A sudden scream somewhere behind me makes me jump. I hear a woman’s voice shouting the word ‘murderer’ and my heart skips a beat. Unsure what to do, I get up from the bench and edge my way towards the cluster of bushes the voice is coming from. Suddenly the park seems deserted. Where are all the people when you need them? My phone in hand, I cautiously peek through the branches. There is a young couple in the clearing, a man and a woman who is talking loudly in a dramatic voice. I watch them closely, debating whether to intervene. It takes me a while to realize the woman’s distress is theatrical. They must be actors, or students, rehearsing a scene from a play. The woman seems to be struggling with her delivery and the guy interrupts her and gives her directions. She starts her lines again.
‘It cannot be but thou hast murdered him.
So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.’
The rhythm of the verse and the woman’s emphatic delivery tell me it must be Shakespeare. Trust my luck to pick a bench next to the people rehearsing a play about a murder. A police car’s siren somewhere in Highgate mixes with the woman’s voice and completes the scene. I’m ready to move on.
I remember there’s hardly anything left in my fridge and decide to stop at Tesco in the village on the way back. I walk up Highgate Hill, resist the temptation to buy flowers at the expensive greengrocer’s and check out the window display at the local bookshop. I’m about to cross the street when I see a familiar figure in front of Tesco. It’s Tom. I stop, unsure what to do. He seems to be aimlessly hovering outside the entrance, looking around. And then, of course, he notices me looking at him and moves forward in my direction. A car honks at him when he steps off the kerb, he stops and moves back, just as the shop’s doors slide open and Samantha comes out, shopping bags in both hands. Thankfully, she doesn’t see me as she calls out to him. He rushes towards her and grabs the bags. I turn and walk away in the opposite direction, abandoning the idea of shopping at Tesco.
When I get back home curiosity gets the better of me and I Google the lines the woman was shouting in the park. They turn out to be from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a comedy with no real murder in it. I look at the lines, uttered by Hermia accusing Demetrius of having murdered the man she loves and looking like a murderer. What does a murderer look like? I Google ‘serial killers’ and look at the mosaic of faces, some distorted and ugly, some bland and ordinary. Would I be able to tell if any of these people had killed another human being just by looking them in the eye? The answer is no. And still my conviction that none of the men I’ve met recently is a killer is unwavering.
A new thought enters my head and I cling to it with relief. Perhaps the Dior Man is a witness, just like me? This would explain the casual way he entered the station. He wasn’t handcuffed or restrained, in fact he looked quite in control. But if he is a witness, is he going to disclose the nature of our encounters on the Heath? A cold shiver runs through me at the thought. If the police link me to him, then my game is over. I’ll be branded a liar and accused of obstructing a police investigation or even perverting the course of justice. My legal knowledge gained from watching hours of CSI and Law & Order tells me I might be in big trouble.
I’m interrupted by the arrival of the damage assessor, followed in quick succession by a mobile tyre replacement van. Their efficiency is impressive, the tyres are changed and the rear window scrubbed clean. By five o’clock they are done and I’m left with no more distractions. My thoughts go back to Bell, the Heath, the Dior Man. I need to talk to someone who’d be able to understand the mess I’m in and offer sympathy. I’m reluctant to bother Michael again because I’m already so indebted to him for all the help he’s given me and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to repay it. I consider calling Kate, but decide against it. She’s too upright, too honourable, I’d be simply ashamed to show her my true colours. Ray? I hardly know the man, but this could be a plus. A perfect case of railway carriage honesty, when you reveal the most intimate details about yourself to a stranger on a train. Well, he’s not a complete stranger, but we could disappear from each other’s lives as quickly as we appeared in them. I dial his number but he doesn’t answer. I decide against leaving him a message, as it would take away the element of spontaneity. I quickly put some make-up on, throw on a pair of skinny G-Star Raw jeans, a soft cashmere jumper and my Ted Baker cream leather jacket, grab my bag and car keys, tell Wispa to be a good girl and head out. I’m going to catch Ray as he leaves his salon tonight.
The rush-hour traffic seems to be going the other way and I manage to get to Islington in twenty minutes. I leave the car on a meter in a side street and stroll onto Upper Street. I casually walk by Ray’s salon and quickly peer in. He’s busy with a client, cutting her hair, talking to her reflection in the mirror. He hasn’t noticed me and I don’t break my stride. I find an outside table in a patisserie a few shops further down, order a latte and position my chair so I can see Ray’s salon in the distance. I take out my phone and pretend I’m busy checking my emails. It’s nearly half past six, so he should be closing soon. Ten minutes later his client leaves the salon, looking pleased with herself. I must admit, her hair looks good. Another five minutes pass and Ray appears in the street and begins to pull the shutters down over his salon front. I scroll down to his name in my address book and dial his number. Let’s see how he reacts to seeing my name on his phone screen. It’s ringing and I can see him pulling his phone out of his pocket. He checks the caller ID and a little smile crosses his lips. Bingo. He’s just about to answer it when a woman appears behind him. She’s young, glamorous and clearly very angry. I can’t hear what she’s shouting, but her words make Ray step back and raise his hands, as if trying to pacify her. She grabs the phone he’s holding, waves it about angrily, then throws it on the pavement and kicks it. He says something back and she steps forward and slaps him in the face. An elderly woman with a little Shih Tzu dog stops and appears to intervene. Ray turns towards her and shoos her away. The old woman shakes her head and shuffles away indignantly, pulling her dog behind her. Ray grabs the young woman by both wrists, his face close to hers, his body language menacing. The woman tries to pull away, they struggle, he suddenly pushes her away and she slams against the closed shutters with her back. She is crying. Ray grabs her by the arm, picks up his phone from the pavement and leads her down the street, thankfully away from my table and the patisserie. What happens next makes me sit up in my uncomfortable patisserie chair. Ray and the woman get into a parked car. And no, it’s not his BMW, but a blue Mini five-door hatch. And guess who’s driving? Ray. As the car passes me I can clearly see a baby seat in the back. I exhale slowly as I watch the car head towards Highbury Corner. What have I just seen? A lovers’ spat? Or a confrontation with an angry wife? His or someone else’s?
Suddenly my impromptu escapade to see Ray seems like a bad idea. I leave a five-pound note by my coffee cup and walk away from the table. I don’t feel like seeing Ray ever again. The anger and aggression of the scene I’ve just witnessed have left me disturbed and confused. Not to mention the baby seat. I didn’t see it coming at all. So much for your killer instinct, lady man-eater. I realize I know next to nothing about most of the people I consider my friends and acquaintances. Any of them could have a flip side, a Jekyll-and-Hyde personality I haven’t got a clue about. If I can’t even tell a player from a decent guy, how can I be sure there is no killer among the people I know?
I quickly go back to my car and drive home, feeling alone and tearful. I go straight to the kitchen and take out Bell’s bottle of Pinot Gris from the fridge. It’s nearly empty, but I pour the few remaining sips into a glass and sit at the table. I imagine Bell sitting in front of me, watching me nursing the glass with sparkles of amusement in her eyes. ‘Hey, girl,’ she says, ‘don’t feel sorry for yourself, only assholes do that.’ It’s a quote from her favourite Murakami novel, I don’t remember which one. Oh, Bell, you have no idea what an asshole I am.
Eleven Days Later
I’
m back at work and it feels as if I’ve been away for months. I notice belatedly that the restructuring machine has moved forward, mowing down its first victims. All the freelancers are gone. I’m sure they’ll be back, as soon as Cadenca Global is done with us. No large media company can survive without freelancers, but for now their desks are empty, dirty keyboards and broken pens the only remainders of their fleeting presence. Freelance desks are quite different from those of permanent staff. They are impersonal: no cute mascots, no photos of spouses and kids, no secret stashes of nibbles or personalized mugs. It’s partly due to convenience and partly to self-preservation. As soon as you bring a personal object to put on your desk, you’re hooked. You develop an emotional relationship with your workplace and it hurts like hell when they let you go. And they always let you go at some point. I remember when I first started as a freelance producer and kept making the mistake of customizing the screen saver on my work PC with my favourite holiday snapshot. And how much it hurt to have to delete it once my services were no longer required. Now I’m the one who is supposed to let others go, but somehow the first cull seems to have happened without my knowledge, while I was off work yesterday. It’s a bit worrying, but it doesn’t take me long to find out how it happened. As I open the door to my office I see Gary parked in my chair, his legs splayed proprietorially under my desk, his fat fingers round the receiver of my phone. He jumps up and puts the phone down when he sees me, a false smile on his face. In fact, there is nothing out of the ordinary about him using my office, it’s standard practice to utilize the management’s glass boxes when they are not in use by their rightful occupants. But it’s his body language that gives his true intentions away. Something has happened behind my back.
With Gary out of my office I quickly scroll down through my mailbox and find a chain of emails that explains his cocksure behaviour. Most of the emails come from HR, but the chain was originated by Julian a week ago, on the day I got back from Paris. The day I learnt Bell was dead. The email chain has been picked up by Gary who, it seems, was instrumental in the cull of freelancers. I sit motionless staring at the screen, processing the information.
There are two possible interpretations. The most likely is the apocalyptic one: Julian has decided to get rid of me and he’s grooming Gary as my replacement. But Gary is the element that doesn’t fit. He’s a bumbling plodder with no management skills and Julian knows it. This points to scenario number two: Julian wants to keep me and is using Gary as an easy scapegoat, who will be sacrificed as soon as he ceases to be useful in the restructuring game. Of course, there might be scenario number three that only Julian is privy to. Time will tell. One thing is certain: I’m not going down without a fight.
I tell Claire to call in an urgent meeting of my department for 1.30 p.m. It’s a bitch of a time for a meeting as it eats into people’s lunch break, but that’s exactly why I chose it: to show that my ‘busy’ is more important than other people’s ‘busy’. It’s time to remind everyone who’s the boss. And to embrace my inner bitch.
As the meeting starts I feel I’m back on top of my game. It gives me great pleasure to cut Gary down to size and re-establish the hierarchy of the place. I might as well enjoy my power while it lasts. I know I’m not a bad manager. I read somewhere that there are essentially three types of managers: those who need to be liked more than they need to get things done, those who need to achieve and don’t care what others think about them, and those who are interested in power. It’s the power-hungry ones who are in fact the most effective managers, in control of their goals and teams. I’d like to think I fall within the third category, of managers who gain power through influencing people around them. By the time the meeting is over I hope I’ve exerted my influence enough to last a few weeks longer without the need for more drastic measures.
I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on emails, making sure I copy Julian into all the ones that work in my favour. I’m just about to wrap up for the day when my mobile rings. It’s a US number I don’t recognize. A woman with a Midwestern accent asks for Anna, and for a moment I think it’s someone from the better, American side of our corporation.
‘It’s Candice,’ she says and pauses, as if to give me time to place her. ‘I got your number from Michael.’
‘Candice, of course, Bell’s told me about you . . .’ I stumble awkwardly. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’
We’re both silent, not sure what to say next.
‘Bell is . . . was very important to me,’ she says eventually and I can hear she’s on the verge of tears.
‘I know . . . You were important to her. She’s told me a lot about you.’
‘I’d like to come over and say goodbye to her.’
‘Of course,’ I say and my mind is racing. Did DCI Jones say anything about releasing the body? When is the funeral? I need to speak to Michael . . .
‘The funeral is on Friday morning,’ she says as if hearing my thoughts. ‘I’ve booked my flight for tonight and will arrive at Heathrow tomorrow lunchtime. It’s all a bit last minute, but otherwise I’d miss her funeral.’
‘I’ll pick you up, just email me the details.’ A wave of guilt is making me volunteer.
‘Oh, it’s fine, I can take the underground from the airport. I’ve found a room on Airbnb somewhere in East London. Errmm . . . Leyton? Would that be close to where she lived?’
‘Bell lived in Stoke Newington. Leyton is not exactly round the corner. It would be much easier if you stayed at mine. Actually, I insist, I’ll pick you up and you must stay at mine.’
‘I don’t want to inconvenience you.’
‘No, it’s no problem at all. It’s the least I can do for Bell’s . . .’ Should I say girlfriend? Partner? Lover?
‘It’s very kind of you, thank you. I’ll email you the details of my flight.’
I give her my email address, she asks again whether her visit won’t inconvenience me and I assure her it won’t. I put the phone down feeling totally ashamed of myself. What kind of best friend am I? How could I have not known when Bell’s funeral is? I should be the one arranging it, getting in touch with Candice, calling Bell’s friends. What is wrong with me? I feel I can’t face Michael, who has clearly stepped in and taken over all the arrangements. Shame, shame on me.
As I drive home I mull over my egotistical nature. I’ve been so preoccupied with my own survival, my own grief, that I have totally ignored what my friends must have been going through. It makes me sick with shame to realize how wrapped up in my own little world I’ve become. It’s unforgivable and I know Bell would have given me a right ticking-off. I promise myself to be less self-centred and to give more time and thought to my friends. I’ll check on Michael, take care of Candice when she comes over, get in touch with Bell’s friends, speak to Kate, find out if Sue’s resisted the temptation of the Big T. I should probably get in touch with Nicole and see how she’s doing and if she’s going to come back to London and dog-walking.
There is a parking space free just in front of my house and I decide it’s a sign I’m not all bad. I must have put some good karma into the universe and it’s decided to come back at this very moment. I’m reversing into the tight space when I hear a sudden bang on the roof of the car. I instinctively step on the brakes, not sure what is going on. Have I hit someone? I buzz down my window and look out. There is a familiar man on the pavement, a can of lager in his hand, a bright red scarf round his neck, swinging his leg to kick the rear tyre of my BMW.
‘Alden! What are you doing?’
‘Yo, bitch!’ he shouts at me in a bad imitation of Jesse from Breaking Bad.
I switch off the engine and get out of the car, just as he kicks it again.
‘Alden, stop it!’
He turns to look at me and I can see he’s completely drunk.
‘Oh, yeah? And what will you do if I won’t? Call DCI Dyke? So she can question me again?’
‘Alden, you’re drunk!’
‘And I bloody deserve it!
I’ve been helping with their enquiries all day.’ The lager spills from the can as he makes quotation marks in the air. ‘I’m such a helpful guy—’
‘Alden, go home.’
‘You are evil.’ He looks at me with the sudden clarity of a drunk. ‘I thought you were cool, Anna, but you’re a bad person, you are. Evil to the core. I know everything about you.’
‘You know nothing about me, Alden.’ I try to sound friendly, but firm. ‘We hardly know each other. Why don’t you go home, get some sleep, and we’ll meet up for a coffee once you’ve sobered up?’ I reach out and pat him on the arm.
‘Don’t touch me,’ he yells, moving away, ‘you evil bitch!’
‘I’m not evil, but you are definitely drunk.’ I let the bitch part slide, but he doesn’t hear me, engrossed in his monologue.
‘You nasty little scheming slut! He’s warned me about you . . .’
My neighbours’ outside light comes on and Patrick, the nosy accountant, pops his head out through the front door.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, Patrick, my friend is just leaving.’
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