by Rachael Blok
‘Maybe it’s something to do with who built it? Some kind of lifelong vendetta,’ Maarten says, refocusing. ‘Did someone die in the building of it? Can we get some background on the build, any accidents?’
Adrika scribbles notes as Maarten walks around the graveyard. There aren’t many graves here. ‘I wonder how you do get buried? There must be hoops to jump through.’
‘I’ll look into that, too. I’ll get a list of anyone who has been turned down. See if anything turns up,’ Adrika says. She pauses and leans to look at something on the ground. ‘Who’s been drinking by this grave?’ She pulls out a plastic bag and, slipping her hand into it, holds aloft a blue plastic wine glass, the kind you take on picnics. She sniffs. ‘Red wine. Someone’s left it by mistake, it’s not a cheap one. And by our grave. Who’s been celebrating this?’
Maarten considers. ‘Probably just kids. Let’s get it checked for prints. You never know. Someone might think they’ve got away with something?’
Adrika speaks into her radio before heading up the steps to the entrance. She pushes the heavy doors open and Maarten can see the chequered floor leading down to the altar, beneath the patterned dome. The squares are tilted for a diamond floor. The ceiling is tall; the white inside is startling.
‘Built to imitate the columns found in the temple to Apollo on the island of Delos. Greek revival style, not technically Palladian.’ Adrika is reading from a printed leaflet stacked on a side table.
‘Apollo had a sister called Artemis, the goddess of hunting, protector of young girls. Think there might be something in that?’
Adrika pulls a face. ‘I have no idea.’
It’s cool as they enter.
‘I can see why they built these in Greece,’ Adrika says. ‘I’m sure it’s even hotter today.’ She fans herself with the leaflet and shakes out her brown bob.
Maarten sits on one of the wooden seats. He knows he’s about to ask a question that might be inappropriate, or might veer slightly outside of the scope he’s used to when talking to Adrika, but he’s realising more and more that with her previous involvement, Harper Carroll’s clear offer of help with this case might be what they need in the next few weeks.
‘What is the problem with DI Carroll?’ he asks. He doesn’t look at her – he looks instead at the high, white ceiling, where a huge circle sits inside the stone lattice pattern. A bit, he thinks, like a large, intricate waffle.
Adrika hasn’t answered, and Maarten doesn’t speak. Minutes play out, but this heat makes it easier to sit. The warmth seems to absorb the silence.
‘We used to be in a relationship,’ Adrika says finally. ‘We were together for a few years, and then it ended. It ended badly. I haven’t – or hadn’t – seen her since. The first time…’ Adrika pauses.
Maarten gazes upwards resolutely, listening, counting the squares in the ceiling.
‘Well, when I turned up at the station for the crime scene at the Seabrooks’ house, there she was. Exactly the same. In charge, in control… Well, you’ve met her.’ Adrika shrugs.
‘I see,’ Maarten says.
He drops his gaze to the left of him; Adrika sits on his right. Tall arches hang over the windows. It really is an extraordinarily beautiful piece of architecture.
‘Would it be too hard if I asked her to come back and join us for a briefing? I’ve got a feeling there’s something very obvious, something we already know, that just isn’t seeming relevant. I think her expertise on this case…’ He lets the end of his sentence trail away.
‘I’d be fine, sir,’ Adrika says. ‘It was such a shock to start with. But of course she was fine. She would sail through—’ She stops, shrugs.
A fly has found its way in, and it hovers near Maarten’s face.
‘She was the sun, really. She was the sun.’ Adrika shrugs again, and Maarten looks at her.
Her eyes are dry.
‘Come on,’ he says. They stand and walk out. Maarten thinks of what she has said as the heat hits them full force, stepping back down to the gravestones.
Blinding, bright. The hot rays burn.
Maarten’s phone rings just as they’re climbing in the car.
‘Got something.’ It’s Taj.
‘Yes?’ Maarten stands stock still.
‘A photo, found under her pillow. It’s a photo of Ana Seabrook and Leo Fenton in a kind of embrace. They’ve clearly had too much to drink. We’ve run the details of the bar mat and the name of the place – you can see it on a pile of matchbooks in a glass jar on the bar. It’s in New York. They were there together. From the angle of the photo, I would say it’s a selfie.’
‘Anything that gives us a real lead?’ Maarten asks, thinking that the photo was under her pillow, and Ana Seabrook hadn’t mentioned anything at all. Who keeps a photo of the dead brother of your boyfriend under your pillow?
‘They’re holding hands, Maarten. We’ll do the fingerprints now. But the phone is in too. And there’s a text on there. From Leo Fenton: Have you missed me?’
‘I’m heading in now.’
38
Wednesday 20th June
BEN
‘Got some news for you.’ Tabs jogs alongside Ben.
They’re doing a few circuits of the exercise run.
Ben breathes in and out, stretching himself, coughing. He’s wasting away. This news has given him a new lease of life. But if it comes to nothing he’s not sure how much life he’ll have left to live in here.
‘I asked around; I don’t have many contacts but there’s someone on G Wing I get on well with. He seems to know everything that goes on. There was some mention of a van, needed from Norfolk to Hertfordshire. That’s all I know, but it was the week before this all kicked off. It needed a proper clean after, so there was word out.’
Ben shakes his head. The sun and sweat compete to irritate his eyes.
‘From Norfolk to Hertfordshire? Does that mean…’ He’s not sure what it means. He pulls up, leaning over his knees, coughing. His chest aches.
‘What does it mean, Tabs?’
‘Well, like. If I wanted to move something that shouldn’t be moved, then I might go after a van like that. And if I was going to bury something that I’d been keeping in one place and wanted to bury in another, then that might make a lot of sense to me.’
Ben rises. Phlegm sits in his mouth, and he turns, spitting it as far as he can.
‘So the body was kept in Norfolk? All this time? Leo’s body?’
Tabs shrugs. ‘No idea, mate. But you know what I know.’
He runs off.
Ben is dizzy with knowledge, with heat, with thirst. He needs to tell Ana, to get her to tell the police. He feels himself tip back. The security of the world he knows is vanishing, the ground is soft, the horizon hazy.
39
Wednesday 20th June
ANA
It’s late. Dante is back. His top jaw resolutely still for the last few hours, despite his answering question after question. The bottom works hard, grinding out the words. Ana watches it, fascinated, as she scribbles the notes.
She’d handed her phone over, left for work and not looked back. She carries the weight of Ayot like Sisyphus; so close to getting Ben out, then back to fear and terror. They will find the text message on the phone. They will find the photo. She hasn’t told anyone, least of all the police, and there’s no hiding from it now.
There’s an offer for the buyout on the table and so far, everyone seems happy. It’s been a relatively easy deal. They’ve almost finished working through the details. Tonight will be late, she thinks. It’s her job to work on the document. She needs to turn the heads of terms around to the buyer and selling shareholders before tomorrow’s meeting. The focus on work will be a relief.
Alex, the boss, again says little. She only interrupts Dante if she needs to refine a point, and Leith appears to have matched her silence.
This grunt work is her role. To be honest, she’s surprised that Leith has stayed for the whole
time. He will charge these hours back to the client. He bills out at over £600 per hour. This meeting has been over three hours long so far. It’s not like him to overstaff something. The rates go up but he’s a fan of clear and sensible billing.
Maybe he’s checking on her.
Maybe, says a tiny voice somewhere in her head, he’s checking you out. Like when you used to hang around the gym lockers after football because you thought Andy Miller would be heading that way.
She jolts, stung, and she sees Leith’s eye cast her way, then back to Dante, who’s talking about forecast figures.
Andy Miller.
She hasn’t thought about him for… Well, she opts not to think about him.
Back in school it was different. She’d fancied him for ages. They all had. Three years older, and he’d had a car. She thought she’d landed gold when they’d ended up chatting at that party. She’d been hammered. Vodka-soaked. Cider-soaked.
Her teeth set slightly, jarred, she shakes her head and tunes back in to what Dante is saying.
‘Could you just go over how you reach that number?’ she asks.
‘Well, I’m basing it on…’
*
‘Went OK?’ Leith says.
She nods, checking her watch. She has some drafting to do on the document before she can pass this to the other side for discussion for the meeting tomorrow. The shareholder adjustments aren’t too bad but they’ll take a while. It’s almost 9 p.m.; eating will be a stretch.
‘Look, I’m going to head out to dinner,’ Leith says. ‘I’ve got a client thing. It’ll end late. Can you courier me the document once you’ve finished? I don’t want to read it on an iPad after a late day. Still like paper.’ He smiles. ‘I’ll walk back to the office to pick up my stuff around midnight, so if you’re finished then, I’ll collect the print-out. We’re only over the road.’ He names an expensive restaurant on the same street.
Ana calls in sushi takeaway as she sits at the desk. She’ll need something to pick at to keep her going and she hates cold pizza.
She types, the words swimming before her eyes. She’s exhausted. Andy Miller swims up again; she sees his name in the words she types.
Why is she thinking of him again? Now?
She’d spoken to Maisie the next day. ‘I slept with Andy Miller last night.’
‘You didn’t!’ Maisie had been wide-eyed. Agog. Had it been awe? ‘Are you going out with him? He’s like… wow. Did it hurt?’
She’d managed to move on quickly. She was trying it out for herself. Selling it to herself. Trying to turn it into a trophy. When what had she felt… stupid? Ashamed. She’d been so… naive. To think he liked her. The kissing part had been fine.
It had been the usual affair. Small disco floor, lots of booze drunk first. In that way where you knock a lot back quickly and it only hits you later, dancing in the heat. Then it slams you. She’d had a small bottle of vodka, syphoned off the supply at home, and she was adding it to her Coke. Leo had got himself a girlfriend. And he’d said he had the flu that night. Ana was on her own.
She was always on her own. The heaviness of her dad’s death kept her walled away. She was tired all the time. Even when people spoke to her she found she could only react, not really engage. She relied on social reflexes. Her classmates were kind, but they gave her a wide berth. No one seemed to know how to talk to her. Not about death.
Andy Miller had come over. He’d sat down, checking his phone, and she’d offered him some of the vodka. A song had come on – some muso song – and she’d made a comment about it. Leo had told her about the band a month or so before. Andy had looked again at her then. Asked her what kind of music she was into.
At some point they’d kissed, and the vodka bottle had been empty.
She’d almost popped out of herself inside the room to look back at herself, at them. Andy kissing Ana. The knowledge she was kissing him had almost been better than the actual kissing, which had been… Too much vodka. Cheap crisps.
But outside. It had been hazy. It was still hazy, in her memory. She had drunk so much. One thing had led to another, and she’s sure, she’s still sure that when he’d tugged down her jeans, she’d said, ‘No. Please, I don’t think…’ But had she said it at all? Had she said it loud enough? She’d drunk so much. She’d never thought it would go that far. She’d only ever kissed a boy before.
She doesn’t drink too much any more. She’s never overdone it on the drink, really. Unless it’s with Maisie or Fran and they’re at home. Watching a film. She’s always made sure that when she’s out she’s 100 per cent able to get home. She never gets into unmarked taxis. Doesn’t take the night bus alone. Walks in the dark with her keys splayed between each finger, ready.
Afterwards, she does remember that she’d said she needed to go to the toilet, and he’d looked sheepish. She’d gone round the back of the club into the prefab toilet block and Alice Sheppard from her class had been in there crying about a boy.
‘Bastard,’ Alice had said, through snot and tears. ‘Bastard!’
Then Ana had cried too. It had hurt. ‘Andy Miller just had sex with me,’ she’d said. And she’d had to grab the sink to stop the room swaying. Leaning forward, she’d thrown up.
Alice had rubbed her back. ‘Everyone fancies Andy,’ she’d said. ‘How was it?’
‘I don’t know. I told him I didn’t want to, but I think I said it too late. I shouldn’t have gone outside with him.’ Ana cried and cried, and threw up again in the sink.
Ana heard another girl come out of a cubicle and say the word rape, but Alice was firm.
‘It’s not rape if you’ve already started – especially if they don’t hear you say no.’ Ana’s head was bowed over the sink, and Alice rubbed her back again. ‘Honestly, if you hadn’t wanted to do it, why did you go outside with him?’ The other girl left the loos without another word, and Ana had been weighted with the knowledge that she was really to blame.
She had thrown up again. All over her jeans, her shoes. And in the end Alice had called her mum for her on her phone.
Her dad had died only nine months earlier, otherwise he would have come.
She did see Andy waiting for her as Alice helped her to the car. He’d started to walk towards her, but had stopped when her mum had got out of the car. He’d hovered at the edge of the lawn, and then she’d thrown up in the car on the way home.
She’d practised telling Maisie in the morning. But she couldn’t do it properly. She couldn’t sell it to herself. And then later, Andy’s sister had died, and they’d moved house. He’d gone to a different school. She’d never seen him really after that.
Why was she thinking about Andy Miller now?
She’d almost told Ben, in the end. She’d almost told Ben everything.
Except it doesn’t even help to think about Ben now. Ben won’t see her.
She understands why… It must be so much harder for him. But the rage she feels with him sometimes. Shutting her out. She is in this too.
The city skyline is lit and buzzing. There are black cabs sailing down the street and groups of drinkers moving in packs on the pavements.
London drinks al fresco in this weather. Pubs spill out, and many have put up tables along the pathways. She can make out the river from here, too. She does love it. The feeling of there being life outside. The peace she’d had with Ben broke into tiny, tiny pieces – trying to fit them back together will be like one of those million-piece jigsaws; maybe they’ll never manage it. And sitting at home, in Ayot with her mum, in her childhood bed… The vibrancy of London is the antidote to her thoughts, her aloneness. She’s stagnant. There’re no plans to be made. Just counting days.
Her email flashes: ‘Just heading back now. I’m guessing you’re not finished so send it over with a courier when you’re done. I’ll read it before tomorrow. Thanks for the work. Leith.’
She realises, as a bubble pops somewhere, she’d been hoping he’d come back. That she’d get to see him again
tonight.
Stretching, she flexes her fingers and turns back to her screen.
‘Forecasting for…’
40
Thursday 21st June
MAARTEN
‘Is Ana Seabrook here yet?’ Maarten puts the phone down after talking to the Super. Stretched thin at the moment, he’s managed to get himself off a course he’d been due to attend. He feels as though he’s failing in every direction. The Super had been fine, but he’s behind in a string of postponed meetings and paperwork.
The tiredness is starting to pull at his edges. The heat doesn’t help. The girls are sleeping OK, all things considered. But Sanne’s cast is itchy. And even with all the windows open, and with only a sheet on the bed, she is uncomfortable at night.
‘Mama, Mama!’ The cry had come in the night, and he’d crawled in beside her.
‘Papa’s here, schatje. Do you want some water?’ She’d had a sip, then curled into him. Her arm stuck on the top of her body, looking heavier in the dark.
‘Is Mama coming home soon?’
‘Yes,’ he’d said, stroking her brow. Her hairline sticky with sweat. ‘Very soon. She’s just getting stronger. Like you need to. Papa will stay here. Shhh.’
He’d woken with his arm in a cramp an hour or so later, and had managed to slide out without disturbing her. His own bed vast with its emptiness.
Thankfully, the case is picking up. Ana Seabrook is due in this morning.
‘Yes, she’s downstairs. How are we playing it?’ Adrika asks. She puts a coffee down on Maarten’s desk and stands ready for the interview. ‘Are we accusing her? Seeing what falls out?’
He shakes his gaze, picking up the coffee and taking a sip. It’s his main fuel at the moment, and his head starts aching with withdrawal if he misses a cup.