Five Days Later
I wake up in Michael’s guest room, heavy from the Ambien he gave me last night. For a few blissful moments I don’t know why I’m here, then the awful memories of yesterday start flooding in. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to move. Bell is gone. A part of me still hangs on to the hope that it’s all been a terrible mistake that will somehow get explained soon. Perhaps if I stay in bed and don’t let the reality in, I’ll keep her alive in my mind. I hear a distant doorbell, some movement downstairs in the house, front door opening and closing. Then there are light footsteps on the stairs and a delicate knock on the door. Wispa, who is lying on the floor by the bed, gives a short bark.
‘Anna?’ It’s Michael.
‘Yes?’
He cracks the door open and peeks in. Wispa gets up to greet him, her tail wagging.
‘It’s for you.’ He puts a small box on the bedside table.
‘What is it?’
‘Your new phone. All sorted out by Claire.’
‘Oh, Claire . . .’ Reality calls me and I know I’ll have to get up and face the world.
‘I’ll be waiting for you downstairs with the coffee.’ He closes the door.
I force myself to get up and stumble to the bathroom. I avoid looking at myself in the mirror because I know I look awful. Back in the guest room I find some clean clothes in my Paris suitcase, then follow the sound of a radio to Michael’s kitchen, Wispa on my heels. Michael’s on his laptop at the kitchen table, but closes it when I come in.
‘Darling, your coffee.’ He puts the mug in front of me as I sit down at the table. ‘Would you like a fresh croissant with it?’
‘No, thank you, coffee’s fine.’
‘DS Kapoor will be coming over soon to pick you up.’ He speaks to me gently, as if to a sick child.
‘Oh, DS Kapoor . . .’ I remember what lies ahead of me today.
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘No, sweetie, thank you, I’ll be fine.’ I know I have to pull myself together.
‘Would you like me to help you with anything, make some phone calls?’
‘No, it’s fine, really.’ I try to sound as if I know what I’m doing.
‘What about Bell’s new girlfriend?’
I remember Candice.
‘We have to get in touch with her.’
‘All I know is that she lives in Moscow, Idaho, and works at the university there.’
‘We’ll find her.’
I recall my last conversation with Bell.
‘She’s supposed to come over in a couple of weeks. That’s why Bell was decorating . . . She was so happy . . .’ I feel tears welling up in my eyes. ‘Oh, Michael, it’s all my fault . . .’
‘Shhh.’ He puts his arm round me. ‘It’s not your fault, stop thinking that.’
We sit in silence for a long time. I feel the warmth of Michael’s embrace and it makes the pain less acute. Eventually he looks at the kitchen clock and gets up.
‘We need to get you ready for DS Kapoor. You can leave Wispa with me today, I’ll be working from home.’
He takes a small brown bottle out of a kitchen cabinet and slides a pill across the table in my direction.
‘Xanax,’ he says. ‘I use it for long-haul flights. Take one.’
I do what he says, swallowing it with a sip of cold coffee.
By the time DS Kapoor arrives the world seems distant and muted, the feelings of guilt and loss almost bearable. I know they’ll come back, but numbness is what I need right now.
The next few hours are like a bad dream, but a dream, nevertheless, Xanax taking the edge off reality. DS Kapoor takes me to a nondescript building where DCI Jones is already waiting for me. They lead me to a small room and then I’m on my own with Bell, although I know that DCI Jones is standing beside me. Then I’m with DCI Jones in another room, drinking hot tea out of a paper cup. She talks to me in a quiet voice, something about Bell’s clothes. She shows me a green raincoat and I’m surprised to see it, because it’s mine.
‘This is what Bell was wearing when she was found on the Heath,’ she tells me.
The significance of it slowly sinks in and I start crying. Bell and I always used to borrow each other’s clothes because we had such similar figures.
‘It’s my fault she’s dead, it’s my fault,’ I keep repeating, refusing to stop.
And then I’m back at Michael’s, crying into Wispa’s soft neck while DCI Jones talks to Michael quietly in the hallway.
Six Days Later
Today is the day I’m supposed to go back to my house. The forensics guys have finished whatever they were doing there and the local glazier has fixed a broken window the burglars got in through. Michael called Sherie Lou, who offered to drop her regular jobs of the day and come to help sort out the mess. By the time Michael and I arrive, the house looks as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened there.
As Michael chats with Sherie Lou in the kitchen, I walk around the house, looking for any signs of someone being here. I can’t see anything out of place and nothing seems to be missing. All the usual things burglars are interested in – camera, computer, flat-screen TV, iPod, jewellery – are still here. Even my CD and DVD collections remain untouched. Maybe my CDs aren’t cool enough any more to be nicked. I check my safe, tucked away in one of the bedroom wardrobes, but it’s locked and intact.
I join Michael and Sherie Lou and she tells me about the state she found my place in when she arrived this morning. According to her, apart from the forensics dust it was just very messy.
‘It was as if Wispa went on a real rampage all over the place,’ she says and Wispa trots to her, having heard her name. ‘Everything was off the shelves, out of the drawers, books, clothes, papers, even your bedding was on the floor. Very, very messy. Wispa wouldn’t do such a thing.’ She pats her on the head.
‘What the hell was that about then?’ wonders Michael. ‘Were they looking for something?’
‘I really don’t think there is anything here that could be something . . .’
Despite my casual tone, I feel deeply unsettled by it. I think of what DCI Jones said: ‘We have reasons to believe it’s connected with Ms Young’s murder.’ But how? Did the murderer come here?
‘Oh, by the way, DCI Jones is coming over soon, she wanted to have a chat with you,’ says Michael and I know he must’ve been wondering the same thing.
I thank and pay Sherie Lou, who promises to come back in a few days.
Michael is pottering about, making fresh coffee.
‘Michael, you know you don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be fine on my own.’
‘I know, babycakes. You’re doing very well.’
We finish our coffees and Michael leaves, but only after he makes me agree he’ll come back later and cook dinner for both of us.
I’m on my own for the first time since I’ve learnt about Bell’s murder. My house feels empty and unfriendly, despite Wispa’s soothing presence. I walk around, looking at objects as if they belonged to someone else. I can’t see any of Bell’s things and I assume the police must have taken them. I know I should get in touch with Claire, find out what’s happening at work, report back to Julian about the Paris meeting, but the feeling of despondence that overwhelms me is so strong, all I can do is curl up on the sofa in a dull stupor, neither asleep nor awake. Bell. Bell, I’m so sorry. Wispa jumps on the sofa and stretches beside me, as if she knows I’m not going to tell her off this time.
I’m woken up by the doorbell and next I’m in the kitchen making a cup of tea for DCI Jones. She asks me to call her Vic.
‘I need your help, Anna. I think you have some information that can help us catch whoever did this.’
‘I’m not sure if I know anything that can be of any use to the investigation.’
‘Is it OK if I ask you some questions?’
I nod.
‘Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm Ms Young?’
‘No, abs
olutely not. She was one of the most gentle, likeable, funny, generous people I’ve known.’
‘No enemies? No disgruntled exes?’
I shake my head.
‘No. She was a massage therapist, had her own practice, was actually helping people. And she’d been single for a while. Actually, no, she’d met someone recently, but this person lives in the States.’
For some reason I feel reluctant to disclose the fact that Bell was a lesbian. DCI Jones smiles.
‘And you have no reason to believe that this . . . person wanted to harm her?’ She leaves a small pause before the word ‘person’ and something about her look and her manner tells me DCI Jones might be a lesbian herself.
‘No, they’ve only just met and they were very much in love. In fact, Candice was supposed to come to visit her in a couple of weeks. I need to find out her email address and let her know about Bell . . .’
I feel it’s all too much for me and I’m welling up again. DCI Jones gives me a tissue and patiently waits for me to compose myself.
‘We can give you her details if you want to get in touch with her,’ she says eventually and I realize she’s known all along about Candice. Of course, I think, the police have Bell’s phone and her laptop.
‘What about you? Is there anyone who might have wanted to hurt you?’
‘Me? I don’t understand.’
‘We have to look at the crime from all angles,’ she says gently. ‘Bell had been staying at your place and was wearing your coat and walking your dog when she was attacked. It was pouring with rain that evening, it was likely she had the hood up.’
‘Oh God, so it was my fault . . .’
‘No, but we have to examine and exclude all the possibilities.’
DCI Jones watches me with her kind but penetrating eyes as I frantically try to think what to tell her. Or rather, what to omit.
‘I’m not involved with anyone at present. I’ve recently split up with my boyfriend and I’m not ready for another relationship.’
DCI Jones nods.
‘I’ll need his details, it’s just a formality. Anyone at work with a grudge?’
‘Well, we’re going through a major restructuring, some people are going to lose their jobs and I’ll probably be the one who’ll tell them about it.’
She nods again.
‘Anyone else? Stalkers, weird callers, cyber trolls?’
Well, I’ve had my share of weirdos, including my ex-husband, poisoning my life over the years, but it’s not something I want to share with the police right now.
‘I really can’t think of anyone,’ I lie and for some reason I’m sure DCI Jones can read my thoughts. She watches me for a while in silence, as if waiting for me to change my mind, then gets up and puts her empty mug in the sink.
‘Thank you very much for the tea, Anna. If you think of anything else, do give me a ring, anytime.’ She puts her business card on my kitchen table. ‘Even the smallest detail you find irrelevant might help us with the investigation.’ It sounds a little like a rebuke, but maybe it’s a slight feeling of guilt that makes me read something else into her words.
‘Do you think I might be in danger?’ I say, partly to ease my conscience and keep the conversation going for a bit longer.
‘We’ve increased our presence in the area. There are uniformed police patrolling your street. Our chief super lives nearby, not that it’s any reassurance. But if you see or hear anything suspicious, let us know immediately.’ She sounds very formal now and I know she’s annoyed with me for holding out on her.
I close the door behind her and go back to the kitchen. I realize she’s neither confirmed nor denied whether she thinks I might be in danger.
Nine Days Later
The weekend disappears in a fog of Ambien and red wine. At some point I hear a doorbell, which I ignore. When I stumble to the door eventually I find a folded piece of paper someone’s put through the letter box. It’s a scribbled note.
Dear Anna, I haven’t seen you for a while and was wondering if everything is OK. Do give me a shout if you fancy a morning run together. Tom xxx
Thanks, but no thanks, I think and crumple it. I throw it into the bin outside as I leave the house to walk Wispa. It’s only a stagger round the block and she’s not happy about it.
On Monday I wake up early in the morning and I know it’s time to face the world and reclaim my life. I can’t keep on hiding in the safety of my own space forever. I get up and leave a message for Claire to let her know I’ll be coming into the office today. I ask her to check with Laura if Julian’s free to see me. I still haven’t updated him about the Paris meeting. It seems it happened aeons ago and has lost its urgency and relevance, but, nevertheless, this is what work is about. Thankfully, Chiara is back from Italy and she’s willing to walk Wispa.
It’s been more than a week since my last encounter with the Dior Man. I know I’ll never want to risk meeting him on the Heath again. That part of my life is over, I think and almost immediately doubt my own conviction. Would I be able to resist the experience if I saw him again? But what if he’s Bell’s killer? It’s too awful to contemplate, but there is a chance that he may have seen Bell wearing my coat, walking my dog, and thought it was me. He could’ve pounced on her as part of our sexual game and realized too late it wasn’t me. She gets spooked, tries to fight him off and he accidentally kills her? No, it can’t be true, it’s not possible. I reject the scenario partly because I don’t want to feel guilty about it.
The office welcomes me with an artificially hushed atmosphere. Everyone stares at me with curiosity dressed as compassion. Claire updates me efficiently on the latest developments, telling me only the things I need to know. Then she informs me Julian is waiting upstairs. He greets me warmly and my hand stays in both of his for what seems like an eternity, while he tells me how sorry he is to hear what hell I’ve been through. When he releases my hand eventually, he swiftly moves on to business. My report from Paris seems to please him, but I detect a certain change in his attitude towards me. It’s as if I’ve been tainted by the recent events, carry an incurable illness he wants nothing to do with. He praises my Paris performance and wraps up our meeting uncharacteristically quickly, telling me I should feel free to take as much time off as I feel is necessary. I assure him I’m fine and fit for work, which he dismisses with a wave of his hand. As I step into the lift going down my alarm bells are ringing. Whatever has brought on this sudden change does not bode well for my future in the company. I try to concentrate on the backlog of emails in my mailbox, but the feeling of impending doom that seems to hover above my head is too distracting. By six o’clock I feel I’ve wasted the whole day. I leave, feeling useless and anxious.
My phone rings just as I’m parking the car in front of my house. It’s my old friend Sue, horrified by the news of Bell’s death she’s just heard from Michael. She also needs my advice on some work issue, she admits sheepishly, wondering if I’m up to getting together tonight. I agree readily, grateful for the prospect of her company. We arrange to meet at my local pizza place, which should be quiet enough to have an undisturbed chat.
She’s waiting for me when I arrive at the restaurant and gives me a big hug that instantly makes me tearful. We fuss over choosing wine and ordering our food, which gives me time to compose myself. Our waiter arrives with a bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, opens it, pours the wine and disappears.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ There’s genuine compassion in her look.
‘No,’ I say, maybe a bit too abruptly. ‘Can we please talk about something else?’
‘Of course,’ she says gently and takes a sip of her wine. ‘I need to run something by you.’
A wave of relief washes over me. It feels good to be treated like a normal human being again.
‘I’ve been approached . . .’
‘By whom?’
She looks up, pointing at the ceiling. ‘Tamara.’
‘Big T?!’
Thi
s is exciting. Tamara Ashley-Sharpe is a corporate legend, making splashes on both sides of the pond. She knows everyone and everything there is to know about the media world. Sharp, as in her name, posh and without any manners, she is as ruthless as a hammerhead shark. And she is the best media headhunter in London.
‘She approached you personally?’
Sue nods, not looking very thrilled.
‘I don’t know what to do, Anna. She is tempting me, quite unashamedly. I mean, I’ve flirted with the idea, but . . .’
‘You don’t want to sell your soul to the devil?’
‘It’s not that. You sell your soul working for any big corporation these days anyway. What worries me is that it’s such a high-up job. I mean, it’s Head of Production of a monster, not just a cosy little gig like I have at the moment. I won’t be able to go to any shoots, do anything creative, it’ll be meetings, meetings, meetings all the time. And what about Olive?’ Olive is Sue’s six-year-old daughter who she’s bringing up on her own, having got rid of the hapless father of the child, who was nothing but trouble. ‘I wouldn’t have any time for her.’ She falls silent and takes another sip of her wine.
‘You’ve turned it down, then?’
She nods. ‘But she’s not taking no for an answer.’
Our pizzas arrive and we busy ourselves with food for a while.
‘Did you talk money?’
‘My department matched their original offer, so they came up with another sum, a ridiculously large amount. I know if I don’t take it now I’ll never be able to earn that much in my whole life.’
‘But you won’t take it.’ I know Sue well enough to risk a guess.
‘No.’ She looks at me and I see stubborn determination in her eyes.
‘Good.’ I raise my glass. ‘Here’s to your gut instinct.’
‘You really think I’m doing the right thing?’
‘Yes,’ I say and I mean it. ‘Your gut instinct has never failed you before.’
She clutches on to my approval with relief.
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