I Could Be You

by I Could Be You (epub)

  ‘I know,’ Dee said. She had so much information, but none of it quite fitted together. The facts kept slipping and sliding through her hands, as impossible to hold onto as bubbles. ‘But there are simply too many coincidences to ignore. Shane Gilbert killed Katie’s father. Six months after he was released from prison, Katie cut all ties with whatever life she had until then and moved to Eastbourne, a place where she doesn’t know a single soul, to raise her child alone. Why would she do that if she wasn’t hiding from someone?’

  ‘I still think it’s more likely she was hiding from Jake’s dad,’ Louise said. ‘Besides, none of what you’ve found so far gets us any closer to working out who the dead girl is, or why she was killed.’

  ‘I thought it was Ella Tate,’ Dee said. ‘One of the witnesses at the trial. But Ed told me it’s not her.’

  ‘Maybe Ed’s lying.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she conceded. Truth was, she didn’t know what to think any longer. She was tired of chasing dead ends, never seeming to get any closer to finding Katie and Jake.

  Apparently Louise felt the same way, because she abruptly changed the subject.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s happening with you and Alex Mackey?’ she asked. ‘Or do I have to speculate?’

  ‘You’ll have to speculate,’ Dee said. ‘Because there is nothing going on between us.’

  ‘That’s not what his wife thinks.’

  ‘How the hell do you know what Sandra does or doesn’t think?’

  Louise’s right eyebrow shot up. ‘You know her name?’

  ‘Of course I know her name. Jesus, Lou, what is this? Alex is a mate. Was a mate. I’m not sure he’s even that any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Dee closed her eyes, then wished she hadn’t, because instantly she was back to last night. The physical contact had felt so good. How could she explain to Louise what it felt like not to have been held or touched or kissed for so long? How you reached a point where you stopped believing anyone would ever hold you or kiss you ever again.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. She leaned over and refilled her glass, needing the Dutch courage before she told Louise how stupid she’d been. Sprinkles of melted ice danced off the bottle, sun-bright and glistening, evaporating to nothing in the sticky heat of the early evening. ‘Alex was here the night before the hit and run. We drank too much wine and… Oh God, Louise, I practically threw myself at him. I asked him if he’d like to spend the night, and he said no.’

  ‘He said no?’

  Dee covered her face with her hands and groaned. ‘It was mortifying. Well, mortifying and sort of funny as well, if I’m honest. He looked like I’d told him something really shocking.’ A sudden snort of laughter at the memory startled her. When she took her hands away from her face, she could see that Louise was struggling to understand what could be funny about this.

  ‘You propositioned a married man,’ Louise said. ‘After everything Billy put you through. That’s not funny, Dee.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  Louise rolled her eyes. ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve slept with him.’

  ‘We kissed,’ Dee said. ‘Last night. But that’s all, Lou. I swear.’

  ‘What about the next time?’

  ‘There won’t be a next time.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because I slapped him,’ she said.

  This time, Louise smiled. ‘Scarlett quality?’

  ‘Scarlett would have been proud of me.’ Dee returned the smile. As young teenagers, Gone with the Wind had been one of the cousins’ favourite films. They’d watched it together countless times, both girls relentless in their support of Scarlett O’Hara. No matter how badly she behaved, they were able to forgive her and find a justification for her actions.

  ‘Well then,’ Louise said. ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Can we talk about something else now?’ Dee asked.

  ‘You’d never have kissed him if you weren’t missing Katie and Jake so much,’ Louise said.

  ‘It’s the not knowing that’s killing me. Every single day, I wake up thinking that surely today I’ll hear something. But I never do. It’s unbearable, Lou.’

  ‘I know Katie’s your friend, and I understand you don’t want to think she’s capable of running someone over. But why else would she disappear right after it happened?’

  ‘She couldn’t drive,’ Dee said. ‘She gave Mum a photocopy of her driving licence when she started renting the mobile home. But it was a fake.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It was a copy of a copy. Not a copy of the real thing. Plus, she told Alex she couldn’t drive.’

  ‘Alex knew her?’

  ‘Alex knows everyone,’ Dee said. ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Louise stood up. ‘I need to be heading off. Martin’s cooking tonight. A rare treat. I don’t want to be late. Promise you’ll let me know if you find out anything else?’

  ‘Promise,’ Dee said.

  After Louise left, Dee fetched her laptop. There was still no email from Shane, and no message on Facebook from Tom Doyle. She sent Tom another message, telling him she needed to speak to him urgently.

  Unable to relax, she went into her mother’s office and took a sheet of A3 paper from the printer. In the sitting room, she laid the paper out on the floor and got to work. Thirty minutes later, she had a mind map, Katie’s name in the centre, linked by a series of lines, scribbled writing and messy bubbles with more writing inside to all the events and people who were connected to her.

  She’d written everything she could think of. The disappearance of Katie’s mother. Her father’s murder. Shane Gilbert. Ella Tate. Roxanne Reed. She’d drawn a line from Ella’s name in the bottom right-hand corner of the page to Katie’s name in the middle. Now, looking at the two names, she drew another line – dotted to show the link was less clear – from Ella to Shane.

  Shane Gilbert, Ella Tate, Katie Hope.

  Shane had killed Katie’s father. Ella had witnessed the murder and given evidence during the trial. How were those events from ten years ago connected to what had happened so recently outside Dee’s house?

  Again Dee was transported back to that afternoon. Heat rising from the dusty path, the girl’s body face down and unmoving. The tyre track across the pale skin of her thighs. Someone had killed that poor woman on purpose. Someone – Shane Gilbert? – had put their foot on the accelerator and driven into her, throwing her body forward and up into the air. Then, as the body hit the ground, they had reversed back over her.

  Dee looked at the dotted line joining Ella Tate’s name to Shane’s. If the dead girl was Ella, it all made sense. Ella had been a witness at the trial that put Shane Gilbert behind bars. He’d come out of prison wanting revenge, and he’d killed her. It was the only logical explanation, except for one thing. According to Ed, the dead girl wasn’t Ella Tate.

  The words on the A3 sheet of paper were starting to blur when Dee heard her phone ringing. She picked it up: caller ID withheld.

  ‘Hello?’

  She told herself it would be a cold caller, someone selling something she didn’t want. But when there was silence at the other end, she knew who it was.

  ‘Shane?’

  Another long silence before he spoke.

  ‘Is this Dee?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you called. Thank you.’

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he said. ‘But not over the phone. Can you meet me tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’ Dee grabbed a pen and notepad. ‘Just tell me where and when.’

  ‘Manor House Gardens,’ he said. ‘Hither Green. Two o’clock. And don’t be late, because I won’t wait around.’

  He hung up before she could ask him anything else. It didn’t matter. In less than twenty-four hours, she’d be meeting him. Any questions she had could wait until then.

  Thirty-Four

  Dee

  An internet search
told Dee that Manor House Gardens was a public park in Hither Green, south London. Katie had grown up in Hither Green. The pub where her father had been killed was a short walk from the park.

  Dee left home at 10 a.m. and was in Hither Green by 11.45. Once she had parked, she spent the next hour exploring the area. She found the Railway Tavern, the pub where Gus Hope had been killed. It looked like the sort of pub she liked – an old-style Victorian boozer situated on a residential street. Inside, it was clean but not too fancy. No loud music to distract the lunchtime drinkers and – best of all – no TV screens. Stained-glass windows that looked original, sunlight refracted through the green and red glass, adding to the cosy atmosphere.

  She sat at the bar, taking her time over the prawn sandwich she’d ordered, trying to get a feel for the place. Wondering how much it had changed since Katie’s father was the landlord.

  ‘This is a really nice pub,’ she said to the chirpy Australian barman when she paid her bill.

  ‘We’ve got a great landlady,’ he said, dazzling her with a huge, sunshine-filled Aussie grin. ‘Hey, Roxanne!’ he shouted to the woman working the other side of the long bar. ‘Someone here wants to tell you how much she likes your pub.’

  Dee put her glass of water down and stared at the woman he was talking to – tall and broad, in her late fifties, with shoulder-length hair so black it had to be dyed.

  Roxanne Reed. Leonard said she had died of cancer. It could be another Roxanne, of course, but the chances of two women called Roxanne working in the same pub were slim to zero.

  The woman nodded at Dee. ‘Glad you like it.’

  ‘Unusual name,’ Dee said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a Roxanne before.’

  ‘It’s Greek,’ Roxanne explained. ‘Means dawn, apparently. At least that’s what my dad used to say. He had a bit of a thing about the Greeks.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Dee said.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Roxanne eyed her with a bit more interest.

  ‘My dad had a bit of a thing for Tom Jones. Thought calling me Delilah was a good idea.’

  Roxanne threw her head back and laughed. ‘You poor cow,’ she said. ‘Named after a woman stabbed to death by her jealous lover. That Philip Larkin was dead right, wasn’t he?’

  ‘They fuck you up.’ Dee smiled. ‘I don’t think mine did, actually.’ Then, changing the subject, ‘It’s not easy, is it? Running a pub, I mean.’

  ‘You got that right. Long hours, back-breaking work and sod-all money at the end of it.’

  ‘My dad used to run pubs,’ Dee said. A lie, but one she’d used in the past. Nothing pub owners liked better than a kindred spirit. Someone who understood what a shitty job they had.

  ‘It’s not an easy life for a kid.’ Roxanne shrugged. ‘I’m lucky. Never had any myself. The previous landlord lived with his daughter in the apartment upstairs. They found it tough, I think. Although it was worse for her than it was for him.’

  ‘I loved it,’ Dee said. ‘Dad and Mum let me help out, evenings and weekends, and they paid me. Not much, but it seemed like a fortune to a skint teenager.’

  ‘Maybe that was Gus’s problem. He never let his girl anywhere near the bar. A bit overprotective. Not surprising, I suppose, given their history.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Wife left him,’ Roxanne said. ‘He was never the same after that. Anyway, love, glad you like the Railway. Remember to tell your friends about it.’

  There was a clock on the wall of the bar. One thirty. Dee estimated she had at least an hour and a half before she’d have to drive back to Eastbourne. Enough time for a small glass of wine to work its way through her system.

  ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘It’s so nice here, I’m going to treat myself. Glass of dry white wine, please. Can I get you a drink as well, Roxanne?’

  ‘I’m all right, thanks.’

  Roxanne turned away to open the bottle of wine and Dee got the sense the woman wanted the conversation to be over. But she wasn’t ready to give up.

  ‘How long have you been landlady here?’ she asked, handing across a ten-pound note.

  ‘A long time now,’ Roxanne said. ‘I worked here before I took over as landlady too. All in, I’ve been serving drinks behind this bar for the best part of thirty years.’

  No doubt about it, then. This was the same Roxanne who’d been a witness at Shane Gilbert’s trial. The same Roxanne that Leonard claimed had died of cancer. Leonard the liar. Lying because there was something he didn’t want Dee to discover. Her body tingled with the sense that she was on to something. The big secret about Katie. This woman standing in front of her had the answers she was looking for. All she had to do was take things slowly.

  ‘Must feel like home to you,’ she said.

  Roxanne shrugged again. ‘Home’s where your heart is. My heart’s not in this place. It’s a living for me. Nothing more than that. I was lucky enough to be able to buy the freehold, but I’ll sell up when I’m done with it. Let some other bugger do all the hard work while I enjoy the money from the sale.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Dee said. ‘You need to make sure it stays the way it is. What if they sell it and it’s turned into some horrible modern gastropub?’

  ‘Won’t matter to me either way. I’ll be here until I can’t do the job any more. After that, I’ve got a little villa out in the Canaries, and when I move there, I won’t give a fiddler’s jig what happens to this place.’

  ‘Seems a shame,’ Dee said. ‘All the hard work you’ve put into it.’

  ‘Hard work’s overrated. Now, love, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got a bar to run and you’re not the first journalist that’s turned up here pretending to be a regular punter and giving me all sorts of compliments as if that’ll get me to talk to you. I’ll tell you the same as I’ve told the ones before you and the ones who’ll come after you. Katie Hope was a lovely girl when she lived here. Poor little thing has already suffered more than anyone ought to. Whatever the police are saying she did, I don’t believe it. And that is all I’m prepared to say on the matter.’

  She paused for breath, nodded at the untouched glass of wine in front of Dee.

  ‘Enjoy your drink.’

  ‘How did you know?’ Dee asked. She lifted the glass and took a sip. Not bad for a pub wine. Roxanne clearly knew what she was doing.

  ‘Easy. You say your old man was a pub landlord? Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. My dad, he was a hack, see? Proper Fleet Street. Worked for the Sun his entire life.’ She touched the side of her nose. ‘I grew up surrounded by journalists. Can spot one a mile away.’

  And with that, she turned her back on Dee and walked away. Dee noticed the woman’s shoulders were shaking slightly. Almost, she thought, as if Roxanne was laughing.

  * * *

  Manor House Gardens was a lovely park. The sort of place that would make a family want to move to this part of London, Dee thought. Assuming they could afford the inflated house prices that seemed to have affected every corner of the city over the last few years.

  Today, it was full of families. Groups of yummy mummies sitting on picnic blankets in the grassy area. Gangs of children racing up and down the paths that wound gently around the park. More of them in the playground, clambering up climbing frames, flying high into the air on swings, hanging from monkey bars. Dee watched them playing, until she realised she was obsessively scanning every child’s face hoping to see Jake.

  Shane hadn’t given any indication of what part of the park he’d be in. Dee walked around it several times, but there was no sign of him anywhere.

  There were plenty of places he could hide. Lots of areas planted with mature trees and bushes where someone could watch everything that was happening without being noticed. A paedophile’s dream, she thought, revising her initial impression of the park as a family idyll.

  In the cafe beside the playground, she ordered a coffee and sat at one of the tables outside. From here, she had a good view of the park. Although she was st
arting to suspect Shane had changed his mind.

  She waited for over an hour. As she sipped her second coffee, she wondered what it would be like to grow up in an urban environment like this. When she herself was a teenager, there were so many places she could hang out with her friends away from the judgemental eyes of adults. All they’d had to do was go a few hundred yards further along the beach and there would be no one to watch what they got up to.

  Growing up here would be a different matter entirely. Looking around, Dee realised there were almost no teenagers in the park. It was all hipster parents and kids no older than eleven. Where did the older children go to drink illicit cans of cider or smoke cigarettes and dope and do whatever else teenagers got up to these days?

  Right then, as if they’d staged it just for her, a teenage boy and girl emerged from behind some bushes at the far end of the park. Dressed entirely in black, faces caked with white make-up, the pair of wannabe goths wandered away holding hands, oblivious to everyone else around them.

  Of course!

  Dee pushed her chair back and ran to where the teenagers had come from. It was overgrown here. A sign beside the shrubbery said that the park keepers deliberately let this section grow wild for the local bee population. She shoved her way through the bushes and weeds and found herself in another section of park, invisible from the other side. Not a large area, but big enough for four or five people to sit. Empty lager cans and cigarette and roach butts littered the ground. Clearly a favourite hideout for local teenagers.

  Except now, the place was empty. Frustrated, Dee kicked an empty can, which rose a few inches into the air and landed less than a foot away. She couldn’t even kick a can properly.

  In her jeans pocket, her phone started to ring. She checked the screen, saw a mobile number she didn’t recognise and answered, half hoping it might be him.

  ‘Dee?’ A woman, not Shane.

  ‘That’s right,’ Dee said.

  ‘This is DC Rachel Lewis,’ the woman said. ‘Where are you?’