a murderer? ‘Something we’ve sent them might tie in with intelligence they already have, you never know. I’m sure Pip wasn’t the first woman he’s fooled. Oh, and that doesn’t mean she was …’
‘I know she wasn’t stupid.’
‘What your mum said in church, remember? Men like Patrick Jennings prey on people who aren’t cynical.’
‘She was lonely,’ Ella said. ‘She couldn’t afford to be cynical.’
Thorne downed what was left of his tea and sat forward. He was wondering how cynical, or otherwise, Ella Fulton might be. ‘Obviously, if I hear anything I’ll let you know.’
Ella stood up and took Thorne’s empty mug from him. ‘Thanks again for coming the other day. It meant a lot to my mum.
’
‘So, are you going to tell her?’ Thorne got to his feet. ‘That we’re no closer to finding Jennings than we were?’
‘I’m not sure there’s much point,’ Ella said. ‘Whatever she thought about him, I think she’s still finding it very hard to handle the idea that Pip was tricked like that, you know? How that must have made her feel. That she was driven to it. However obvious it looks, my mother can’t really cope with that. She hasn’t talked about it much since that time we were at Pip’s flat, to be honest. Like it’s easier for her to believe that Pip was just … ill.’
‘Everyone deals with this stuff differently.’ Thorne looked at her, waited.
‘Oh, I just go out and take pictures,’ she said. ‘And imagine taking Patrick Jennings’s balls off with a hacksaw.’
Back at Becke House, Thorne found Tanner at her desk. He pulled a chair across and kept his voice down.
‘Not sure this is something that ever comes up in the exams, but I was just wondering …’
She turned to look at him.
‘What’s the protocol … I mean, are there any guidelines as such when it comes to getting involved to any … extent with someone who’s related to a suicide victim?’
He had Tanner’s attention. ‘Romantically involved?’
‘Yeah, as an example.’
‘This would be Philippa Goodwin’s niece?’
‘I popped over there,’ Thorne said. ‘To let her know what was happening. What wasn’t happening.’
‘Because you couldn’t do it over the phone?’
Thorne inched his chair a little closer. ‘Look, I’ve probably read it all wrong, what do I know? But she was definitely a bit … it felt flirty.’
‘How old is she?’
‘I don’t know, mid-forties?’ Younger than he was, but older than Helen, which was something. The age gap was one of the things Helen’s sister had taken issue with, if she had actually been taking issue with anything, of course. Thorne could no longer be sure.
Tanner nodded as though she was considering the question.
‘Nothing’s happened or anything. I was just thinking, that’s all, and I wanted to run it past you.’
‘Seriously?’ The look on Tanner’s face did not bode well.
‘Just out of interest.’
‘OK, so let’s say we get lucky and we, or another team, do manage to catch Patrick Jennings.’ She looked at him. ‘You see where I’m going with this? There’s a trial, for fraud or maybe even manslaughter, because that’s what you want, yes? And this woman who you’ve been getting flirty with is going to be a witness, isn’t she? A very important witness, probably. I can’t swear to it, but I think there are plenty of guidelines when it comes to officers getting involved with witnesses in their own cases.’
Thorne watched as Tanner turned back to whatever she’d been doing before. ‘I knew I should have asked somebody else,’ he said.
‘Come on, you knew the answer before you asked me.’
Thorne grunted.
‘No need to feel bad about it,’ Tanner said. ‘What with this strange situation between you and Helen, now you’re living apart. You’re just testing yourself.’
‘Am I?’
‘Seems like that to me. And you passed.’
‘Something, I suppose,’ Thorne said, eventually. ‘I’m not usually that good at passing tests.’
EIGHTEEN
They have a quick drink first, in the less-than-lovely pub at the bottom of her road, but it’s not as if they need it. It’s something to do beforehand, that’s all. A small pretence, which each of them is happy to play along with, because they both know exactly what’s going to happen.
Because good things come to those who wait, even if it’s only for a little while longer.
They hardly speak at all. Sarah likes the fact that he looks ready for it, that he’s trying hard not to seem nervous. Her own heart is like something with wings, trapped inside a house and smashing itself against the window, and she’s grateful for every mouthful of wine, as her mouth dries up within seconds of swallowing.
It’s like waiting to step off a cliff.
‘I’m done,’ he says, when his drink is finished.
She says, ‘I seriously hope not.’
They walk along her road in silence, not touching, like they’re just two friends out for an early-evening stroll. Sarah thinks how perfect it would be if she was to bump into one of the mums from school – Caroline, in an ideal world – but she sees nobody she knows. Not even a neighbour. She looks hopefully at each house as they pass, but there is not so much as a twitching curtain.
It doesn’t matter, but it might have been a nice bonus.
He steps through her front door and bends to make a fuss of her dog when it scampers to meet her. She claps her hands and ushers the dog into the kitchen, quickly unlocks the back door and lets it out into the garden. When she comes back to him, he is still standing in the hall, looking around. ‘Very nice,’ he says.
‘I earned it,’ she says, taking off her scarf.
‘You’ve got good taste, I mean. I really like it.’ He nods approvingly and walks through to the kitchen, like he owns the place.
She’s made an effort to tidy up, of course. Jamie’s toys and games have been gathered from the floor and piled into a plastic box in the corner. Every surface is gleaming, and she made sure to spray something nice around before she left the house. There are candles burning. In the bathroom and the bedroom, too.
Everything is clean and fresh and smells wonderful.
Sarah had remembered how it was in his car, so guessed that he wouldn’t want it any other way.
For the first time, she thinks, he appears a little awkward, and she loves it that he’s finally showing a hint of nervousness. She wants to be the one in control, to begin with anyway. Later on, he can make the running, if that’s the way he prefers it. She steps across and holds out a hand to take his jacket, the thin leather one she really likes. He takes it off and adjusts the collar of his shirt. He’s wearing the cufflinks she’d spotted that first time in the coffee shop.
Hard to believe it was just over a week ago.
She leans back against the worktop and says, ‘We could have coffee.’
‘Yeah, we could.’
‘We could do all sorts of things.’
‘All sorts of things sounds good to me.’
It’s hard to be sure which one of them makes the first move, leans in slightly or angles their body just enough, but in the end they come together hard, and by now the smiles have gone, because this is serious business; the grabbing and moaning.
Tongues and teeth.
She grunts and tugs at his shirt trying to free it from the waistband of his jeans, while his hands are already busy below her own. They grind, and pull, and lick. She starts on his belt, as he brings his hands up fast, her blouse coming with them, like he’s trying to pull it over her head …
‘Stop.’
Sarah steps away and turns, unbuttoning, then walks towards the bedroom expecting him to follow.
The first time is quick and urgent, but both get what they want. Sarah has condoms in the small cupboard next to the bed, but neither of them brings the subject up and it’s fine, because even though she’s happy to take the risk, such as it is, he doesn’t come inside her.
They barely take a breath.
They slow things up and take the time to explore, mouths and fingers, until both of them are desperate for it. They change positions and move each other around on the bed, they tell each other what they want. This time, when he tries to pull out, she holds him inside her, rising to him; shakes her head when he looks at her to find out if she’s sure.
At that moment, she is certain, because something has … shifted.
Afterwards, they laugh and move slowly apart, rearranging the tangle of sheets until they are still and their breath has returned.
‘Like I said, good things are worth waiting for.’
; ‘Great things,’ she says, and moves her leg until it’s touching his.
‘Oh, God, yeah …’
They lie in silence for a minute, two, then she turns her head. ‘I know your name’s not Conrad.’
He turns his.
‘And I’m pretty sure these investors of yours don’t really exist, not in the way most people would think, anyway. That there isn’t actually anything to invest in.’ Her hand reaches quickly for his and squeezes. ‘And it’s fine, it’s absolutely fine. Just, you don’t need to carry on spinning it out with me, that’s all.’
‘You think you know what I do?’
His voice is so calm suddenly that it frightens her, but the fear is exciting and she dares herself to nod.
‘You think you know?’
‘I can guess,’ Sarah says. ‘And it doesn’t matter. I swear, right this minute, I can’t think of anything I care about less.’
He turns away and closes his eyes for a while. ‘So, should I carry on calling you Sarah?’
‘Why wouldn’t you?’
‘Well, there doesn’t seem much point, not now we’re getting things out in the open. If we’re really being straight with each other.’ His voice sounds different, coarser somehow, but she likes the way it sounds. ‘That’s what we’re doing, right?’
She moves closer to him. ‘How can we not?’
‘So … I’ll call you Sarah if it makes you happy, I’ll call you anything you want. Long as you’re not kidding yourself, because I know damn well it’s not what you’re called.’
‘It’s just a name,’ she says.
He opens his eyes and turns his head again and their faces are almost touching. They breathe into each other’s mouths. He says, ‘Same as I know that nobody plays with those toys out there in the kitchen.’
NINETEEN
She stands naked and perfectly still in the semi-dark, the fridge cool against her back. The dog is barking outside and scratching at the kitchen door to be let in, but Sarah ignores it. In truth, she barely registers the noise.
Their Little Secret Page 8