‘James?’ I laugh.
‘Has he ever harmed you?’
‘No, never.’
‘He hasn’t been violent in any way?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’ A cold shiver runs through me. ‘God . . . what are you suggesting?’
DCI Jones raises both her hands as if to stop me. ‘As I said, we have to consider all the possibilities.’
‘Including the possibility that he is a rapist and a killer!’
She doesn’t answer.
‘I’d been with the man for three years! I know him. He can be a bit of an arrogant arsehole at times, self-absorbed and with a huge ego, but who isn’t these days? He is also generous, funny and caring. He is a normal guy, not some deranged psycho attacking people on the Heath.’
She nods. ‘I hear you.’
‘Is that all you wanted to ask me about?’ I get up abruptly, my chair making a scraping noise on the floor.
‘Yes, thank you, I have no further questions.’ DCI Jones gets up as well.
‘Good.’ I go towards the door.
‘I do appreciate you stopping by, Anna. Oh, I hope your dog is better. And good luck with the redundancy.’
‘Thank you.’ I look at her coldly. ‘And goodbye.’
I leave her office and almost immediately get lost trying to find my way out. When I eventually find the exit, my anger has gone. Why did I react so emotionally to DCI Jones’s questions about James? Is it because she’s implied something that I have been suppressing in my thoughts from the very beginning? Could James really be the Heath attacker? Is he on some insane revenge trip following our break-up?
I cross the street, but instead of taking the tube I decide to walk home. I turn left and follow Highgate Road. Then I stop abruptly as I remember the teddy-bear incident. A man who’s been walking behind me nearly bumps into me. He mumbles something when I apologize, then turns and walks away in the opposite direction. A Kentish Town weirdo, I think as my mind goes back to the teddy bear. It was strange from the start, the way it got nicked from my car, to reappear in the window of a charity shop. Could it have been a sign from James, a message that I’d been unworthy of his presents and his love? No, I decide, it would have been completely out of character. James doesn’t do big, dramatic gestures. His emotional imagination doesn’t stretch beyond ordering a stuffed toy delivery on the Internet. Is he capable of a jealous rage? The more I think about it, the less likely it seems. My relationship with James was fun at the beginning, but it had always been lukewarm. James is not a man of great passion, he’s reserved and guarded emotionally. Under the cuddly cagnolino di peluche facade sits a rather withdrawn, repressed even, cautious man. Not a deranged rapist.
I decide I deserve a treat for my efforts today and stop at the Bull & Last for lunch. Their menu overwhelms, as usual. After a long deliberation I choose handmade ravioli of cavolo nero, with ricotta and hazelnut, raisins, radicchio and brown butter. And I don’t regret it. Good food takes my mind off killers and redundancies, and I don’t think of either until I get home and check my phone for messages. There is a voicemail from Anthea, the HR goddess, inviting me for a meeting tomorrow at 11.30 in the morning. It is for real, then, I haven’t dreamt the whole redundancy thing up. It’s time to let my friends know I’m becoming jobless.
Twenty Days Later
It feels weird driving to work with no purpose of working at all. At the car park my space has been taken by a white Lexus RX 450h. Dead-man’s shoes, I think, although I know perfectly well it’s standard practice to take someone else’s parking spot if the person isn’t there by 11 a.m.
As I take the lift to my floor, I brace myself for a collective display of sympathy. In fact, the office seems strangely empty, with just a couple of heads barely visible from behind their computer screens. But Claire is there and she greets me with genuine distress in her eyes.
‘Anna, I’ve just heard, I’m so sorry . . .’
‘It’s OK, darling, I’ll live. In fact, I’m looking forward to a life of leisure.’ I keep it light, to avoid the unnecessary tears. ‘Where is everybody?’
‘Downstairs in the conference room. Julian’s called in an urgent departmental meeting.’
‘He’s probably announcing my redundancy. Clever timing, I must say. Everyone’s out of the way when I come in, so no one will get contaminated by my bile.’
‘I don’t know what to say . . . It’s been such a shock.’
‘Don’t worry, Claire. It happens, probably more often than we think.’
‘But you’ve been here from the start, it’s your baby.’
‘Well, obviously the baby’s grown up and it doesn’t need me any more.’
‘Everyone will want to say goodbye to you. Will you want a farewell party?’
There is nothing I want less than the humiliation of my own redundancy party.
‘Probably not, but thanks for thinking about it. Just a card signed by everyone and an engraved clock for my mantelpiece will do.’
Claire is so distressed she doesn’t seem to be able to appreciate my joke. I give her a hug and it actually feels good. The idea that someone needs comforting more than I do makes me feel stronger.
I take the lift upstairs and knock on Anthea’s door. She opens it instantly, as if she’s been waiting for me with her hand on the doorknob. So keen to get rid of me.
The meeting is short and polite. I stick to Gillian’s advice: ‘Keep it soft, don’t agree to anything, don’t sign anything, take their offer and bring it to me.’ Instead of discussing details I try to draw Anthea into a conversation on a more personal level. But when it comes to the emotional implications of redundancy, the queen of HR shows the empathy of a concrete wall. I quickly realize there is no point prolonging the superficial exchange. I’ve read somewhere that HR employees are like estate agents. They always pretend to be on your side, but ultimately cover the back of whoever pays them. And since I’m out of the game, I’m no longer of interest to Anthea. I collect the offer documents and leave. I take the lift straight to the car park, having managed to avoid meeting anyone on the way down. I get into my car and go through the papers Anthea has given me. The offer seems good, amounting to nearly a year’s salary. But let’s wait and see what Gillian has got to say about it. I pick up the phone and dial her number. The deep-voiced secretary tells me Ms Foster will see me this afternoon at 4 p.m.
I’m leaving the car park for what I hope is the last time when my phone rings, relayed via Bluetooth to my car speakers. It’s the vet surgery and the news is good. I can pick up Wispa today. Great, I’m on my way, I tell the receptionist, quietly acknowledging the fact that there are good sides to being unemployed. Like being able to pick up your dog from the vet in the middle of the day, for instance. When I arrive at the Beaumont Sainsbury Hospital Wispa greets me with a display of happiness so intense I burst into tears. She seems fine, perhaps slightly surprised by my strange behaviour. She’ll have to take it easy for a week or two, I’m told, and I assure the nurse who’s been looking after her that Wispa’s middle name is ‘taking it easy’. As I pay the bill I make a mental note to look into dog insurance. But even the hefty sum I’ve had to fork out just now doesn’t cloud the joy I feel at having Wispa back. She curls in her usual place in the boot of my car and suddenly my life feels almost complete.
The detour to the vet still leaves me with plenty of time to do some shopping for an impromptu dinner I’ve arranged for tonight. Sue and Michael are invited, and Michael is bringing a ‘new man’ with him, a guy he met recently through mutual friends and whom he actually likes a lot. I stop at Waitrose on the way home and luxuriate in browsing the empty aisles that are normally packed with irate middle-class people at weekends. Despite having spent a small fortune, I realize I’ve forgotten a few vital ingredients for my dinner and decide to stop in the village High Street on the way. There is a parking space right at the top of Highgate Hill, so I leave snoozing Wispa in the car and walk up to the shops. I subconsciously pic
k up the leisurely rhythm of a midday stroll with nowhere to rush to and stop by the bookshop, checking their window display. I might actually have time to read books now, I think, and I go inside. I emerge with a handful of exciting new titles: Margaret Atwood, William Boyd, Donna Tartt and Sebastian Faulks. This should keep me happy for a while. I’m just about to cross the street when I hear someone calling my name. I turn and see Tom, waving at me.
‘Long time no see!’
‘Yes, it’s been a while.’ I remind myself I have no reason to run away screaming from him, the man hasn’t actually done anything bad except try to be friendly. And as to his wife’s ridiculous request, well, I have been avoiding him long enough.
‘I was so sorry to hear the terrible news.’ He looks genuinely concerned.
‘Oh well, it was a bit of a shock, but I’m getting used to it.’ I wonder how he knows about my redundancy.
He looks at me strangely. ‘What a tragedy. She was your very close friend, wasn’t she?’
‘Oh . . . Bell . . . yes, I’m sorry, I thought you meant . . .’ I instantly hate myself for forgetting about her for a moment. I’m clearly turning into a self-absorbed monster, shallow and uncaring. Whoever called me a heartless bitch was right.
‘Are you all right?’ He puts his hand on my arm.
‘Yes . . . no . . . I’m fine, thank you, Tom.’
‘Samantha and I meant to call you, to offer our condolences . . . and help . . .’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘But at least your partner’s back, so you don’t have to deal with it on your own. There’s nothing worse than—’
‘My partner?’ It comes out a bit too aggressively.
‘Your . . . boyfriend?’ He looks at me strangely again.
‘Oh, you mean Michael?’ Of course, he’s seen him at my house a couple of times.
‘No, not the gay guy . . .’ He stops, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . It’s just that I saw your ex leaving the house just now and I thought—’
‘My ex?’
‘Erm . . . I don’t know his name, but I’d seen him around in the past—’
‘You saw a man leaving my house just now?’ I scream at him.
‘Well –’ Tom, clearly taken aback, looks at his watch awkwardly – ‘five minutes ago . . .’
‘Oh God . . .’ I turn away from him and start running in the direction of my street.
‘Anna!’ I hear Tom’s voice behind me. ‘Are you OK? Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, I’m fine! See you later!’ I shout back as the books slip out from under my arm and scatter on the pavement. I quickly pick them up and trot up the hill.
My street is empty, there are no passers-by and no moving cars. I reach my house, run up the front steps and try the door. It’s locked. I unlock it and walk in cautiously. It’s quiet inside. I take out my phone, dial 999 and hold my finger above the green dial button as I walk into the kitchen. Everything seems as I left it this morning. The same quiet stillness greets me in the sitting room. I slowly walk upstairs. There’s no one there and nothing looks out of place. I go down to the kitchen and check the back door. It’s locked and intact. The same goes for all the windows downstairs. I switch off my phone, go back to the front door and inspect the lock. There is nothing wrong with it, no signs of tampering or forced entry. Then I remember the set of keys Bell had with her when she was attacked. I look through recent calls on my phone and dial a number. She answers on the second ring.
‘DCI Jones – Vic – this is Anna Wright.’
‘Yes, Anna, how can I help you?’ There is a lot of background noise, as if she’s in a busy office.
‘I think James has just been to my house.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘No, I haven’t, but he was seen leaving my house.’
‘By whom?’
‘By Tom. I’ve just bumped into him in the High Street and he casually mentioned he’d just seen my boyfriend leaving the house.’
‘Tom Collins?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does Tom know James?’
‘No . . . yes . . . I don’t know. He said he’d seen him around. He was adamant it wasn’t Michael.’
‘OK.’ I can hear doors closing and Vic’s voice is clearer now. ‘Why would Tom volunteer this information?’
‘He was concerned I’d be upset after Bell’s death. And said it was good my boyfriend was back.’
‘It is a rather odd thing to say.’ DCI Jones falls silent and I must admit I’m beginning to agree with her. ‘Have you checked the house? Is anything missing or disturbed?’
‘No, not as far as I can tell.’ I’m beginning to have doubts about the whole thing. ‘But, Vic, the keys . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘The set Bell had with her when she got attacked. The set you’ve never found. Whoever murdered her must have it. And if James . . .’ I can’t find the words to finish the sentence.
‘Yes, I see. We’ll speak to Tom to confirm what he saw exactly. Would you like me to send DS Kapoor to check on you later today?’
‘No, thank you. I have friends coming over for dinner, I’ll be fine.’
‘Good.’
I put the phone down, feeling silly about calling her. It does seem strange that Tom should stop me to tell me about James. How does he know who James and Michael are, anyway? But what if he was right and James really was at my house? A cold shiver runs across my back. No, I can’t let it wind me up again. It’s all supposition, without a shred of tangible proof. But, to be on the safe side, I’m going to call the locksmith and change my locks once again.
I remember Wispa and the shopping I’ve left in my car and dash out to retrieve the car from Highgate Hill. When I get back home I have just enough time to start dinner preparations and then I have to go out again to see Ms Foster. It’s amazing how quickly a day goes when you don’t have to work.
Gillian greets me warmly, offers tea and biscuits, then goes quickly through the documents I’ve received from Anthea. She puts the papers down with a triumphant glint in her eyes.
‘It’s a good offer, way above the statutory minimum.’
‘Are we accepting it, then?’
‘Oh, no. We’re going for the jugular.’
‘The jugular?’
‘When did you learn about your redundancy?’
‘Two days ago.’
‘And you had no inkling it was going to happen? No warning? No one had talked to you about it?’
‘No, never.’
‘Fabulous.’ Gillian takes a sip of her tea. ‘We are going to get them for the lack of consultation.’
‘Consultation?’
‘Employers should always consult with you before making you redundant. They have clearly failed to do that. I’m really surprised such a huge corporation would trip over something so basic. We are going to wave unfair dismissal at them and see what happens. We have them by the short and curlies, Anna.’
I leave Ms Foster’s office with this image in my head.
My guests arrive just as I’m putting my Parmigiana di Melanzane into the oven. They have all brought little treats for Wispa to welcome her home and I have to heartlessly hide them from her, as I know she’d eat them all at once. Michael’s new man is called Giorgio. He’s tall and lean, with the youthful energy of someone who wants to do too much at once. He’s brought an exquisite bottle of Barolo, which will go nicely with my aubergine dish. I like him instantly. Michael goes straight to my Bose sound system and chooses Max Richter as our background music. As we nibble on olives, bocconcini and Italian bread, I tell them about my visit to Gillian Foster and my redundancy.
‘Here’s to Ms Foster having them by the short and curlies.’ Michael raises his glass.
‘And that Julian character, he deserves the wrath of a thousand harpies,’ adds Giorgio.
I haven’t mentioned walking in on Julian and Gary, but the image I’ve painted of the man is enough f
or anyone to dislike him.
‘I’m sure she’s capable of that.’ Sue clinks her glass with mine. ‘You’ll see, even though it feels devastating now, it’ll turn out to be one of the best turns in your career. You’ve been in that golden cage for too long.’
‘You’re probably right. But it’s the sudden loss of power that feels humiliating right now. One moment I’m fine and the next I feel this cold fist tightening in my stomach.’
‘Fear.’ Michael nods his head. ‘I know the feeling. It’s one of the paradoxes of our lives. Having a permanent job gives us a totally false sense of security. We believe the job is going to last forever, and of course it never does. But take away this fickle safety net and we suddenly crumble to the ground, paralysed with fear.’
‘It takes a lot of guts to go freelance,’ says Sue.
‘Yes, but at least you know what to expect from freelance life.’
‘Permanent insecurity?’ Giorgio smiles at Michael.
‘Well, it doesn’t come as a shock when the work’s suddenly not there.’
‘I think it’s always a shock. We’re only adapting to the increasing voltage.’
‘What do you do, Giorgio?’
‘I’m a light rebel.’
‘And you happen to be a very talented architect,’ throws in Michael.
‘Oh, that,’ Giorgio dismisses it with a wave of his hand, ‘that’s just a day job. Light rebellion is my passion.’
‘Light rebellion?’
‘It’s a form of street art. I use light to reclaim the streets, to introduce colour and life into the dullness of urban landscape.’
‘It’s quite fascinating.’ It’s Michael again, unable to hide his awe of Giorgio. ‘He has this van, equipped with state of the art lighting gear, all computerized and motion controlled. Thousands of lumens on wheels.’
‘How do you do it?’
‘It’s a bit like architectural lighting, but with an added dimension. I started with simple shapes that I’d colour with spotlights. I’d go out at night, looking for derelict buildings, shabby exteriors, black and white street art pieces, then I’d fill them with colour, photograph them and scram.’
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