I pick it up and turn it in my fingers. It’s light, made of glossy white plastic, smaller than a flat paper matchbox.
‘You said it was linked to your phone by Bluetooth. But Bluetooth has a range of a couple of hundred feet. I was on the other side of the town. How did you find me?’
‘Ah, this is the beautiful part.’
I can see a twinkle of geeky excitement in Fly’s eyes.
‘It has a Community Find feature. It automatically connects with all the other users who have their Tile app open and creates a large network that amplifies the Bluetooth radius.’
‘So the more people have the app running, the bigger the network?’
‘That’s right. Incidentally, Butler’s Wharf seems to be full of Tiles.’
‘I’m not surprised. So, you tracked me down to Butler’s Wharf, but how did you get in?’
Fly looks at Vero expectantly.
‘OK, I’d better come clean.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I got worried when you didn’t come home for the night. Especially as you knew a curry from Busaba Eathai was waiting for you. So I asked Fly to check your MacBook. We found the email with “Exposure 5”. I recognized the view and when Fly managed to pinpoint your location we knew you’d gone to challenge whoever was behind all the “Exposures”. It could only mean trouble. So first thing in the morning we set off for Butler’s Wharf. We still didn’t know where exactly at the Wharf you were, but it all clicked into place when I saw Robert’s name on the buzzer.’
‘You know Professor Stein?’
‘Robert is an old friend. I knew he was your lecturer. Poor sod, he hasn’t been doing great lately. He’s in a nursing home in Surrey. I should go and visit him.’ She shakes her head with sadness. ‘Anyway, we decided we had to get into the apartment, so . . .’ She coughs and busies herself with her silver E-cig.
‘So Vero rang the police pretending she was Mrs Stein!’ Fly finishes the sentence for her.
‘You said you were the professor’s wife?’
‘Well, yes. But all I said was that I couldn’t get into the apartment and I was worried because he had dementia . . .’
‘You didn’t! Aren’t you in trouble, wasting police time and all that?’
‘Well, as it turned out I wasn’t wasting their time, was I? I just chose the fastest way of making them smash that door down without having to go into the whole story about you and your stalker. A very sweet sergeant gave me a tiny slap on the wrist, but even she acknowledged that under the circumstances my actions were justified.’
‘My God, Vero . . . Fly . . . you’ve saved my life . . .’ I feel a tearful wave of gratitude coming on.
‘Let’s drink to that!’ Vero raises her mug and we all sip our tea in silence.
‘Erin – where is she?’ I don’t want to think about her, but I have to know.
Vero and Fly exchange a quick glance.
‘Kristin . . .’ Vero puts down her mug. ‘Erin is dead.’
I stare at her, dumbstruck.
‘There was a commotion when the police entered the apartment, she was out of control in some drug-induced frenzy, waving the taser around, shouting something incoherent, and then . . . she jumped.’
‘She jumped?’
‘She threw herself out of that blacked-out window. It happened so fast . . . you were there, tied to that bed . . . I didn’t even know if you were alive . . .’
‘It was total mayhem . . .’ Fly joins in.
‘One second she was there, screaming at us, the next she was gone, broken glass everywhere.’
‘She threw a tripod at the window. With some big-ass camera attached to it.’
‘Her Hasselblad,’ I whisper.
We all sit in silence, looking into our mugs. Vero and Fly are clearly reliving the scene; I’m digesting the shocking news.
She’s gone.
My creative soulmate turned my tormentor is dead. Perhaps I should be rejoicing over the fact but all I feel is overwhelming sadness.
‘What about the other camera? The one she was shooting the time-lapse on?’
‘We couldn’t get to it . . .’
Vero silences Fly with her stare. ‘I guess the police have it. It contains evidence, doesn’t it?’
I groan and put my face in my hands. I can’t bear the thought of anyone watching the most humiliating episode of my life, even though it’s only time-lapse.
‘Talking of the police . . . A cute policewoman popped in when we were waiting for you to wake up at the hospital. PC Singh?’
‘Anu,’ I nod.
‘Yes, she said you’d remember her. She wished you a speedy recovery. Oh, and she asked me to tell you that in the light of new evidence they’ll be reopening the inquiry into Anton’s death . . .’ Vero throws me an anxious glance.
I close my eyes, thinking of the Budnitz bike in Professor Stein’s apartment. I know what they’ll find out. But it won’t bring Anton back.
‘There is one more thing . . .’ Vero sounds suspiciously contrite.
‘What?’ I open my eyes. I’m not sure I can take any more news.
‘Erm . . . while we were at the apartment I accidentally swiped Erin’s MacBook . . .’
‘You accidentally did what?’
‘Well, as Fly said, it was total mayhem, the paramedic was there with you, and we were told to leave the scene, and as we were leaving I noticed this MacBook and for some reason I thought it was yours – I completely forgot yours was back at the loft. So I just slipped it into my bag . . . I didn’t want it to get lost . . .’
‘You removed evidence from the crime scene?’ I can’t believe her stupidity. Or brazenness.
Vero and Fly exchange a guilty look. This is bad. Tampering with evidence is a crime. But on the other hand . . . finders keepers?
‘Do you still have it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And has Fly had a look at it?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK then, tell me what you’ve found.’
‘Erin was your stalker.’
‘I know.’
‘She’d been spying on you for months. There are hundreds of photographs, emails, documents . . .’ Vero hesitates. ‘About you and Anton.’
‘I know,’ I whisper. It feels as if all the energy has drained out of me.
‘Fly’s had a little poke around in her files. She was quite a hacker, you know. I think Fly was a tiny bit impressed.’ She grins at him, then continues. ‘It appears she’d somehow managed to insinuate herself into Robert’s life. Fly’s found some correspondence with Robert’s nursing home signed “Erin Stein”. She might have been pretending she was his daughter. She hadn’t worked for months. She booked herself into The Priory last January. She was out in February and by March her flat in Southwark had been repossessed. She was heavily in debt. She was spending money on two things: online dating sites and pharmacies. Prozac, Xanax, Klonopin, Ketamine, Mephedrone, you name it. She wasn’t well, Kristin.’
I’m too shocked to say anything.
‘There is quite a lot of her art on that computer as well. Some amazing photographs and drawings. Fly and I thought you might want to have a look at them . . .’ Vero throws me an anxious glance. ‘Whenever you’re ready, obviously . . .’
I nod in silence.
Maybe one day, in the distant future, I’ll be able to face Erin Perdue again.
Epilogue
I can’t find any more tidying up to do. Once Vero and Fly left for Whitstable, I hoovered, dusted and scrubbed, although nothing in the loft needed cleaning. When everything smelt of bleach and furniture polish, I spent an hour playing with Pixel and his new catnip toy from Vero.
The washing machine is chugging away through its ‘Mixed Items’ cycle. Pixel’s asleep, snoring softly on the bed. I don’t fancy another cup of tea and I can’t think of another displacement activity I haven’t tried yet.
Erin’s MacBook is sitting on the kitchen table, an innocuous lump of metal and dormant electronics. I should pass
it on to the police.
But I won’t. I can’t bear the thought of anyone opening this Pandora’s Box again.
I dig a black rubbish bag from under the sink and wrap the computer in it, sealing the parcel with gaffer tape. I then stuff it in the utility cupboard, behind some battered suitcases and Anton’s old rucksacks. It fits snugly in a dusty, dark corner I never look into.
Perhaps I can manage one more cup of tea, after all. I put the kettle on and sit down in front of my MacBook.
I open the mailbox and let the cursor hover above the ‘Exposure 5’ email. And then I click ‘Delete’. I find it in ‘Trash’ and click ‘Delete’ again. There. It’s gone.
I’m staring at the screensaver on the Mac when the phone rings.
‘Hey, Kris.’
‘Jason. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, I’ve been a bit preoccupied.’
‘I know, I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages. Is everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine.’
It feels strange to hear myself say it. Perhaps if I keep repeating it, I’ll believe it eventually.
‘Great. Listen, not sure you’ll be interested, but I might have a job for you . . . A friend of mine runs a travel company, one of those exclusive outfits that cater for the rich and bored. You know, tailor-made trips to South America, the Bahamas, Bali and such. They’ve recently started offering a new service they call “Shutterbird”. Basically they include a professional photographer as part of the cost of the trip. Apparently it’s the latest fad. All you’d have to do is tag along and take some snaps of the rich and bored which they’ll able to post on Instagram or Facebook as their own.’
‘You’re joking . . .’
‘No, I’m dead serious. I know it’s not a creative challenge, but the money is good and I thought you might fancy a break. The next trip they need a Shutterbird for is to Necker Island. You know, Richard Branson’s home? I would’ve taken the job myself, but I’ve got too much on, the family and stuff . . .’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘You sure?’ He sounds surprised.
‘Absolutely. When is the trip?’
‘In a couple of weeks.’
‘Perfect.’ It’ll give me time to do Heather’s shoot and pack.
‘Fantastic. I’ll let him know and he’ll be in touch.’
I put the phone down.
Everything’s fine. Well, if it isn’t yet, it will be in a couple of weeks.
There is one more thing I need to do. I pick the phone up again and speed-dial a number.
‘Vero, I need to speak to Fly.’
‘Sure. You OK?’
‘Yes, I have a question for him.’
‘Hold on, he’s right here.’
His ‘hello’ is full of apprehension.
‘Fly, you said Erin was addicted to dating sites. Do you remember which ones?’
‘Erm . . . definitely the one that got hacked last year, Ashley-something, and some others, Match, I think, and something with fish in the name, Fishpond, no, Plenty of Fish, that’s it, oh, and Lust Junction . . .’
‘Lust Junction, are you sure?’
‘Yeah, the name reminded me of Clapham Junction for some reason. It was the one she used most, I think . . .’
‘Thanks, Fly, you’ve been really helpful. I have to go.’
I disconnect, my heart pounding. Erin was familiar with Lust Junction. It was the one she used most, he said. Is it possible she faked Marcus’s profile and invented the whole ‘Marcus the sex addict’ scenario? Something about the story didn’t ring true from the start. The phone call from ‘Anastasia’, Marcus ‘the womanizer’, the four strange emails from him . . . Was Erin behind all this? Is it possible she saw Marcus with me at the loft? That stupid, forgettable fumble I should’ve never let happen.
Was Erin capable of involving an innocent couple and wrecking their already rocky marriage in order to hurt me? I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. Snippets of our camera obscura encounter pop up in my mind. Yes, she was. She’d taken Anton away from me. But ultimately I’m to blame for what happened to Sophie and Marcus. They would never have ended up in the cross hairs of Erin’s vengeful crusade otherwise.
I get up and go to the window. There are people milling around in Patrick Ewer’s flat, champagne flutes in their hands. I wonder what the occasion is. For a split second I feel the urge to join the party, chat amiably with strangers, away from my loft, away from my life . . . But I have to stick with it, try to undo the damage.
It won’t be easy. I’m not sure if I’ll ever succeed. But I have to try. Small steps, Aunt Stella used to say, small steps take you in the right direction. I hope it’s not too late. I hope Marcus wakes up from his coma. I hope Sophie will want to speak to me at some point. Perhaps one day she’ll understand my side of the story. Maybe we’ll be friends again. Small steps.
I notice an art nouveau card standing on the kitchen counter next to a set of keys with a small grey fob. I grab the keys and the card and head for the door.
Downstairs I nearly collide with Susan, barely visible from behind a bunch of tall sunflowers.
‘Rushing off to sort out your life again?’
‘Not today, Susan.’ I hold the door open for her. ‘Just popping out to feed a python.’
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the fantastic team at Pan Macmillan, my editor Trisha Jackson in particular; my wonderful agent Jane Gregory; Sandra Skibsted for sharing her fascinating knowledge with me; Basia Chomski and Philippa Patel, for being my faithful readers; and to Jola, for showing me what art and photography are about. Erin’s final camera obscura piece was inspired by a series of stunning camera obscura ‘roomscapes’ by photographer Abelardo Morell.
Exposure
Aga Lesiewicz has lived in London for over thirty years. She worked as a radio presenter, voice-over artist, interpreter, screenwriter and, most recently, a TV producer and director. A freak knee injury in 2013 led to a change in her career and prompted her to write her first book, Rebound. Exposure is her second novel. She’s currently working on her third London-based psychological thriller.
By Aga Lesiewicz
Rebound
Exposure
First published 2017 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2017 by Macmillan
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-8313-3
Copyright © Aga Lesiewicz 2017
Cover images © Tanja-Tiziana, Doublecrossed Photography / Getty Images.
The right of Aga Lesiewicz to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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