He waved a hand to the flow of water. ‘That’s how the shower works,’ he said.
Absently, Jamie watched steam rise and form beads on the tiles. ‘Sara’s just got the wrong end of the stick,’ he told Vos over the hiss. ‘I know you were trying to help.’
Vos twisted the tap, and the spray drizzled to a stop. ‘Those photos exist,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m not the only one who can put two-and-two together. That’s why it’s important for me to keep them under wraps.’
‘I know. She’ll come around.’
Vos peered at Jamie through hooded eyes. ‘You think she will?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
Vos squeezed past him and moved into the hallway. ‘How can you be so sure?’
Jamie followed. ‘I trust her.’
Vos smiled without mirth and opened the front door. He led Jamie down the stairs and back onto the street. ‘There’s a grocery shop around the corner,’ he said, and then waved to his Porsche. Somehow, he had managed to park it in a space that had been occupied when Jamie drove past it not long before. ‘Go get your car,’ Vos said. ‘I’ll hang around until you’re here. Otherwise, you may never get a spot.’
Before Vos climbed into his car, he said, ‘Look, kiddo – I know you want to trust your partner. Who doesn’t? But remember how important it is to have a basis for your trust. You’ve got to know why you’re doing things.’
He popped the locks and opened the door. ‘You’ve bought yourself time to think,’ he said. ‘Be sure to use it.’
Later, alone in the flat, Jamie thought about Vos’s reaction to Sara. It was obvious that Vos didn’t trust her – and didn’t think Jamie should, either. But Jamie’s time as an inspector had shown him how many domestic disputes were caused more by miscommunication than malicious intent on either side. The heat of yesterday’s anger had cooled, and in the silence of the flat, he was newly able to wonder whether he hadn’t overreacted. He still did not understand why Sara had kept secret her visit to Rhodri’s house on the night he died. But, Jamie told himself, maybe that was the point. He did not understand. He could not comprehend the trauma Sara had suffered. Sara had endured a life of it – from the murder of her parents by Rhodri’s troubled friend, Glyn Thomas, to the loss of their baby, to the horrors of the Aberystwyth investigation – which had concluded with Sara having to witness the aftermath of Rhodri Jones’s crazed act of murder-suicide. With the weight of so much horrifying baggage on Sara’s shoulders, could Jamie really condemn her behaviour? Should he be outraged by her tasteless choice of pendant when she found solace in it?
Jamie had damaged the pendant. Rubbed it raw, crumbled its side. He should have apologised, rather than condemned. He wondered what Sara was doing now.
I could walk to Oxford Circus in less than ten minutes, he thought. Take the Victoria line south, be home in half an hour …
But, no. There were problems with returning home with nothing resolved. He had left badly, and couldn’t guess how Sara would react to his sudden return. And, he admitted to himself, he would feel foolish slinking home so soon. Jamie told himself that he and Sara both needed time to heal. But Jamie also sensed they would not be apart for ever. There would be a time, soon, when going back to Sara would be right, and they could both forgive.
And when they did, Jamie wanted to make a gesture – to give Sara something meaningful. Something that said he empathised, even if he could not fully understand her point of view. Jamie pulled out his phone and Googled the address of a jeweller’s shop on Oxford Street.
He knew just the thing.
Sara arrived at the offices of Andrew Turner & Associates unannounced. The place was bustling today. Well-dressed staff glided over the plush carpet with papers clutched in their hands and phones pressed to their ears. There was a hum to the office – not just a metaphorical energy crackling in the air, but the literal humming of printers, air circulation systems, and the background burbling of people going about their workday. It had been quieter on Sara’s previous visit, when she had sat in that plush chair, right over there, and listened to Andy’s assurances of his loyalty. Now the receptionist, whom Sara did not recognise, explained that Mr Turner was in a meeting and couldn’t possibly be disturbed. The woman stated this fact with the disdainful air of the young functionary who knew she was doing the boss’ bidding, and imagined she carried all his authority, too. Sara smiled pleasantly. She announced that she’d wait. She sank into a chair and watched the receptionist pick up the phone and speak to someone in hushed tones.
Within two minutes, Andy appeared. He did not venture into the Reception area, but hovered half-behind the partition that separated the receptionist from the company’s inner sanctum. He seemed to feel any public conversation with Sara would prove overwhelming; his wary expression suggested uncertainty about the attitude he might expect from his friend. Andy made eye contact with Sara, and angled his head towards the glass offices in the back. She rose immediately, smiled at the peeved-looking receptionist and followed. Andy led her to the only private office in the open space behind the partition – a large glass cube set into a corner.
Andy shut the door. ‘Andy,’ Sara began. ‘I just wanted –’
Andy raised his finger, silencing her. She followed his gaze through the glass, to the open-plan where several staffers were sneaking surreptitious gazes in their direction. One young man was staring more openly. ‘Your assistant?’ Sara murmured.
‘M-hmm,’ Andy said, and pressed a discreet button on the wall. Blackout blinds began to creep down the glass panels of the office. The two of them waited mutely, listening to the motor’s soft electronic hum, until the grey fabric was brushing the nap of the carpet. Only then did Andy turn to Sara. He stared at her appraisingly, taking a barometric reading of her emotional weather. Finally, he lurched forwards and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Sara, I am so, so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I feel just awful about – well, about everything, really.’
‘Andy –’ Sara said.
Andy stood back and raised his hands in surrender. ‘No, no,’ he went on, ‘I’ve been a spineless little turd, and I know it. I should have told Gerrit to roger himself with a rocket casing … but I didn’t.’ He hung his head dramatically. ‘I just couldn’t.’
‘Of course you couldn’t,’ Sara agreed.
Andy looked at her sharply. The contrition in his eyes had given way to surprise.
‘Why would you have?’ Sara continued. ‘Andy, you’re running a multi-million-pound company here. I would never expect you to jeopardise even one job on my behalf. In your position, I certainly wouldn’t have challenged Gerrit Vos.’
And it was true. Sara did understand the circumstances that led to Andy withdrawing his support for the clinic. What Sara would not have done, she knew, was reveal the details of their private conversation to Vos in the first place. That was a way in which she and Andy differed. Sara didn’t blame him for being indiscreet. She’d been both his friend and therapist; she understood he couldn’t help himself.
Sara realised they were standing awkwardly in the centre of the room. In his embarrassment, Andy had not thought to ask her to sit. Sara gestured to the chair behind Andy’s steel desk, then sat immediately on the one that faced it. Andy took his cue and slid behind the desk.
‘You’re being so understanding,’ he breathed. ‘It’s far more than I expected, and, frankly, more than I had any right to expect.’
Sara was jarred by an involuntary shudder. Andy’s choice of words sounded too much like the ones Rhodri used to use in one of his cloyingly contrite moods. That tone had always left Sara feeling manipulated. ‘Let’s face it,’ she said to Andy, ‘at the moment, we’re all dancing to Gerrit Vos’s tune.’
‘You don’t need to anymore,’ Andy said reassuringly. ‘I may still have to deal with Gerrit, but he’s no longer your concern.’
Sara smiled. Sometimes, Andy’s emphatic naiveté was endearing, even in the gravest circumstance. Of course Vos was her con
cern. Technically, Jamie may have worked for Andy, but they both understood he answered to Vos. Sara wondered whether Andy even knew Jamie had stormed out of their flat. If he didn’t, she had no intention of telling him.
It was undeniable that Vos had Jamie in his thrall. He also had those screen grabs of Sara in Rhodri’s house. As Jamie said, it was unlikely Sara could be charged over such circumstantial evidence. But the tabloid headlines that would come from such exposure would make her life bloody awkward. Sara had no desire to be a target of the tabloids again. And Vos was not leaving things there. He had now engineered the loss of her job. What more might he attempt?
Andy thumped his desk with renewed vigour, startling Sara from her reverie. ‘Anyway – not to worry,’ he pressed on with a motivational ring, ‘I’ve been thinking long and hard about all this, and I have a plan. I am going to find you another position. An even better one. Since hooking you up with that support scheme in London Fields, I’ve come across so many better options -’
‘Relax, Andy,’ Sara interrupted. ‘I don’t want another position. Not now, anyway.’
‘Why not?’
‘When you sponsored me at the London Fields Support Service,’ Sara went on, ‘I needed it. I felt so unsettled and rootless. That job gave me stability. I was doing something I knew how to do, and it allowed me to blot out the things I needed to forget. I can’t thank you enough for that – but I just don’t feel that way anymore. Now I need time to myself.’
‘What will you do?’ Andy asked.
‘Enjoy the summer,’ Sara lied. She looked out Andy’s moulded Georgian windows – so incongruous when contrasted with the modernism of the glass cube that surrounded them – and perused the grey sky that hung low over the square. ‘They say the weather’s going to improve,’ she added.
‘We can only hope,’ Andy said.
‘If you hadn’t withdrawn the funding, I would have stayed in that clinic out of guilt,’ Sara said. ‘The fact that they had to sack me – well, it took off the pressure.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ Andy said.
‘On top of all that, Ceri’s asked me to go on holiday with her. I had told her I couldn’t. Now, there’ll be nothing to stop me.’
‘Where are you going?’ Andy asked.
‘Mallorca.’
‘What an excellent idea,’ Andy said, trying to sound excited, but managing only to sound relieved.
Sara rose. ‘When I got here, your receptionist said you were in a meeting.’
Andy waved a hand airily. ‘Only with staff,’ he said. ‘They’re paid to wait.’
‘Maybe so,’ Sara said, ‘but they shouldn’t have to wait for this. Thanks for seeing me, Andy.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I hope you realise that.’ He smiled. ‘So, when are you leaving?’
Sara cocked her head. ‘Leaving?’
‘For Mallorca.’
‘Oh,’ Sara said, and shrugged. ‘Maybe soon.’
‘Then I’ll see you when I see you,’ Andy said, moving from behind the desk to offer Sara another hug.
‘That you will,’ Sara agreed, hugging him back.
Sara walked from St James’s Square to Piccadilly and turned in the direction of Green Park tube station. She was just approaching the Ritz hotel when her mobile rang. Next to the steady whoosh of traffic, Sara could not hear her Take That ring tone, but she felt the phone’s vibration.
‘Miss Jones?’ The voice’s tone was solicitous, but also guarded. ‘My name is Philip Berger. We met last Saturday evening.’
Sara’s heart began to thump wildly. ‘Mr Berger, of course,’ she said, wincing at the traffic. It was too loud for this kind of conversation. ‘Can you hold on a minute?’
Sara ducked into a patisserie. She waved away a waiter who tried to seat her. ‘Thank you for calling back,’ she went on. ‘I have to apologise if I upset you when we met. It wasn’t the ideal way to approach you.’
‘That’s perfectly OK,’ Philip said in a flat tone that implied it wasn’t. ‘This call won’t take long. I’ve spoken to Tim about what you said –’
At once, Sara felt as though she’d been kicked in the chest. ‘Hold on, Mr Berger,’ she said. ‘You’ve told Tim that we’d spoken?’
‘I had to,’ Berger said. ‘I needed to clarify some of the claims you made.’
‘I specifically asked you not to do that,’ Sara said as calmly as she could.
There was a prickly pause on the other end of the line. ‘Miss Jones,’ Philip Berger continued, ‘I don’t know what you think I owe you –’
‘Nothing,’ Sara interrupted, conscious that her voice was growing shrill, ‘You don’t owe me anything. I’m simply trying to help you.’
‘I checked with Tim about the things you said. He seems to be under the impression that you’re colluding with his social worker to discredit him.’
‘That’s not true,’ Sara said.
The waiter approached again. ‘Would you like a table, ma’am?’
Sara shook her head. ‘I’m leaving,’ she mouthed.
‘You told me yourself you’re affiliated with Tim’s social worker,’ Berger reminded her.
‘I’m a psychiatrist,’ Sara said.
An unemployed one, she thought.
‘Tim’s told me all about the incidents that brought him to the attention of the Social Services,’ Berger said. ‘To me it sounds like nothing more than youthful folly. Tim has explained how difficult it is to get shot of a social worker once one latches onto you. Someone’s decided he’s trouble, and so they brought in a psychiatrist to confirm he’s also crazy.’
‘I am not saying he’s crazy,’ Sara protested. ‘I’m telling you he’s prone to violence.’
‘Tim said he asked you to leave him alone.’
‘Tim tried to strangle me.’
Berger’s voice grew sharper. ‘If that’s true,’ he said, ‘I’m willing to bet he had very good cause. Miss Jones, I don’t know what deal you’ve got going with the Council, but I am asking you, quite formally, not to contact me again. Do you understand? Tim has made a similar request. If you bother either of us, I will lodge an official complaint.’
‘With whom?’ Sara said.
‘Social Services, for one,’ said Berger. ‘Then the NHS and the General Medical Council.’
Sara felt herself swoon with helpless frustration. This stupid, stupid man was collaborating in his own murder. At the other side of the patisserie, the waiter had huddled with a woman who might have been his manager. He gestured towards Sara.
‘Mr Berger,’ she said, ‘please listen to me. You are in terrible danger –’
The manager bustled towards Sara with a determined expression. Sara backed out onto the street. On the other end of the line, the quality of the silence had changed.
Philip Berger had ended the call.
SIXTEEN
It was Thursday morning, and Vos sat at his desk. He toyed absently with one of Nicole’s camera pens as he thought about Sara Jones. It seemed like more than three days ago since they’d had their confrontation at Highgate. So much had happened since then. When Vos had met Sara over Rhodri Jones’s grave, he’d hoped to win her over with promises about Jamie’s future. Sara had stymied him by revealing her knowledge about the events in South Africa. After that, Vos had been forced to play his one ace-in-the-hole – those damning security photos. But, it turned out, Sara wasn't just resolute, she was crazy. It was true that the photos would not be enough to send her to prison – but they certainly could damage her reputation. And yet she hadn't budged. Vos knew that enticing Jamie to leave her was spiteful – as was having Andy terminate Sara’s contract. Yet, he hoped both ploys would work to unnerve her. Vos wanted to make Sara Jones wonder what else he might do. At least that would slow her down and give him time to think.
Vos set down the camera pen. And with one of Nicole’s trackers under her car, he thought, I’ll always know where she's going.
Vos’s office phon
e buzzed. He glanced at it, but decided he did not want to be bothered. He stabbed a button and silenced it.
He really did need time to consider his options. Maybe he’d been able to damage Sara Jones’s career, but it was a damn certainty she could put an end to his. Nobody would question Sara’s take on the events in South Africa. Vos knew his next move would need to be decisive.
The phone buzzed again. With irritated impatience, he picked up the receiver and barked his own name. Taking the verbal cue, Rashid from the front desk apologised profusely for the interruption, then informed Vos he had a visitor.
Vos frowned. ‘In the lobby? Who?’
‘Not down here, sir,’ Rashid said. ‘The gentleman is being retained at the front gate.’
Vos frowned. ‘Hang on, Rash,’ he said, and set down the receiver. He swivelled in his chair, jogged his computer’s mouse, and clicked on the icon that linked him to the cameras. An image taken from the side of the redbrick security hut showed a new-model Ford sitting before the barrier. The long corporate road stretched behind it. A figure walked into the frame and opened the driver’s door. From this high angle, the man’s bald head was prominent. Vos’s lips tightened.
Shit.
It was Levi fucking Rootenberg – here, in the one place he knew he shouldn’t be, trying to see the one man he shouldn’t be seen with.
Vos picked up the handset. ‘Rash,’ he said. ‘Who’s on the gate?’
‘Ruth, sir.’
‘Tell her to send our visitor to the Hollybush car park. He won’t need a pass – he’s not coming in.’
If Rashid was surprised by this order, he did not show it. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said.
Vos watched the image of Rootenberg. Now he was slumped behind the wheel, waiting. Vos saw Ruth enter the frame, bend to the driver’s window and gesticulate, indicating the campus’s one-way system. Vos stared down at the items arrayed on his desk. Next to the security equipment and a number of toy soldiers sat a stack of folders, a box of tissues, some bottled water, pens, and a letter opener. Vos thought of several ways to kill Rootenberg with them.
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