by JJ Marsh
“Cheers, Ray. But I’m dead on my feet and I got to be back here at eleven tomorrow. How about we have one tomorrow night? I don’t have to get up so early on a Sunday.”
“Won’t say no to that. I’m knackered and all. Listen, how you getting home?”
“Same way as always. Night bus. I got another fifteen minutes, so you want me to mop behind the bar, or what?”
Ray scratched his scalp through its scanty covering of grey hair.
“Tell you what, I want to get some chips for Pam and me, so why don’t I give you a lift? You go check the ladies’ for me and I’ll tell the missus what’s going on.”
“You sure? It’s out of your way.” Jules could have kissed his grey-stubbled cheek.
“Yeah, no bother. All the talk about that pervert round the station, you shouldn’t be out at this time of night, not on your own. Go on, sort out the bogs and we’ll be off.”
The ladies’ toilet was on the first floor, and it was quite normal for the queue to stretch right across the landing to the top of the stairs at the weekends. Only two cubicles and one was always out of order. Dragging a bin bag from the wall cupboard, Jules pulled on rubber gloves and steeled herself.
After she shoved open the door, she observed the usual shambles. Overflowing bin, wet toilet roll all over the floor, a smell of urine and vomit and a pair of tights left in the sink. Goodnight, ladies. Hauling the worst of the mess into the bag, she nudged open the cubicle doors. More soggy toilet roll and a discarded lip gloss. Not half bad for a Friday night. Some of the things she’d found in there you wouldn’t believe. Used condoms, soiled knickers, a bag of courgettes and on one memorable occasion, an unconscious anorexic from Stoke Newington.
“Jules? You done, love?” Ray called up the stairs.
“Just about. It’s not too bad tonight.” She pulled off the gloves and closed the landing window. Focused on the stubborn catch, her eyes registered the movement on the street just a second too late. Something had retreated into the darkness of the dry cleaner’s doorway. She turned off the light and peered out. It was pitch black in that recess. Nothing moved. She gave up and carried the bag downstairs.
“Listen sweetheart, Pam don’t want chips, after all. But I’ll walk you to the night bus. Like I say, I feel better if I know you’re safe, innit?”
His face relaxed into the well-worn grooves of an easy smile.
“You don’t have to do that, Ray.” But she hoped he would.
“Yeah, yeah. Come on, Droopy Drawers, shake a leg. Pam’s doing me a toasted sandwich.”
They left through the back door and as they exited the alley onto Adolphus Road, Jules tucked her arm into Ray’s and resisted the urge to look at the dry cleaner’s doorway. Ray was still enthusing about his Breville.
“And then I discovered ham, cheese and pineapple. Never looked back. Ray’s Hawaiian, I call it. You got a top toastie filling, Jules?”
“I don’t really eat them. Bit fatty for me.”
“That’s half your trouble, innit? If you was to eat a toastie now and then, there might be a bit more of you. You women, always counting the calories, you want to live a little.”
As they turned onto Alexandra Grove, a shadow in Jules’s peripheral vision caused her to stop. She snapped her head around and stared, convinced she’d seen the peak of a baseball cap ducking into the dark.
Ray stopped. “What?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” They resumed walking.
“Jules, love, you can’t let yourself get too jumpy. Just keep safe, girl, and don’t take no risks. But don’t go leaping at your own shadow, eh?”
“Yeah. I know. Just all this stuff makes you a bit ... you know. Oh shit, there’s the bus. Cheers, Ray, see you in the morning.”
Her jazz pumps were useful behind the bar, but essential when running for the bus. She could never have shot across Seven Sisters Road like that in heels. Turned out she didn’t need to; there was a small queue which took a while to board. She sat halfway back on the bottom deck, looking ahead at her reflection in the glass. Under the brutal lights, her image was unappealing. Tired, drawn and thin as a rake. How come size eight looked good in magazines, but haggard on her? She turned her attention out the window to see if Ray had gone. No sign of his cardigan-clad shape. The bus closed its doors, before opening them again for one final passenger. Jules almost didn’t see him, still gazing down Alexandra Grove after dear old Ray, but as he approached, her skin cooled and she raised her eyes. She looked away instantly, tasting the sour metal of fear. He passed her without a glance and sat somewhere further back.
The baseball cap. She recognised it straight away. The Starer. All night, she’d felt his eyes on her. Not that you could see much of his eyes, with that cap pulled down low. He’d positioned himself on the corner of the bar, so the pillar hid him from sight. But she’d worked there for over a year so she knew where the mirrors were. Reaching up to an optic, she saw him lean so as he could see her. Handing over change for the fruit machine, he watched. Now when some bloke watches you all evening, but leaves without even saying goodnight, it’s a bit peculiar. Sometimes they want to ask you out, but can’t pluck up the guts. She could understand that. But when someone watches you all night and follows you from outside the pub? She could understand that too. And it frightened her to death.
He was behind her, somewhere. She didn’t need to turn; she could feel that cold observation. Just keep safe, girl. She was safe on public transport, full of the public. Only when she got off would she be in any danger. She had to make a plan. The glass behind the driver reflected an indistinct image. She saw herself, pressed against the window. Directly behind her, a young Chinese guy, whose earphones emitted repetitive treble tones, sat in his own little world. And two seats back, staring at the back of her neck, him.
Don’t get too jumpy. She wasn’t. That guy was following her. No question about it. And when she got off, he would follow her home. No way. She wasn’t going to show him where she lived. Leave one stop early, but get someone to come and meet her. Slipping her hand into her bag, she located her mobile. No point calling John, he’d be out cold by now. Who, then? Most people were in bed. Quick, Jules, think. You’ve got seven stops to work something out. Aaron? He’d still be up, but God knows where and who with. Or she could just walk up the front there and tell the driver that she was being stalked. He could take her to the police station.
Her eyes lifted to the reflection in the glass ahead. His cap was pulled down, so all she could see was his chin, and his mouth. She had no idea if he was looking at the glass or at the back of her neck. Neither was good. The Chinese guy rang the bell and stood up, ready to leave at the next stop. Her stalker stood up too. Jules’s surprise switched to panic as she watched him slide into the Chinese bloke’s spot. Right behind her. She could smell him. He stank. Her shoulders stiffened and her pulse picked up.
The tune to Sex in the City bursting into life almost made her lose her grip on the handset. Aaron. Why the hell was that little bugger calling at quarter to one?
“Aaron? Where are you?”
“All right, Mum? You aren’t home.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Where the hell are you?”
There was a pause. She never normally spoke to him like that, but fear made her sharp.
“Still at the Snooker Club. Thing is, Mum, I’ve sort of run out of cash. I thought, maybe if you were home, you could jump in the car and come up here to give me a lift.”
The Snooker Club. Two stops further on, so they could get the bus back home together. Thank God. Relief and outrage combined to hone her tongue.
“Oh you did, did you? After I’ve been on my feet from six till twelve, earning some cash to keep us afloat, while you piss it away with your mates. Then you spend everything you’ve got, can’t get home and expect your mother to sort it out. When are you going to learn to wipe your own arse, Aaron? I am so sick of this selfish, ignorant bloody attitude. Nineteen years on and I am still carrying you, you
little shit!”
“Mum!”
“I’ll be there in under ten minutes and you had better be outside, waiting. Because if I have to come in there, Aaron Michael, you are going to fucking well regret it. I am NOT in the mood for this!” Her teeth were clenched, aware that her speech was directed as much behind her as into the mouthpiece.
“All right, Mum. Jesus! I’ll go and stand outside now, OK? And I’m sorry, I really am.”
“Talk to the hand, Aaron.” She ended the call and clenched her hands to stop them from shaking. She wasn’t exactly sure what ‘talk to the hand’ actually meant, but the way Aaron used it was the equivalent of sticking your fingers in your ears and going, ‘Ner ner ner ner’. Pretty much how she felt right now.
The bell tinged, requesting a stop. Her eyes flicked back to the glass. Stalker moved to the door. Jules held her breath, facing forward.
The doors opened, his long coat swung out into the night and he was gone. Jules watched him walk off, just in case. The bus pulled away. He’d gone. He left her alone. Thank God. Thank Aaron.
She was three stops away from her son.
Aaron. Her accidental saviour. And as soon as she saw him, she was going to kick his arse.
Chapter 17
Insomnia isn’t always a bad thing, Beatrice thought. Something about the combination of Matthew’s company, which inevitably involved fine dining on a Friday night, and a feeling of officially sanctioned disengagement tended to bestow a sense of release, relief and indulgence at the weekend. She always slept far better on Friday and Saturday nights. So what the hell was she doing poring over spreadsheets at five o’clock on Saturday morning?
This guy’s following the pattern as if he’s read the manual.
Patterns.
She skimmed the skin off her coffee with a teaspoon, took a sip and ran the program again. Dates, times and locations formed an unmistakeable link. And an ugly one at that. Even when the coffee was cool, the results were the same. Beatrice ran it again. One more time, she tried to prove herself wrong.
“Beatrice? What’s wrong?”
“Hello, Virginia. I’m sorry to call so early, but I need to ask you a question. Who operates the CCTV cameras at Finsbury Park Tube?”
“The cameras? I don’t know. Shit, Beatrice, it’s ten to seven. On Saturday. And you want names of the camera operators right now?”
“Not names, although I suspect that will be necessary in time. What I want to know is which organisation is responsible for observing the daily footage of all the British Transport Police cameras in the Finsbury Park area.”
“Well, that would be the London Underground and DLR. We share footage with the Met or City of London police when required, but everyday surveillance is carried out by our own people. Why?”
“I see. That’s both good and bad news. Look, Virginia, I think I’ve found something rather disturbing. But I don’t want to spoil your weekend lie-in. I can call back later this morning, if you like?”
“How much sleep do you think I’m likely to get after your telling me you’ve ‘found something rather disturbing’? Come on, I’m awake now.”
“Very well. I don’t suppose you have the case files to hand?”
“Of course I do. They’re right here, under my pillow.” Virginia’s voice was tetchy.
“Sorry. It is a bit early, I suppose. Well, I’m sitting here in front of my computer and I’ve spotted a pattern ...”
Ninety minutes later, Beatrice allowed herself a small celebration. Exotic fruit, miso soup or a salmon bagel may well do wonders for the mind, but on certain occasions, nothing in the world can beat a bacon sandwich. Large streaky rashers curling and spitting away in the pan. Two thick white slices warming in the toaster, a bottle of HP and the papers waiting on the table. The Independent for her, The Times for him. The espresso machine gurgled and hissed on the hob. The sunshine, their imminent breakfast and the thought of Matthew still crumpled under the sheets had already elevated Beatrice’s mood. But the real reason for optimism was the revelation which had struck her in the wee small hours. They were closing in. She began to whistle.
“Good morning. And thank you.” Matthew’s hair resembled an unkempt guinea pig, and both pyjamas and slippers were candidates for the bin.
“Good morning.” She kissed him lightly and returned to the coffee. “Are you thanking me for the breakfast, or my angelic dawn chorus? Do you want tomatoes?”
“Always. Tomatoes are the civilised person’s brown sauce. And the cumulative effect of bacon, fresh newsprint and my loved one whistling Simon Jeffes would make any man happy to be alive.” He drew the papers to him and checked the headlines. “Dare I ask why you are so chirpy?”
Beatrice ladled rashers onto bread, shaking off fat, and transferred mugs and plates to the table.
“I’ve had an idea. Bon appétit.” She gave the sauce bottle a hefty whack, dolloping a brown stain across a Warburton’s Thickest Slice.
“Bon appétit to you too. An idea about what?” He said, cutting plump beef tomatoes onto his plate.
“The case.” She placed the sauced slice atop the bacon and pressed down. “I woke up at four this morning, put together a spreadsheet and proved myself right.” She took a large, satisfying bite. A superlative sandwich: classic, comforting and containing all the optimism of a Saturday morning.
Matthew poured a glass of pink grapefruit juice and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Right about what? Spit it out, woman, I want to eat my breakfast.”
Beatrice swallowed and smiled. “The women we interviewed gave us some useful information. But the most interesting was the timing. He does nothing for a week, then he attacks. It’s every other week. Now in the early stages, it’s just one incident. Recently, he’s stepped up his activity. But still only every other week. What does that tell you?”
Matthew thought as he drank his juice. “Build-up, I’d say. The man is compulsive and has to expose himself, for whatever reason. He does so, feels temporarily satisfied, and it takes a few days for the itch to return. Also, for fear of capture, he returns to his lair.”
“So why two in the same week? Why not save one for the week after?”
“Extra itchy? I’m clueless, Old Thing. Put me out of my misery.”
“He can’t. For some reason, he only has the freedom to serve his urges on certain weeks. Shift work.”
“Oh, I see. A night worker, perhaps? Used to being awake when others are not, spending a week of boredom, possibly fantasising the time away, until finally he is released. Yet unreleased.”
“Matthew, you are the most wonderful man I know. If it weren’t for your snobbishness about brown sauce, you would have a fine mind. But let’s go one step further. He works every other week in a job which enables him to see these women. He studies their habits, learns their routines and then, when he’s free to do so, he goes after them. He’s never been seen on a CCTV camera, not arriving, not leaving. Tell me, why would that be?”
He dabbed his mouth with a piece of kitchen roll. “This coffee is simply perfect. Better than anything I’ve ever had in Italy. Right, his habits indicate a study of his environment. You say the only link is the fact the women use public transport. And they are all working-class women, some on the poverty line. Therefore, so is he. He works shifts in a factory of some sort and thus sees these poor females on his journey to or from work. He follows them, selects the ones that he thinks will cause him the least trouble and picks his moment. Do I get a gold star?”
Beatrice popped the corner of her sandwich into her mouth. Matthew’s eyes strayed to the broadsheets. She needed him to pay attention.
“How, Matthew? How does he see them? How can he follow them? Why does he avoid all the CCTV cameras?”
“Because ... because he knows where the cameras are?”
Beatrice’s smile spread. “Well done. Gold star. So?”
“We’re not finished yet? I thought our tradition was to breakfast silently, digesting fine food and f
resh press. This morning feels like a boot camp for my brain. You’ll suggest jogging next.”
“He works shifts, he watches cameras, he plans his attacks. Matthew, I am in no doubt. He works for the British Transport Police. He’s one of ours.”
His sandwich returned to the plate. “That is a most unpleasant thought.”
“Unpleasant. But correct.”
“What do you intend to do about it?”
“Last week, he attacked twice. So this week, he’s back at work. We have to identify him and set a trap. I spoke to Virginia about an hour ago and we’re meeting at ten. I’m sorry, Matthew, but I did warn you. We have seven days to stop him, we can’t afford not to.”
“I understand. Please don’t concern yourself about me. I thought I might say hello to Adrian, see if he fancies a trip to The Wine Academy. They have a course on perfect accompaniments for cheese today.”
“Good idea. That’ll give you both something to pontificate about for weeks.”
Satisfied, Beatrice picked up the other half of her sandwich and opened The Independent. Matthew gave a theatrical sigh of relief and started on his breakfast.
Eager to get to work, Beatrice arrived at quarter to ten. Virginia was already waiting, in jodhpur-style trousers with loafers and a flimsy white shirt. She indicated a paper bag on the desk.
“Muffins and cappuccinos. I thought we deserved it. Hope you haven’t had breakfast?”
Beatrice inhaled the aromas of coffee and cake. “No one could call one bacon sandwich breakfast. And as I was up with the dark, this is practically elevenses. Have you had thoughts?”
Virginia smiled as she unpacked the breakfast bag. “Yes, a few. First, we need a photo of every man on last week’s day shift, to try for a positive ID.”
“I agree. And when we know who it is, we have to make him believe we’re looking the wrong way. He’ll be on nights this week.”
“Blueberry or double chocolate?”
“Do you really need to ask?”
“Here.” Virginia passed over the cake and coffee. “When you say, ‘looking the wrong way’, you mean make him think we’re following false leads?”