I spend the rest of the morning catching up on emails that seem to be multiplying like germs in a toilet bowl. At midday Claire comes into my office and tells me Julian wants to see me. Immediately. A bad taste in my mouth after too many coffees gets instantly complemented by a bad feeling in my stomach. In the lift I feel the weight of my phone in the pocket of my trousers. I take it out, put it on silent and slide it back into my pocket. There is nothing Julian hates more than being interrupted by someone else’s phone.
He greets me with a warm handshake and leads me to his leather sofa. He seems very much at home at his London office; I wonder how much time he has been spending here lately. He kindly enquires how I feel, asks about the funeral. I tell him a little about the ceremony and the trip to the coast, skipping the incident with Helen, and feel a surprising relief while talking about it. Julian is a good listener and acts as if he really cares. They don’t pay him a six-figure salary for nothing, after all. Then the pleasantries are over and he gets down to business.
‘I hear you had a little contretemps with our guys from Utispatial this morning.’
Ah, so they are ‘our guys’ now.
‘I told them to stop what they were doing and leave.’
‘That’s rather unfortunate.’ He plays with his Breitling watch as he speaks. Strange, I’d expect him to be more of a Rolex man.
‘Is that so? I’ve made it clear to Cadenca Global, time and time again, that hot-desking is not appropriate for our work environment. Whoever made the decision now—’
He raises his hand to stop me.
‘I made the decision, Anna.’
This silences me.
‘Implementing a new system of space allocation and management goes hand in hand with our restructuring vision and it’s fully supported by Cadenca Global. It’s not only about saving money, Anna, lots of money, but also about optimizing employee efficiency, eliminating time and resource wastage. Utispatial is going to help us with creating a new production village downstairs, a brand-new infrastructure of facilities, editing pods, audio studios, a graphics suite. We are fully entering the twenty- first century at this juncture, Anna. It’ll make us proud. And Utispatial are instrumental in making it happen.’
I don’t know what to say. It appears I’ve put my foot right into Julian’s pet project. Should I admit I’ve made a terrible mistake?
‘Of course, Julian. I’ll see that the Utispatial guys are re-invited to assess our floor.’
Julian waves his hand dismissively. ‘It’s already been taken care of. They are coming back after their coffee break. Why don’t you take some time to drill down, so you’re in the loop on all aspects of restructuring?’
In a patronizing gesture, he reaches for my hand and pats it gently.
‘As a very wise man said, hold on to the old just as long as it’s good, and grab the new as soon as it becomes better.’
I’m being dismissed. Drill down, I think as the lift door closes behind me. Have I been away from the office for too long?
I spend the rest of the afternoon drilling down to the very last word of every memo I’ve received in the past few weeks. By the end of play, as Julian would put it, I feel I’ve regained at least some understanding of what’s going on in the company ‘at this juncture’. It’s almost 9 p.m. It’s time to go home to Wispa. As I pack my bag I realize I can’t find my phone. Then I remember feeling it vibrate in my pocket as I was sitting on Julian’s sofa. It must’ve slipped out. I grab my things, close the door to my office and take the lift up to the executive floor. It’s dark there, but the ceiling lights come on as I walk down the corridor towards Julian’s office. I push the glass door, hoping it isn’t locked. Triggered by the movement, the light comes on and I turn towards Julian’s leather sofa. I gasp in surprise when I see someone sitting on it. In fact, it’s two people, one of them kneeling awkwardly in front of the other. They must be as surprised as I am, jump apart and face me. It’s Julian. And Gary. Not knowing what to do, I turn back towards the door.
‘Anna.’ I hear Julian’s voice and I stop.
He comes towards me, blocking my view of Gary, who is still sitting on the sofa.
‘My phone . . .’ I mumble.
‘Yes, you left it here,’ he says, sounding totally in control. ‘I meant to ask Laura to take it back to you. But it slipped my mind.’ He has the audacity to smile, then reaches towards his desk and gives me my phone back.
‘Thank you,’ I say quietly.
‘You’re welcome,’ he says, his voice relaxed and friendly. ‘And goodnight.’ As I back towards the door he adds, ‘Have a safe drive home.’
Thankfully, the lift is still there and the door opens immediately. I stab the U button for the car park and lean against the wall as the lift starts descending. I get into my car, close the door and let out a sigh of relief. As I turn the key in the ignition, my brain is still trying to process the scene I saw upstairs. Julian and Gary. I’ll be damned! I turn the radio on and turn the music up loud to drown a giggle I feel building up in my chest. I laugh so hard I have to pull over right by the exit from the car park. And then the song fades and the news comes on. There’s been another murder on the Heath. The police are not releasing any details at present. I switch the engine off and sit behind the wheel, numb, unable to move. When I start driving again I barely register the traffic around me. My mobile keeps ringing, relentlessly amplified by the car’s audio system. I get home on autopilot, stagger to the front door and let myself in. Wispa greets me by the door, but without her usual song-and-dance welcome routine. Just a few wags of the tail and she goes back to her bed. Strange. Maybe she’s pissed off with me for staying so long at work.
There are messages on my answerphone, but I ignore them. I go straight to the sitting room, curl up on the sofa and fall asleep. I wake up in the middle of the night, stumble upstairs, throw myself on the bed and fall asleep again, my brain escaping reality into a dark and dreamless slumber of nothingness.
Seventeen Days Later
I open my eyes and I know something is wrong. The house is eerily quiet. I don’t hear the soft snoring from Wispa that I usually wake up to. She is not by my bedside, where she normally sleeps.
‘Wispa!’ I call her and my voice echoes in a house that seems empty.
I get up and cautiously walk down to the kitchen. In the dull, morning light I see a dark, unmoving shape on the kitchen floor. I let out a cry and rush in. It’s Wispa. She’s lying on her side, her eyes closed, blood seeping from her nose. There’s more of it on the tiles, little puddles that look like urine mixed with blood. I kneel down by her and touch her neck. She doesn’t move but I think she’s alive. Quick, I need to get help for her. I grab my mobile and scroll down to Wispa’s vet, Beaumont Sainsbury Animal Hospital in Camden. To my relief they answer almost immediately. When I start chaotically describing Wispa’s condition, the receptionist interrupts me and tells me to bring the patient in straight away. I throw my tracksuit on, grab a blanket and roll Wispa as gently as I can onto it. Then I pull the blanket with Wispa on it to the door. She lets out a little moan but doesn’t open her eyes.
‘It will be all right, puppy, just hang on in there,’ I whisper as I look for my keys.
She is a big dog, much bigger than she should be, but fear for her life gives me Herculean strength. I carry her down the steps, lift her up and lie her down in the boot of the car. Within seconds I’m on the road. The traffic is bad, I’ve hit the eight o’clock rush hour, but I honk and push aggressively, overtaking slow drivers and breaking the speed limit all the way to Camden. I park on the double yellow line just outside the hospital and run into the surgery.
‘I have a sick dog, could someone give me a hand?’ I shout and a young, freckled receptionist rushes out with me. We carry Wispa in and the receptionist buzzes us straight into one of the examination rooms. The doctor is already there, waiting for us. He immediately starts to examine Wispa, then turns to the young receptionist and asks him to take me t
o the waiting room outside. When I protest, he gently moves me towards the door and tells me it will be better if I wait outside.
For the next twenty minutes I pace around the three waiting rooms, for dogs, for cats and for little furry animals, unable to sit down. Eventually the freckled receptionist calls me inside. We go to the same examination room, but Wispa isn’t there any more. I hold my breath, expecting the worst.
‘The vet will be with you in a minute,’ the receptionist tells me and asks me to sit down on one of the blue plastic chairs. Oh no, please don’t tell me she’s dead, I repeat like a mantra in my head. After what seems like an eternity, but is probably just a couple of minutes, the doctor enters the room.
‘It looks like Wispa may have eaten some rat poison,’ he says quietly.
‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘We don’t know yet, but we are doing everything we can to save her.’
I let out a sob and he puts his hand on my arm.
‘We’re conducting a complete blood profile to determine the severity of poisoning. We know from her history she’s a strong and healthy dog, which obviously works in her favour. Can you think of when and where she might have got hold of the poison? It usually comes in pellets, blocks or granules of any colour, teal, blue, green or pink. It’s grain- or sugar-based which makes it irresistible to rodents and dogs, unfortunately.’
I shake my head.
‘My dog walker takes her for a walk in the daytime and they usually go to the park.’ I hesitate. ‘Actually, she didn’t seem well last night . . .’
‘She may have ingested the poison several days ago without you noticing it. Two to five days usually.’
I shake my head again, unable to think that far back.
‘There are several types of rat poison: some of them kill instantly and some are cumulative and require multiple feeding to kill a rodent. We are hoping this is the kind she’s ingested: an anticoagulant that thins the blood and causes spontaneous and uncontrolled bleeding. Her bleeding nose and gums would suggest that. This is actually good news. If she had ingested another type of poison she’d be dead by now.’
I gasp and he gives me a tiny, reassuring smile.
‘We are giving her a blood transfusion and Vitamin K to restore normal blood clotting. It’s a very common type of poisoning in dogs and most of them, given the right care, manage to pull through. In Wispa’s case I hope we’ve caught it in time. But she’ll have to stay in intensive care for a while.’
Overwhelmed by a tearful wave of gratitude, I thank him profusely. He walks me out to the reception and tells me they’ll ring me later today to update me on Wispa’s progress.
As I drive back home, I’m trying to think where Wispa might have picked up the poison. It most likely happened on Chiara’s watch and I’ll never know. But wait, two days ago – the mad chase on the Heath and the note behind Wispa’s collar. The Dior Man. Why on earth would he want to harm her? I slow down and the car behind me honks and flashes headlights in annoyance. Was this supposed to be a message for me? Meaning what? No, this is crazy. As I pass Highgate Cemetery another image flashes in my memory. Bell’s funeral. A guy in a hoodie crouching next to Wispa. Oh God. It was him. He looked vaguely familiar, but who was he? Is it possible that someone actually gave Wispa the poison? That it wasn’t her penchant for eating any old rubbish that nearly killed her? Is it possible that someone was evil enough to want to kill my dog?
Deep in thought, I park the car and walk to my front door. I jump when I see a figure sitting on my doorstep. It’s DCI Jones, strangely informal in a pair of black jeans and a purple fleece. It strikes me she looks very much like Bell’s lesbian friends in their fifties: fleece, no frills, make-up free, avuncular.
‘Good morning, Anna.’ She gets up and notices my puffed-up face. ‘Are you all right?’
‘My dog has been poisoned.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. . .’ For once I can see she doesn’t know what to say. ‘Wispa, isn’t it? Is she all right?’
‘Don’t know yet. I found her in the kitchen this morning. She’d had a haemorrhage . . . I’ve just come back from the vet . . .’
‘Are they looking after her?’
‘Yes.’ I don’t want to talk to her, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to get rid of her easily.
‘Anna, we have to talk.’
‘What time is it?’
She looks at her watch. ‘Nearly ten.’
Shit, I’ll be late for work again.
‘I’m afraid you will be late for work,’ she voices my thought. ‘But it’s rather urgent.’
‘Do come in.’ I unlock the door and let her in. ‘Would you mind helping yourself to some coffee in the kitchen? I need to take a quick shower. It’ll only take five minutes.’
Without a word she looks at her watch again and nods. I dash upstairs and jump into the shower. As the hot water runs down my head and body, my stress eases off enough for me to remember the bloody mess in the kitchen. But when I come down the floor looks like it’s been wiped clean and there is a wet mop standing in the corner.
‘Thank you.’ I smile gratefully at DCI Jones and she instantly goes up in my estimation.
She gestures towards the kitchen table. It looks like she’s made coffee for both of us. Even more points for her. As we sit down she gives me a quick appreciative glance, taking in my fresh-from-the-shower look, and I know there’s still life in the avuncular DCI Jones. Then, it’s all business.
She opens a black folder and removes a postcard-sized photograph. She slides it across the table, until it’s by my coffee mug.
‘Do you know this man?’
As I look at the picture, my heart stops for a second, then starts thumping as if it wants to jump out of my chest. It’s a photograph of the Dior Man. I pick up the photo, biding my time. I notice that my hand is shaking and I put the photo back down. Have they caught him? Is he the Heath killer after all?
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’m afraid it’s my turn to ask questions.’ She sounds stern.
I look at the photo again. It’s a casual snapshot. He’s smiling at the camera, hands in his trouser pockets, some blurred office furniture in the background. I’ve never seen him smile. DCI Jones is watching me closely. I have to give her something.
‘I may have seen him while jogging on the Heath . . .’
‘When?’
‘I’m not quite sure . . . Definitely before . . . it all started.’
‘Could you try to concentrate and give me a more specific timeline?’
‘What is it all about? Have you caught him? Is he the Heath killer?’
She looks at me without saying anything, as if mulling a decision over. Then she reaches for the photograph.
‘You have probably heard that there was another killing on the Heath last Sunday. This man,’ she points to the photo, ‘was the victim.’
Suddenly the surface of the table, DCI Jones and my kitchen seem very far away. I take a deep breath, aware that I might faint. Slowly everything comes back into focus and I see DCI Jones’s expectant face.
‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ I mumble. ‘He’s dead?’
‘We believe he was killed by the same person who attacked Belinda and all the other women in the park.’
‘But he is . . . was . . . a man.’
‘Yes.’ She nods and a strange expression flickers across her face.
‘It . . . doesn’t make sense . . .’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ She puts the photograph down. ‘Anna, I believe you haven’t been honest with me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think you know exactly what I mean. I think you’ve been withholding vital information. You know something about the Heath killings. You are somehow linked to the deaths. And,’ she taps the photograph, ‘you know this man.’
‘Are you going to arrest me?’ The more she pushes me, the more belligerent I feel.
‘If need be.’ She shrugs h
er shoulders. ‘Anna, listen to me. I’m not saying you are responsible in any way for the killings. Absolutely not. You are not a suspect. But you know there is a link between the killings and yourself. And this is the thing you’re not telling me.’
She picks up her mug and gets up, trying to hide her frustration.
‘Do you mind if I make myself another coffee?’
‘Help yourself.’ I wave in the direction of the Nespresso machine. ‘Actually, I’ll have one too.’ I get up and join her. As the coffee maker goes through its slurping cycle, she looks at me.
‘I’d like you to accompany me on a walk through the Heath. And a visit to the latest crime scene.’ She puts her hand on my shoulder when she sees me recoil in horror. ‘Don’t worry, the forensics are done with it. It’s just a piece of grass cordoned off by white and blue tape.’
‘When?’
‘Now would be a good time.’
‘I need to go to work . . .’ I protest feebly.
‘I’m afraid this takes priority over work. Please let them know you’ll be late. Unless you want me to contact them on your behalf?’
‘No, thank you.’ I get up in search of my phone. There are eleven unanswered calls and six new voicemail messages on it. I speed-dial Claire’s number and leave her a message.
‘Well, we might as well go now, if you insist.’ I’m not attempting to hide my annoyance.
‘Thank you.’
As we leave the house I’m expecting DS Kapoor to be waiting for us in a marked car. Instead I’m being led to a red Mini Roadster. There’s definitely more to DCI Jones than meets the eye. She’s a fast and confident driver and she clearly enjoys the drive. She parks the car in Merton Lane, exactly where I’d park if I ever drove to the Heath.
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