18
I wake up with a start, covered in sweat, Anton’s words still ringing in my head. We’re on a roll, babe, we’re on a roll. For one blissful moment I’m annoyed with him for being his usual carefree self, then the reality hits me. Anton is dead. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the brightness of the day. It’s unbearably hot and stuffy in the loft. Pixel is sitting right next to my face, kneading the pillow rhythmically, his claws catching on the pillowcase.
‘All right, all right, I get the message.’ I drag myself out of bed and fill his bowl with Lily’s Kitchen chicken dinner. It’ll do for breakfast.
This is the best thing about pets. They won’t let you wallow in misery for too long, they’ll drag you meowing or barking straight back to life. OK, I’m up, what now?
I let the cold water run in the kitchen sink, lean over and drink greedily from the tap, then splash water on my face, wetting my hair. Do I dare to face the world?
Reluctantly, I switch the computer on and go to the BBC news page. I scroll all the way down to UK & Local News, and there it is, the second item in the England section.
‘Man dies after falling from fifth floor in Central London.’
No, I don’t want to read this. I get up and go to the window. It’s wide open and it’s hotter outside than it is in the loft. I look down as I reach out to shut it and see a police car stopping in front of my building. Shit, it must be nine o’clock. A moment later my entryphone buzzer is screeching. My FLO is here.
‘Thank you so much for agreeing to do this,’ says PC Singh as I settle in the back seat of the car.
I nod, unsure what to say. She sits at the front, next to the driver, turning towards me with a reassuring expression on her face.
‘We’re going to St Pancras mortuary, it’s not very far. And it shouldn’t take long . . .’ She hesitates, before continuing. ‘But there is something I need to tell you before we get there. When Mr Sauvage – when Anton fell, he hit some steel fencing. He . . . We had to get the fire brigade to help us to remove him. What I’m saying is he sustained some serious injuries in the fall. There might be some disfigurement and it may not be that easy to identify him . . .’
I feel a wave of nausea rise in my throat. ‘Can you stop the car, please? Now?’
We’re surrounded by traffic right in the middle of Old Street roundabout, but the driver turns the blues and twos on in a short blast and nudges the car towards the kerb in City Road. As soon as we stop I’m out, throwing up on the pavement. I haven’t eaten much today, so all that is coming out is yellow streaks of bile and white froth. I lean against the car, waiting for the retching to subside. PC Singh appears by my side, a bottle of Evian and a packet of tissues in her hands. Eventually I’m able to take a few sips of water. We’ve stopped right in front of Sainsbury’s Local and a handful of shoppers are watching us curiously.
‘Miss Singh . . .’
‘Anu, please.’ She hands me the tissues.
‘Anu . . . I can’t do it. Can you please take me back home?’
‘Of course.’ She opens the car door for me and says something to the driver.
Back at the loft, PC Singh busies herself with the kettle. She rinses out two mugs and makes fresh tea, as milky and sweet as the one before.
‘I’m so sorry, Anu. I just couldn’t do it.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s fine. I understand.’
‘But I’ve let you down, wasted your time . . .’
‘Don’t worry, really. There are other ways.’
‘I just . . . couldn’t face seeing him . . .’
‘I understand. It’s a very traumatic experience. It’s tough.’
We sip the tea in silence.
‘You know, I used to work crime scenes.’
‘You were a SOCO?’
‘No, a photographer.’
‘Ah, yes.’ She looks at my equipment at the back of the loft.
‘I’ve seen so many dead bodies . . . victims of traffic accidents, fire, domestic violence, murder . . . mutilated, bruised, decaying . . . missing limbs—’ I break off and look at Anu apologetically. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’
‘No, go on, please.’
‘I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.’
I take a sip of my tea and Anu surprises me by producing a packet of cigarettes out of her bag. She offers me one and I take it, leaning towards her lighter and inhaling deeply.
‘I used to smoke then. I’d arrive at the scene, meet the officer in charge, put my overshoes on, suit up, get my kit through the door, walk the scene, make mental notes of what had to be done, photograph it, film it, write it all down, all on automatic, like a robot, so it wouldn’t affect me. And then I’d go back to my van and have a smoke. That cigarette at the end of the job was like a beacon guiding me back to the land of the living. I’d take that first drag and wake up. Back to being human again. Back to life.’
I’m suddenly fighting back the tears and the cigarette is not helping. I stub it out and grab one of Anu’s tissues, blowing my nose loudly. She watches me patiently, a quiet companion, a listener.
‘You take pictures?’ I ask her.
She shakes her head.
‘You look through the viewfinder and it’s like being inside this dark tunnel. Everything else is shut out, nothing exists outside of it. You just see what’s in front of you, with that intense clarity, uninterrupted, pure. You become the eye. It’s a strange feeling, like some kind of a trance. And then you snap out of it and become you again.’
I fall silent, searching for words, and Anu waits for me to continue.
‘I’m expecting to snap out of it now, and I know it’s not going to happen. Because this is life. Anton in the mortuary. And I can’t face it. I can’t face death without the protection of a camera lens.’
Anu reaches out to touch my hand and I burst into tears. It’s all coming out now, the grief, the pain, the shock of it all. The feeble barrier of self-restraint that has helped me to hold it all in is crumbling and I’m sobbing like a lost child.
Eventually I feel calm enough for Anu to decide she can leave, promising she’ll call later. Out of habit I check my phone. There are eleven new messages. I’ll deal with them later. I can’t face talking to people just yet. I sit at the kitchen table, trying to collect my thoughts. It’s not easy.
He’s dead. He’ll never walk in through the door, never whisk me off my feet in his bear embrace. He’ll never smile, never snore, never annoy me with strewing his things everywhere around the loft. I’ll never say ‘yes’ to him, never call myself Mrs Sauvage. Hold on, aren’t you being hypocritical? You threw him out two days ago. You were prepared to spend the rest of your life without him. So where is this melodrama coming from? Come on, get over it. He was a bastard and a cheat. But he’s dead.
A rattle of the old brass letter box that hasn’t been used since they installed a row of ugly metal pigeonholes downstairs makes me jump. I get up heavily and go to the door. A rolled-up newspaper is sticking out of the letter box. I yank the door open. There’s no one outside. I close the door and pull the paper out. It’s the Daily Mail. The Daily Mail? Why would anyone in their right mind stick the Daily Mail through my door? I unroll it as I take it to my recycling bin and the headline on the front page catches my eye.
FRENCH ARTIST DIES IN 70ft FALL IN KING’S CROSS
Fuck. I spread the paper on the kitchen table and sit down. There is a picture of a smiling Anton next to a wide, single-column article, with a bold line of type below the title.
Anton Sauvage, 37, impaled on steel fencing after falling from a building next to St Pancras station.
I swallow to get rid of the tightness in my throat and force myself to read on.
An urban artist, dubbed by many ‘the French Banksy’, has died after falling from the fifth level of a building under construction in a newly developed area of King’s Cross next to St Pancras International. Police were called to the building site at about 7 a
.m. yesterday, but were unable to save him.
The site’s security guard told the Daily Mail: ‘I had just arrived for my Sunday morning shift when I saw the man’s body. He was impaled on the steel palisade fencing fixed in concrete at ground level. It was quite gruesome. Police arrived very quickly and covered the body, but everybody who saw it was really shaken. I have never seen anything so horrific in my entire life.’ Metropolitan Police have confirmed the death is not being treated as suspicious but enquiries are being carried out into the circumstances surrounding the accident. Turn to page 5.
Against my better judgement I turn to page 5. There is another picture of Anton, this time on scaffolding by one of his murals. It’s his Beaubourg piece on one of the air vents outside Centre Pompidou in Paris. I know because I was there with him when he was pasting it up.
The French artist who died in King’s Cross yesterday was known for his characteristic murals that would crop up in cities all over the world, from Brazilian favelas to the banlieues of Paris. Friends of Anton Sauvage expressed their utter shock at his sudden death. His brother, Lionel, a prominent New York investment banker, said in a brief statement read out by his lawyer, ‘I am devastated by the loss of my brother. He was an inspiration to many people and his death is both tragic and unexpected. I ask the media to respect our privacy so our family can grieve in peace.’ A friend of Mr Sauvage said, ‘Anton never hesitated to risk his life for his art. No building was too high for him and no project too dangerous. He always pushed himself to the limits both in his art and his private life.’ Another friend added . . .
I grab the paper and throw it across the loft, startling Pixel. A friend? And another friend? Who are these people? Where did they dig them up from? A statement from Lionel’s lawyer? Lionel, who hadn’t spoken to his brother for ten years? Who despised him for being ‘a leftie loser’ and accused him of squandering their father’s fortune?
Shaking with anger, I pick up my phone and dial PC Singh’s number from the card she’s left on the table. She answers on the first ring.
‘Anu, it’s Kristin Ryder.’
‘Kristin, are you OK?’
‘Not really, I’ve just read today’s Daily Mail.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘All that nonsense they wrote about Anton—’ I can’t contain my outrage.
‘Unfortunately these kind of headline stories are quite common . . .’
‘But it’s all lies! Those quotes from the so-called friends!’
‘I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do about it.’
I hear a distance in her voice. She doesn’t sound like the caring FLO who was in my loft an hour ago.
‘The statement from his brother he hasn’t seen since they both left home . . . it’s all some kind of hideous fabrication!’
‘Actually, that bit is true.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Mr Sauvage’s lawyer has just been in touch. He’s taking care of all the arrangements on behalf of the family.’
‘The family? You’ve got to be kidding me . . .’ I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Anton hated the very notion of ‘the family’.
‘I believe the funeral is going to take place next week in the south of France.’
Well, of course, they’ll put him in the family grave in Aix-en-Provence. I’m so taken aback by what I’ve heard I need to sit down.
‘What about his stuff?’
‘His stuff?’
‘You know, the things he had with him when he died.’
‘You mean his clothes and the contents of his pockets? All that will go to his family once we’re done with it.’
I think she’s using the word ‘family’ over and over again just to spite me.
‘Once you’re done? What are you doing with it?’
‘Nothing unusual. It’s all standard procedure in a case like this. We’re not treating his death as suspicious.’
‘I know. I’ve read it in the Daily Mail.’ I hope I sound sarcastic enough.
‘Kristin, I’m very sorry it has turned out like this. Obviously, I’ll keep you in the loop if you’d like me to—’
I hear the quiet bleep of another call waiting and interrupt Anu.
‘Actually, Anu, I have to go. Bye.’ I press the button before she has a chance to reply.
‘Yes?’ I bark into the phone, still shaking from the shock of Anu’s revelations.
‘Is this Miss Kristin Ryder?’ A polite female voice.
‘Ms, actually.’
‘Ah, of course, Ms Ryder. So sorry to bother you at such a sad time . . .’
‘Who’s this?’
‘My name is Mindy Nygard and I’m a journalist with the Daily—’
‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Go to hell!’ Without turning it off, I throw my phone across the room. It bounces off the wall and clatters to the floor.
This is unbelievable. First they print all that hogwash about Anton and now they try to get to me! How did this Mindy person get my name and number anyway? From some weasel at the police station, probably. Talk about adding insult to injury . . . I’m being sidelined by Anton’s family as if his death is none of my business and now I’m being pestered by some hack. Perhaps I should’ve spoken to her. Given her my version of his relationship with his family. His family. There are only two people I can think of who fit this collective noun: his dementia-riddled mother and his brother Lionel. Lionel. It has to be him behind all this. His hateful older brother, obsessed with the family’s reputation, trying to remove all trace of the sibling who never fitted the bill, who in his mind disgraced them even in his death. Lionel is trying to sweep Anton under the rug. To give him his due, he probably doesn’t even know I exist. I doubt Anton would’ve told him about our engagement. But what about those self-proclaimed ‘friends’ with their fake dirges? They have probably never existed and are a product of Mindy’s overactive imagination.
My anger subsides, giving way to gloom again. I force myself to get up and fetch the phone. The screen is cracked, a wonky spider web of broken glass obscuring the icons. But it seems to be working. For one needy moment I consider calling my parents, but quickly dismiss the thought. That relationship went beyond repair a long time ago. I might as well stick to my friends, not that I have many of them. Being basically a self-sufficient geek, I used to leave the socializing thing to Anton. I check my voicemails and listen to the messages, deleting them as I go along. Sophie and Marcus, shocked, caring, desperately trying to get hold of me. Vero, offering to come over straight away. Anna from the Fugitives, politely sympathetic. Heather, asking how I’m getting on with Playthingz. Rupert and Daniel, chirpily unaware, inviting me to a ‘vinyl party’. I realize that none of Anton’s mates have called me. All those guys who used to populate our busy social life have suddenly gone AWOL. I don’t matter to them. Only a handful of people, none of them connected to my life with Anton, have bothered to pick up the phone. And they deserve to be called back at some point. I can’t hide with my grief forever.
I have to lie down again. I feel an almost palpable heaviness weighing me down, as if anxiety and grief have parked themselves on my chest, unwilling to shift. Snippets of the Daily Mail article, my conversation with PC Singh and Mindy’s call keep churning in my head in a relentless cacophony of meaningless phrases.
Wait! I sit up abruptly, knocking Pixel off the bed. When I asked PC Singh about Anton’s stuff, she mentioned only his clothes and the contents of his pockets. What about his rucksack and his computer bag? Where are they? Where did he go when I kicked him out? Did he crash with Doyle again? I should give him a call. I must have his number somewhere. But what if . . . A disturbing thought buzzes in my head like a mosquito. What if he went to that woman? The woman from ‘Exposure 3’?
I rush to the computer and, ignoring hundreds of new messages in my mailbox, look for ‘Exposure 3’. I can’t find it. I scroll up and down the endless stacks of emails but it’s
not there. Not even one of the three identical ‘Exposure 3’ messages I received. I go to the ‘Trash’ folder but it’s not there either. I go back to my inbox and sort my emails by name rather than date. As I look at the alphabetical list, it slowly dawns on me: not only is ‘Exposure 3’ missing but also ‘Exposure 1’ and ‘Exposure 2’. They should all be there, somewhere between ‘Fwd:’ and ‘Expedia Travel Information’, but they are all gone. I realize I’m hunched over the table, practically touching the screen with my nose. I lean back in my swivel chair and let my breath out, subconsciously imitating Anton’s mannerism. All the ‘Exposure’ emails have vanished and I have no record of them ever existing. Time Machine, I think with a flicker of hope. Yes, they’d all be there if only I’d bothered to back up my Time Machine in the last few weeks. But I hadn’t.
Have they all been somehow linked to Anton? And now that Anton’s dead, they are gone too? A shiver runs through me. What does it all mean? Let’s not panic, let’s try to think about it rationally. The latter two were connected to Anton, but the first one? The Violinist crime scene? How is that supposed to be related to him? I didn’t even know him then. But maybe he knew me? Perhaps he’d been stalking me and then made sure our paths crossed so he could wiggle his way into my bed and my life? Really? He’d do that to then go off and kill himself, erasing all the emails while he was at it? No, Ryder, you’re getting seriously paranoid. There is no connection between Anton and all the ‘Exposure’ emails except for an obvious one: me. I’ve been the target of the emails and Anton’s just got in the cross hairs because he was involved with me. His death and the disappearance of the emails must be an awful, and scary, coincidence. But . . . if only I still had those emails, if I could have another look at them, perhaps I’d find some little detail, some snippet of incriminating evidence that would explain it all. As if on cue, a message pops up on the screen: ‘Time Machine could not complete the backup.’ Yes, I know, and unless I plug my backup disk in, it won’t be able to. I click ‘OK’, making a mental note to do it later.
Exposure Page 12