She shakes her head, flattens her hair with her palms. ‘Some are more recent than that.’
‘How recent?’
She groans. ‘That night. After I got off the boat. He’d upset me about the Christmas present, about all kinds of things. Like, he was all over me in the bar, and then on the boat he was horrible, kept saying he’d made his choice and I should get off his back. Then when I heard he’d gone missing . . . The whole time I was on holiday I was convinced the police would fly out and arrest me.’ She’s weeping freely now. ‘Even at Gatwick this morning, I thought I was going to come through Arrivals and be arrested.’
Well, that answers one question: the police haven’t yet accessed Kit’s communications; or if they have, they have not yet seen fit to contact Gretchen about it. It all points to their having moved away from theories involving his drinking buddies and towards those involving his drugs ones.
I take her hands in mine. ‘There’d be nothing to arrest you for. What exactly did you say in these texts?’
She flushes. ‘I said I hoped something terrible would happen to him. It could definitely be seen as some kind of a threat.’
My eyes widen.
‘What do you think? Should I go to the police? Show them the messages, like you did?’
‘No. I wouldn’t do that.’ I squeeze her fingers, feel the fine bones of her knuckles. ‘Don’t torture yourself when he might still be alive.’ I’m so deep in character now, I’m convincing myself. ‘You know, Clare thinks he’s in hiding, trying to pull off some sort of life insurance scam – I’m about to phone the police and raise it with them.’
Gretchen’s mouth falls open. ‘No? That’s completely insane!’
‘Maybe, but it shows there are lots of theories in the mix.’ I watch as she uses a paper napkin to mop her face. I only have a few minutes before I need to be back at work. ‘Gretchen, you remember on the Monday night, did you notice anyone else on the boat home?’
‘There were quite a few people, weren’t there? That group of students . . .’
I vaguely remember a gaggle of young people sitting at the front, filling a whole row. Had I caught the eye of one of them? Tossed out some drunken remark? ‘Yeah, they got off when Steve did, I think, at North Greenwich. I mean anyone who seemed particularly interested in us. Someone you’ve seen before, a woman maybe?’
‘Sorry, I don’t remember. I was pretty drunk – and I was concentrating on Kit. Why?’
‘The police mentioned someone, some other witness who’s come forward.’
‘Maybe someone he knew? Someone else he’d slept with? A member of the crew, even? He was always bantering with them.’
This is not something I’ve considered, and the idea of an unknown person from Kit’s side, with an agenda entirely separate from his or mine, is too horrifying to contemplate.
Gretchen begins to rock a little, eyes half closed as she speaks: ‘Please be okay, Kit. Please. If anything’s happened, I’ll never forgive myself.’
Her anguish is so genuine I’m moved. I urge her to go home and get some sleep, to stay as positive as she can.
‘See you on the boat tomorrow morning?’ she says, as we hug goodbye.
I swallow. Over her shoulder, behind the strolling tourists and the buskers, the river stops moving: a trick of the light, corrected with a blink. ‘Absolutely. See you then.’
40
2 January 2020
Almost as soon as I return to work, things start to happen. Clare calls first: ‘One of my team just did a viewing in St Mary’s Wharf and says there’re police down near the Hope and Anchor. Apparently, they’ve found a dead body. They’ve got one of those blue tents up, forensics people in big suits. I’m looking online and they haven’t named anyone, but you don’t think . . . ?’
‘Kit?’
‘Yes, I have a really strong feeling it’s him.’ She sighs. ‘Maybe I got it wrong about the insurance fraud, maybe you were right about the drugs debt. Did you speak to your detective?’
‘I’ve left him a message,’ I lie. ‘If it is Kit, then he’ll be busy at the scene.’
As Clare is distracted by a voice in the background, I try to regulate my breathing. With each inhalation, I feel a spike of pain in my chest. ‘Jamie? Someone’s just told me it’s a male body. Another knife attack, apparently, so the media’ll be all over it.’
‘Poor Kit – if it’s him.’
‘The police will drop you like a ton of bricks now, so there’s that, at least.’
‘Yes.’ And I feel a terrible jubilant skip of my heart.
‘Well, I just thought you’d want to know,’ she says, and her voice has turned cool as she remembers, perhaps, that she pledged her support only while I was under suspicion.
‘Thank you, Clare.’
We end the call with an equal measure of formality, almost as if we expect never to speak again.
‘Was that about your friend?’ Regan asks.
‘We’re not sure, but they’ve found a body by the river in St Mary’s.’ My senses are weirdly heightened: customers’ mumbles as intolerable to my ears as a bass drum, the buttery aroma of a new batch of cinnamon buns sickening.
‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ she says kindly, and lays a hand on my arm. ‘It could be anyone. You said knife crime?’
‘Yes, that’s what Clare’s heard.’
‘Wow. The epidemic continues. I wonder who he had beef with.’
My eyes shine. Everything I see sharpens and then blurs. ‘I really can’t imagine.’
*
An hour passes and no further information reaches me. Little more has been reported online than what Clare’s already told us, the identity of the victim not yet released. It starts to rain pretty heavily and I picture the scene on the river path, the extra precautions the forensic team will have to take to stop the weather obliterating physical evidence. I wonder if it’s acceptable – or natural – to ring Merchison and ask outright if it’s Kit. Isn’t it stranger not to? I decide I’ll finish the rash of late-lunch food orders I’m preparing and then I’ll call.
I have my back to the counter as I plate up sandwiches for a table of Chinese students, when I sense a gathering on the shop floor, a change of mood. ‘Mr James Buckby?’
I turn. On the other side of the counter stand two uniformed officers. With a sideways look to the street, I spot a squad car a little way up, parked with its wheels turned as if in haste. This, I was not expecting. Melia and I have not predicted it or prepared for it, but now they’re here it seems reasonable enough that I should be notified in person – almost touching, actually. Parry and Merchison must have requested it as a courtesy, given the suspicion I was under, the time they spent grilling me.
Unless there are additional details they hope I can supply. I motion to Regan that she should complete the food orders so I can give the officers my full co-operation. They are both younger than me, a man and a woman, each fair-skinned and flushed, presumably from overheating themselves in their car. Raindrops spot their dark shoulders like fresh dew. I try to remember the face of the colleague at the Royal Festival Hall, the one I saw Parry talking to; I think it might be her.
‘This is about Kit, isn’t it? Christopher Roper?’ If I’ve learned anything in my dealings with the police, it’s to be as truthful as possible. Withhold, yes, but when you do speak, avoid lying. ‘My girlfriend phoned me earlier and said a body’s been found by the river. We were worried it might be him. It’s not, is it?’
I expect them to be discreet, to move me out of earshot, but they confirm the matter openly and at once. ‘His wife has just made the formal identification.’
Oh Melia, that can’t have been a pleasant job. What did he look like, his flesh drained of blood? Were his dreams – ill-spirited though they were – still visible in his eyes?
‘That’s awful. Poor Melia.’ Feeling my legs tremble, I plant my feet heavily and place a hand on the counter. Behind me Regan is cutting the sandwiches; I hear the
light sawing, the chime of metal meeting plate. ‘How did it happen? My girlfriend said it was another stabbing, is that right? We were just saying, weren’t we, Regan? How worried we are about this knife-crime epidemic.’
Regan turns and nods energetically, honoured to be included in the drama.
‘We’re not in a position to share that information,’ the male officer says, as if I’m delaying them with idle gossip. Darting around me, Regan delivers the order to the table in the window and returns to stand at my shoulder.
‘Well, thank you for letting me know,’ I say. ‘I know we’re not family, but Clare and I were close to him. We’ll phone Melia and see if we can support her in any way. She and Clare are good friends.’ I’m pleased with my handling of the scene so far. I’m appropriately saddened but with a touch of relief in my posture: At least we know now. I have to say, now it’s unfolding it feels like genius. She’s a genius. Melia. My Melia.
‘Where were you on New Year’s Eve, Mr Buckby?’
Though the question has a level, just-out-of-interest tone to it, I’m taken aback to be asked it. ‘New Year’s Eve? I was at home all night with Clare. You’ve got her details, if you need to check with her.’ That’s the fourth time I’ve mentioned her in the space of a minute; didn’t I do the same with the detectives? Like she’s my talisman, my proof of integrity. I gulp at the thought of the misery I’ve caused her, while still I exploit her virtues for all they’re worth. ‘We watched TV and then we went to bed just before midnight.’
‘Just before midnight?’
‘Yes, we didn’t bother staying up. We’ve seen it all before. I leave the partying to Regan here.’
Regan is alone in chuckling at this.
‘And yesterday morning?’
‘Nothing much. Pottered about. Clare went for a walk in the afternoon, but otherwise neither of us left the house again until coming to work today. I was going to ring DC Merchison this afternoon, actually, because Clare and I have some information about a loan Kit recently took out. It might still be useful, even though . . .’ I trail off. Even though he’s dead. ‘I’ll email him, shall I? When I get home.’
‘What was the name again?’ The male officer’s eye contact is impersonal, almost robotic.
‘DC Merchison. The one who interviewed me when Kit went missing. He’s been my main point of contact since then. Based at the Woolwich station, I think he said.’
‘When was this interview? Yesterday?’
I frown. By my side, Regan shuffles. I hear her speak in hushed tones to new customers, asking them to wait. I think of theatre ushers shushing late arrivals. ‘No, last Friday. The twenty-seventh, wasn’t it?’
Like the date isn’t stamped onto the inside of my eyelids.
‘The twenty-seventh of December?’
I try to keep my patience, not wanting to irritate them, but really, this is sloppy. ‘Yes, just after he was reported missing. I was the last person to see him, they said, on Monday the twenty-third, on the late-night riverboat to St Mary’s. We had drinks with our commuter friends – you’ll have it all in your report.’
‘That’s right,’ Regan confirms, keen to contribute. ‘Jamie didn’t come into work on the twenty-seventh. I can show you his text?’
The officers glance politely at her before returning their attention to me. ‘Our understanding is that Mr Roper was reported missing yesterday morning,’ the male officer says.
I shake my head in disbelief. This lot are hopeless. ‘I thought . . . Clare and I understood he hasn’t been seen since before Christmas? Since that night of the drinks? That’s what your colleagues told us. We saw Melia last Friday night and she was distraught about it. She’d raised the alarm over Christmas, when we were up in Edinburgh.’
The female officer interjects now; she has the air of being better briefed than her co-worker. ‘There was some confusion as to his whereabouts over Christmas, that’s right. He was out of town and neglected to keep in touch, I believe.’
I stare at her. Out of town? We’ve ventured deep into cross purposes now and it’s crucial I don’t panic and display how urgently I’d like this discrepancy to be resolved. ‘I think you might be mixing this up with something else. Phone DC Merchison, he’ll help you join up the dots.’
The two of them confer and finally she gets on the phone to connect with Woolwich CID. I remind myself I’m still devastated by the news of Kit’s death and adjust my expression from impatience to appalled sorrow. ‘Poor Kit,’ I say to Regan, in an undertone. ‘This is so awful.’
‘It’s terrible,’ she echoes, and links her arm through mine. ‘There’s no way I’m telling my mum about this.’
A pair of neglected customers give up and leave, but by the time the officer disconnects the call, all remaining clientele have turned to watch us.
‘There’s no DC Merchison at the Woolwich station,’ she says.
I blink. ‘I must have got that wrong, then. Blackheath or Greenwich, maybe?’
‘My colleague has just searched the database and the name isn’t coming up anywhere in the Met.’
‘Then maybe he’s listed under a different name? Or new and not in the system yet?’ He didn’t seem new, though. He seemed the more experienced of the two, but then he might have recently transferred from a different force. I struggle to stop my face from twisting in irritation. ‘There were two of them. The other one was called Parry. Ian Parry. Try him.’
As she dials a second time, an argument kicks off outside. It’s an exchange of hostilities we hear every day, usually between motorists and cyclists and born of the fear of the near-miss, but this time it feels linked to me, a projection of my terror. When I remove my focus from it, my eye falls on a pile of flyers Regan placed earlier on the shelf under the noticeboard: London Philharmonic Orchestra at the Southbank Centre, introducing soprano Sarah Miller!
The officer is off the phone again, her face that of someone whose tolerance for time-wasting has been used up. By the time she confirms it in words, I’m already experiencing the collapsing sensation that comes with a realization so diabolical the brain has no immediate means to process it:
There’s no DC Parry, either.
41
2 January 2020
My diaphragm contracts and an ungodly groaning noise escapes me. Vomit rises and I’m holding it in my mouth, my swallow reflex in paralysis. Sweat pours through my skin ducts, drenching me in seconds. I close my eyes.
Let me understand this: Andy Merchison and Ian Parry interviewed me about Kit for almost two hours – that much I know to be true – but whoever they are, they are not detectives employed by the Metropolitan Police.
And only one person has had the means to convince me that they are.
Oh, Melia.
You are not who you said you were.
I thought you were deceiving him. He thought you were deceiving me.
You were deceiving both of us.
As if from deep underground, I hear one of the officers say: ‘Can we ask you to come with us to the station, Mr Buckby.’ Beside me, Regan gasps in shock.
I open my eyes, finally succeeding in swallowing the vomit. ‘If you think I can help sort out this misunderstanding, then sure, but I have to say I’m very confused. Several people can vouch for my earlier interview, I can give you their names.’
This is pure bravado. Clare, Steve, Gretchen, Regan: all the people I told about it. And Melia herself, of course. I’m a long way from fathoming how she did this, but my instinct is that its execution will have been flawless. My fingers itch for my phone, but it’s in my coat pocket in the staff room. ‘Would it be okay if I get my things from the staff area?’
The officers agree to this. There is a sense that we are all reasonable people with no appetite for dramatics. As I leave the counter and advance between tables to the back of the shop, Regan engages them with supplementary questions of her own; I can’t hear her words, but can tell by her tone that she’s defending me, indignant that my account
should be doubted. Next, she’s giving her name, address and phone number.
As I gather my possessions and force my arms into my coat sleeves, I feel spasms travelling up and down my body, like mice running under my clothes. Free of the officers’ scrutiny, I’ve lost control of my nervous system, wouldn’t be surprised to find I’ve pissed myself or begun bleeding from my ears. In the doorway, I pause. To my right, between the customer loos opposite and where I’m standing, is the fire exit, which leads to the alley behind our block where other staff sometimes go for a smoke among the bins, slotting discarded butts into the cracks in the mortar.
It is then that the impulse makes itself known. Even as I register it, I’m warning myself against acting on it, because it never works on TV, not even for the innocent.
It only ever makes things worse.
But I do it anyway. I turn off my phone and then I slip through the fire door and run.
*
Somehow, I’ve forgotten it’s raining, raining hard. The drops on my face are cold and sharp like a punishment, but I register a flare of satisfaction that I’m wearing trainers with a good grip; my foothold is solid as I thunder over wet cobble and paving stones.
Muscle memory leads me to the river: along the alley and into the open – close enough to read the registration of the squad car the officers arrived in – then between the National Theatre and the Royal Festival Hall and down to the London Eye, where I can lose myself in the canopy of umbrellas. The tightness in my lungs is agonizing and I pull air, hands on hips as if to remind myself how to stand as I check the river bus departures screen: the next boat, an express to Greenwich, is docking.
I slap my wallet against the electronic reader, sprint down the jetty and board just in time, ducking low in my seat in the middle bank as far from the windows as I can get. Still breathing heavily, I try to evaluate the logistics of my flight. The police can’t possibly be tracking me: yes, I used the card reader and of course there must be forests of cameras at the Eye, one of the city’s biggest tourist attractions, but neither could conceivably have been accessed so quickly. Plus there’s my cleverness in turning off my phone while still at work.
The Other Passenger Page 24