All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

‘Good idea,’ Ellen said. ‘I’m heading back to the station too. Call me after your meeting with Rui.’

  ‘You sure you trust me to speak to him on my own?’ Abby asked.

  Ellen smiled. ‘Positive. Now get going before I change my mind.’

  Ellen cut the call and put her phone into her bag. A light sprinkling of rain started to fall. Ellen lifted her face and let the water cool her cheeks as she left the elegant affluence of Blackheath and walked down Lewisham Hill into the belly of southeast London.

  Four

  Rui didn’t move like any person Abby had ever met before. He bounced. Like there were invisible springs on the soles of his high-top, red-and-white Converse trainers. She wondered if the constant movement explained his extreme thinness or whether that was down to a super-fast metabolism. Or maybe he just plain didn’t bother with food.

  ‘Here.’ He flung a long arm out, pointing at a chair covered in sheets of paper. ‘Sit down.’ In a single, fluid movement, the arm swept the paper to the floor and he pushed the chair towards Abby. It rolled towards her at a ferocious pace and she thrust out her hands to stop it crashing into her.

  Rui grinned. ‘Sorry about that.’ He grabbed a handful of his thick curly hair and shoved it back from his eyes. ‘Don’t know my own strength. Come over here. See what I’ve done so you can tell me what a genius I am. Take a look at these.’

  Rui’s office was a small, square room with a wooden work surface running along three walls. Every inch of the work-top was covered. Abby counted three laptops amongst the mess of paper, files, pens and God only knew what else.

  Ignoring the chaos, she took the bundle of photos he had put onto her lap. Rui shoved some more papers onto the floor to clear some space in front of Abby.

  She laid the photos out in front of her, sitting back as Rui leaned in to arrange them the way he wanted.

  ‘See here.’ He pointed at the photo furthest to the left. ‘That’s the original image from the camera.’

  Abby remembered it. The flash of colour, like someone had been moving fast, the camera barely capturing the movement.

  ‘Then look along the others,’ Rui said. ‘You see the way I’ve focussed on the orange, like you asked me to. Here, on this one, I enlarged it but you don’t get any definition. So then I used a different piece of software that works in a different way – it manipulates … oh never mind. Here’s what I got.’

  He lifted the final photo in the array, holding it so Abby could see.

  ‘Is that definitely it?’ she asked.

  Rui frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I mean,’ Abby said, ‘if you play around with the image, is this an enlarged version of the original image or a possible version of the original?’

  ‘Ah.’ Rui nodded, a manic movement that caused his hair to bob wildly like it was an animated animal sitting on top of his head. ‘Gotcha. It’s impossible to give you one hundred per cent certainty. But this is as close as you’ll get. I played around with it for a while, tried a few different approaches. Always ended up with the same thing. Pretty good, huh?’

  Abby nodded. Pretty good indeed. Her original hunch had been right. The flash of orange was a logo. A tiger leaping forward, with a word written underneath.

  ‘Taylor’s.’ She read the word out loud.

  ‘Brand of sports and outdoor clothing,’ Rui said. ‘I’ve already checked. Low-end product. The sort of stuff worn by amateurs or people who don’t care about what they look like. Cheap and nasty. Wouldn’t catch me wearing shit like that. It’s seriously naff.’

  ‘So what does that tell us about our killer?’ Abby wondered.

  ‘If that is your killer,’ Rui said.

  ‘It’s the best lead we’ve got so far,’ Abby said. ‘I know that.’

  ‘If that’s your killer,’ Rui repeated, ‘then you’re not looking at some random mugging. Not by any local Lewisham boy, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Abs, just look at that jacket and think for a second. The local bad boys, say what you want about them but they have a sense of style. You wouldn’t catch any of them wearing shit like that.’

  Abby thought about the lowlife drug dealers and petty criminals who were the bread-and-butter of her job. Rui had a point. Most of them were seriously into their designer kit. Most, but not all.

  ‘What about the Eastern Europeans?’ she asked.

  Rui shrugged. ‘Maybe. It’s not really their scene though, is it?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Abby said. ‘This is great, Rui. I’ll get one of the guys to get me some facts on Taylor’s. Stats on where their clothes are sold, who their main customer base is, that sort of thing. I’ll also see if Ger thinks it’s worth going to the press with this. You’re a genius, Rui. You know that?’

  He winked at her. ‘Yeah. I know.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I nearly forgot. Kieran’s laptop. Find anything yet?’

  Rui shook his head. ‘We’ve gone through everything. He was on Facebook, but no other social media profiles that we can find. Seemed to mainly use the laptop for emails and writing college assignments. He has a One Drive as well.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Abby asked.

  ‘Cloud storage,’ Rui said. ‘Guy had a decent phone. Took a lot of photos on it. Stored the images up there.’ He waved his hand around wildly. ‘In the cloud. You don’t do that?’

  Abby shook her head.

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Rui shrugged. ‘Maybe you should. Means if you lose your phone, all the photos you’ve taken, you don’t lose them.’

  ‘So where can I see the photos?’ Abby asked.

  ‘I’ve given Malcolm two memory sticks,’ Rui said. ‘One’s got copies of all his college stuff, emails, etc. He’s taken some pretty cool photos. I’ve stored those on a separate stick. Malc’s got that too.’

  With Rui’s help, Abby gathered the photos into a plain manila folder which she took with her. The tiger logo was familiar. As she walked back to her office, she tried to remember where she’d seen it before. Nothing came to her. Eventually, she gave up. She could have seen it anywhere.

  Five

  Charlotte poured herself a small glass of wine, taking care not to put too much into the glass, saving it for later. Ginny was coming over and Charlotte was determined not to drink too much. She took the glass into the den and settled on a sofa.

  She was tense and jittery, jumping every time she heard an unexpected noise. This house was full of noises – creaking floorboards, branches rattling against the windows as the wind grew stronger, the low hum of the fridge when she was in the kitchen, the distant rumble of traffic moving around the perimeter of the heath. Worst of all, the screeching, keening, squealing of the foxes that lived in the small wood at the end of the garden.

  She didn’t think she’d noticed any of those noises before. Tonight, they were deafening. She lifted the remote and switched on the TV. The volume was up high and she jumped as sound blasted through the room. She’d just turned the sound down when her mobile started ringing. Again she jumped, wine sloshing out of the glass onto her wrist. She watched the wine soaking into the cuff of her sleeve. It reminded her of something but she couldn’t think what.

  She put her glass down and looked at the phone. Saw Freya’s number was flashing on the screen. Quickly, she calculated how much she’d drunk. A glass, two at the most. Nothing that would be heard in her voice.

  She grabbed the phone.

  ‘Darling, what a lovely surprise. How are you?’

  She winced as she said it. Stupid, stupid question.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘I heard you had an accident,’ Freya said. It was impossible to know from her voice whether she was accusing Charlotte or expressing concern.

  ‘It wasn’t an accident,’ Charlotte said. Too late she remembered she was meant to be protecting her daughter from more worry. ‘Oh I’m sorry, darling. Maybe it was. I can’t remember, you see. No
t because of that. I hadn’t been drinking, I swear to you. It’s just, well, when I fell I knocked myself out. Silly of me, I know. And my arm is badly bruised. Bloody uncomfortable. Nothing broken though, so I suppose I’m lucky really.’

  She laughed but there was no corresponding laugh on the other end. Just silence.

  ‘Can I come and see you tomorrow?’ she said. ‘I am thinking about you, you know.’

  ‘Where’s dad?’ Freya asked.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘You’re alone then?’

  She hoped Freya wasn’t about to suggest coming over. She didn’t think she was up to that.

  ‘Ginny’s on her way,’ she said. ‘Well, not on her way exactly. I’m expecting her about nine.’

  ‘You’re not serious? A drinking session’s the last thing you need right now.’

  ‘That’s not why she’s coming,’ Charlotte said. ‘If you must know, she’s got something important to tell me.’

  ‘What?’ Freya asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Charlotte shifted on the sofa, trying to get comfortable. No matter what position she sat in, her arm still hurt.

  She stopped. She didn’t owe Freya any explanation. Whatever she and Ginny chose to do, it really was none of Freya’s business.

  ‘She’s probably bought a new pair of shoes,’ Freya said dismissively.

  Charlotte chose not to reply.

  ‘Sorry,’ Freya said into the silence. ‘It’s good of her, I suppose. What time did you say you’re seeing her?’

  ‘About nine,’ Charlotte said. ‘She’s walking across. She’s got this new app on her phone. It counts how many steps she does each day, apparently.’

  She ended the phone call as soon as she could. The last thing she needed now was a self-righteous lecture from her daughter. She might have known Freya would think the accident was Charlotte’s fault. The child had taken against her from the moment she was born.

  It was strange now to remember how excited she’d been. Pregnancy had been easy. She’d enjoyed it. Ate well, exercised and looked after herself throughout the entire nine months. She’d put on just over half a stone in weight and was confident she’d lose it right after the birth.

  The birth. That’s when it started. The slow break-down of everything she’d worked so hard for. Nothing had prepared her for it. They’d attended anti-natal classes. Nick hadn’t missed one session, despite the pressures of work. NCT sessions in a big old Victorian house in West Greenwich. The classes, like everything else back then, had been fun. Weekly sessions with other young, affluent couples. Charlotte let herself believe it was the start of something. The amazing life she’d always hoped for.

  The NCT woman – overweight and overbearing – advocated a drug-free labour. Charlotte and the other expecting mothers giggled their way through a series of exercises aimed at ‘relaxing their bodies’ in preparation for ‘the birth’. A loose jaw means a loose vagina, was the only line Charlotte remembered now. She suspected she’d deliberately made herself forget the rest in the days following Freya’s birth. The single most traumatic event in her life. Two days of horror, pain and unbearable indignities.

  Nick stayed with her the whole time, for all the good he did. His ineffectual attempts to ease her suffering were the first hint of the loathing she would feel for him in the months and years that followed.

  And then, as if all of that wasn’t enough, there was the child. A screaming bundle of fury that Charlotte was meant to … what, exactly? It was impossible to love something that made such a racket the entire time. Even the nurses admitted, smiling like it was a fucking joke, that she was ‘a screamer’.

  She didn’t want to think of all that. She wondered what Ginny wanted to speak to her about. She’d sounded strange when she’d called earlier, like something was worrying her. But when Charlotte asked for more information, Ginny said it would have to wait until this evening. Charlotte hoped it had nothing to do with Friday night. The underlying anxiety was still with her. Anxiety based on fear. And the knowledge that she had lied to the police.

  Had she said something to Ginny? Possibly. But if she had, what was Ginny going to do about it? Unless Ginny had suddenly developed some sort of social conscience – any sort of conscience – then Charlotte was probably safe enough.

  She shook her head and a ziz-zag of random images exploded like a firework through her brain. Things she couldn’t bear to think about. She drained her glass and stood up. Sitting here waiting for something to happen was unbearable.

  She checked the time. Seven-thirty. The time between now and nine o’clock seemed infinite. Moments like this, when she felt cooped up inside the madness of her own head, she liked to go for a drive. She loved night driving. Cruising the quiet, suburban streets, imagining the happy family lives going on behind the curtained windows of the houses she passed.

  Blackheath, down to Lee, through the sleepy streets of Hither Green and across to Ladywell. Up the hilly roads around Brockley, then curving back home via Deptford and Greenwich, keeping as close to the river as she could for as long as she could.

  She touched her bruised arm. She shouldn’t do it. But the car was an automatic. If she was careful and drove slowly, she thought she could probably manage it. She decided to have one more – small – glass of wine while she considered it. If nothing else, the wine would help pass another twenty minutes or so.

  Six

  Shivery and shaky with nerves. A new feeling. Not exactly pleasant but tinged with an excitement that made it special, somehow. They’d arranged to meet at the entrance to London Bridge Station. Abby was early. Or he was late? She checked her watch. She was definitely early. She pulled her jacket tighter around her body, looking around, hoping he’d be here soon.

  Someone brushed past her. Big and burly, he was moving fast, nearly knocked her over as he banged into her. A hand on her elbow, steadying her.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Sam’s voice, his breath warm against her cold skin.

  She barely heard him. Her attention focussed on the man who’d bumped into her. The man wearing the black jacket with the orange logo. She ran after him, grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop.

  ‘Hey!’ He swung around, angry at the interruption. A man on a mission. People to see, places to go.

  ‘Sorry.’ She gave him her best smile. Saw the way it softened him, ever so slightly. ‘It’s your jacket,’ she said. ‘I wondered where you bought it. I want to buy one for my boyfriend.’

  The man looked surprised, then flattered.

  ‘Present from my wife,’ he said. ‘Truth be told, I don’t like it very much. I only wear it to keep her happy. But you’re telling me you like it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I adore it. Thanks so much.’

  ‘What was that about?’ Sam asked. He had flowers with him. A huge bouquet of red roses. They were beautiful. He looked awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

  ‘I wanted to ask about his jacket,’ Abby said.

  Sam frowned, not understanding. She looked at his expensive, woollen trench coat and laughed. He smiled, then seconds later he was laughing along with her, even though she was sure he had no idea why. She wasn’t sure she did, either. Just knew that it felt good, being here with him and laughing for no reason. She tried to remember the last time she’d laughed like this but it was so long ago, she had no memory of it.

  When they finally managed to control the giggles, Sam leaned forward and kissed her softly on the lips.

  ‘You have the loveliest smile,’ he said. He might have said something else but his words got lost as she kissed him back. All around them, people passed by, moving in and out of the station, getting on with their busy lives. There was something she needed to work out. Something to do with the black jacket and the orange logo. Except she couldn’t focus. Her mind was too full of Sam. No room for anything else. And whatever she was meant to understand, it would have to wait.

  Seven

  After she got th
e children to bed, Ellen spent the evening sorting through paperwork, updating her notes. The picture of Kieran Burton was becoming clearer. The more she learned about him, the less she liked.

  According to Freya, her relationship with Kieran was rock solid. She was either deluded or lying. Ellen made a note to find out who paid the rent and the bills for the flat. She guessed the answer would be Freya, working to support herself and Kieran while he finished his studies. Ellen wondered how Freya might have reacted if she’d discovered what her boyfriend was really up to at university everyday.

  In the corner of the room, the TV was on with the sound turned down. When the news came on, Ellen turned up the volume. Kieran’s murder was the third item, after the growing refugee crisis in Europe and a new story about an MP accused of having an affair with his son’s wife.

  The piece on Kieran’s murder was pretty comprehensive. Lots of shots of the murder scene before the cameras shifted to Nick Gleeson’s Totally Tapas restaurant in Greenwich. A pretty news reporter stood outside the restaurant talking to camera, giving a summary of Gleeson’s background and career to date. Going over the same, familiar story of the local boy who’d made a fortune with his chain of family-friendly, affordable restaurants. Nothing, Ellen noted, about his alcoholic wife, his affairs or his dodgy business partner.

  Bored, Ellen switched off the TV and went into the kitchen to make another cup of tea. She was trying not to drink wine during the week. She wasn’t doing too badly, although it was difficult at times like this. With the children in bed and Rosie out, the house felt too quiet. There was a pile of ironing to do but the thought of facing that right now depressed her even further. Quashing down the old feelings of self-pity, she took her tea into the sitting room and put some music on.

  The iPod and speakers were a present from Sean. After the fire, he’d set up an iTunes account for her and downloaded a huge selection of her favourite music. He’d given it to her on Christmas Day. She hadn’t understood, at first, the significance of the present. It was only when Sean explained how it all worked, scrolling through the music library, showing her album after album of old familiar titles that she got it. And promptly burst into tears.