Darryl laughed. ‘Sounds like my kind of boss. You couldn’t put in a word for me, could you?’
‘You’ve only been here five minutes, Darryl.’ She gave him a pointed look. ‘But maybe you’re impatient.’
He smiled and shrugged. There was a lazy confidence about him, the smug entitlement of a young man who’d never had to try too hard. And now she’d learnt something else about Darryl Tanner: he was two-faced.
‘So, you wanted my address?’
‘Yeah.’ He gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I thought, well, I wasn’t quite sure—’
‘Sure of what?’
He seemed embarrassed. ‘I didn’t want to upset you.’
His jacket was slung on the back of a chair, he reached into the inside pocket. ‘Well, it was just this one thing. But I thought you’d probably want it.’ He pulled out a passport-sized photo. ‘I found it wedged right in the back of the drawer.’
It was dog-eared and creased. Taking it between thumb and index finger, Jo stared down at it: two gurning girly faces filled the tiny frame. Her stomach flipped.
‘Looks like you when you were a kid.’
Taken in Cornwall at Easter, when Jo was nearly eleven and Sarah eighteen, it was their last family holiday together, a frozen moment of happiness before Jo’s childhood crashed and burned.
She swallowed hard, took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, it’s me and my sister.’
‘I – er, heard the story. About . . . well, y’know, what happened to her. So I thought you’d probably want it back.’
He’d heard the story! How? She never spoke of it. Ever. But somehow it was common knowledge? That disturbed her. Tucking the photo away in her bag she realized her hand was shaking.
‘Thanks.’ Her voice was barely a croak. ‘Thought I’d lost it.’
DC Debbie Georgiou glanced from one to the other of her colleagues. She could see Jo was uncomfortable, possibly even upset, it was difficult to tell. To her, Jo Boden had always seemed cool and contained, the kind of girl it would be great to be friends with, if she wasn’t quite so smart and intimidating. But whatever gossip there was about her past, Darryl hadn’t seen fit to share it.
She shrugged. ‘So you think I should go to Manchester and look for this girl?’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
5 December 1999
Brighton
Dear Pixie,
I know you’re upset that Dad came down to see me and didn’t tell you. But he had a work thing, a meeting with a client in Brighton, which was arranged at the last minute, so he literally popped in. I know that Mummy’s told you that spring half-term is the best time for you to visit and I absolutely promise you that it will happen.
Also it means you can come in the week, which is a far better way to see what life as a student is really like. I’ll maybe take you to one of Dr Haliburton’s lectures and then you’ll see how some of the classic texts of English literature can be transformed into something totally boring.
I’ll tell you a secret, but you must promise not to blab. I’m going to try and change courses to American Literature. That will mean I get to go and study at an American university for a year. How awesome is that! I quite fancy Berkeley, that’s in California.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. But when you’re at school you get all this advice from teachers. And really all they want is for you to get an A grade and do their subject at uni so they can look good. So, whatever the teachers tell you, Pix – and the parents, for that matter – do your research and make up your own mind. Be who you want to be. Choose something different, something a bit crazy. If I could do it all again, I certainly would.
Don’t expect there are too many boys on your horizon just yet. But here’s another word of advice, don’t believe everything they say. Boys lie. Some of them are like big fat spiders trying to draw you into their web. Don’t fall for it! Stay in charge of your own life. Sounds easy, I know, but sometimes it isn’t. Stuff gets messy.
But if in doubt, run like hell. Sometimes it’s the best thing to do. In many ways I envy you. You get to learn from all my stupid mistakes.
Tons and tons of love and hugs, little Pixie,
S XXxxxxx
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The frontage of the café was tucked under the lofty glass canopy of Greenwich Market. Briony Rowe tried to peer through the small bullseye window panes into the wood-panelled interior. It looked like some brand designer’s vision of a French patisserie crossed with the Old Curiosity Shop, aimed squarely at the tourist trade. A bell tinkled as she opened the door. She hesitated on the threshold, then she saw Alison Boden seated behind a small table at the back, staring into space.
The text she’d received that morning was curt: 2pm café next to gallery 10 in greenwich market. It was two days since the debacle at Lewisham police station. Was it a summons in order to heap more abuse on her? It seemed unlikely in such a public place, although anything was possible with Alison Boden. Grief had unhinged her, that was Briony’s conclusion. But then could anyone be expected to recover from the murder of their child?
Briony approached the table with a nervous grin. ‘Mrs Boden. I got your text.’
Alison gazed up at her vacantly. It took a moment for recognition to dawn. Then her brain seemed to click into gear.
‘I want to know about this stalker.’ Her eyes had a vacancy, her fingers a slight tremor.
Reassured that no attack was imminent, Briony plonked her bag down on a chair.
She’d wolfed enough benzos in her time to recognize the effects of the medication. Alison Boden was zoned out, she wasn’t going to be thumping anyone today. Jo Boden had agreed to pay for the smashed lens, although Briony had already persuaded her cameraman buddy to claim on his insurance.
‘I’m happy to share everything I know with you. Can I get you some more tea? What you’ve got looks a bit cold.’
Alison’s eyes drifted to her half-empty cup. ‘Yes, thank you.’
Briony went to the counter, ordered a large pot of English breakfast tea, considered a meringue – they looked delicious – but resisted.
She returned to the table and sat down, by which time Alison seemed to have gathered her thoughts.
‘The idea that she was frightened of some man, I can’t stand that.’
‘Well, she treated it as a bit of a joke.’
‘A joke?’
‘She gave him a nickname. Bruce.’
The crease between Alison’s brows deepened. ‘The evidence in court. The . . . viciousness—’
‘That’s why I’ve never believed it was Nathan, Mrs Boden. He adored Sarah. Even if they’d had a row, and they did fall out quite often, he could never’ve done that to her.’
‘But surely . . . I mean, how could the police make such a mistake?’
Briony Rowe smiled, now she was on solid ground. She’d studied and researched miscarriages of justice. Over the past month she’d been writing and firing off pitches to various television production companies and her command of the subject was impressive.
‘It happens. The police were under tremendous pressure to charge someone. More often than not the boyfriend or partner is the culprit. But not always. It’s easy for them to jump to conclusions. Then bias comes into play. They only look for the evidence that supports their assumptions.’
Alison’s chin was quivering.
The tea arrived in a heavy brown pot with a knitted cosy and two delicate china cups. Briony glanced at the cake-laden counter and resolved to be strong. She knew she’d hooked Alison, got her questioning the verdict, or they wouldn’t be sitting there. But she didn’t want to overplay her hand.
Pouring the tea, she placed a steaming cup in front of Alison. ‘Milk?’
Alison shook her head. She was frowning, trying, Briony suspected, to process this new information in her drug-addled brain.
‘If you knew about this stalker—’
‘I know, Mrs Boden. I should’ve spoken up. I’ve spent ye
ars feeling guilty. If only I could turn back the clock. But, as a young person, I wasn’t very confident. Not an excuse, just an explanation.’
Alison said nothing. She picked up a teaspoon and with a shaking hand slowly scooped three sugars into her tea.
Briony watched. In her head she was already framing the shot. Alison would be brilliant on camera. Her faded beauty, the sorrow etched in every line of her face. If she could manage to put her and Nathan together, even if they said little, it would be cinematic dynamite.
The phone in the top of her bag buzzed. She slipped her hand in to retrieve it and took a quick glance. Alison didn’t seem to notice, obsessively stirring her tea, she was lost in some reverie or nightmare of her own.
Clicking on the text, Briony’s heart soared. Gordon Kramer’s company had agreed to a meeting. After all these months of work, things were starting to move in the right direction.
Xtraordinary Productions were a smallish outfit but they had huge credibility. Gordon Kramer was a broadcasting heavy-weight, ex-BBC, he’d done Panorama, Newsnight, he’d reported on wars and humanitarian disasters and he’d won a shedload of awards. A bit long in the tooth now, the company was run by his much younger wife, Tania Jones. She was the one Briony would have to convince.
Tilting her head, as if a new notion had just occurred to her, she gave Alison a smile. ‘Of course, the fact that Jo’s a police officer could make things much easier.’
‘Why?’
‘I think if she met Nathan—’
‘I don’t want to meet him.’ A shudder ran through Alison. ‘I remember him in the dock. He kept staring at us. You’d think he’d have been too ashamed.’
‘You wouldn’t have to meet him. But as an experienced police officer, Jo could interview him herself and weigh the evidence.’
Briony had spent a sleepless night in a state of high excitement. The discovery that Sarah Boden’s little sister was the spitting image of her and was a cop to boot had sent her imagination into overdrive.
The film had morphed into a sister’s quest to find the truth. Combine that with an innocent man’s crusade to clear his name and she would have something unique. And if she could present the idea that they were somehow working together, that would be magic.
The film-maker took a sip of her tea. ‘What does Jo think about you talking to me?’
For the first time a hint of a smile crossed Alison’s face. ‘She doesn’t know.’ Briony had suspected as much. ‘My daughter is, well, a very different character to her sister.’
‘In what way?’
‘She can be rather . . . difficult. Obstinate. Even as a baby she cried all the time. Would never sleep.’
Briony slipped her phone on to the table between them. ‘You don’t mind if I . . . I’ve got a brain like a sieve.’ With quick jabs of her index finger she clicked to record.
Alison seemed oblivious, engulfed in memories. ‘Why on earth she joined the police is a complete mystery to me. No one in the family has ever done anything like that before. My side, we’ve always been creative. And Sarah took after me. She probably would’ve become a film-maker herself, you know.’
‘Oh absolutely.’ Briony nodded vigorously. ‘We talked about movies all the time. She had an amazing visual eye.’
Alison smiled wistfully. ‘You’re right. She did.’
‘At the beginning of term we joined the film society together. I remember going to see all these great old films. Sarah was a real movie buff.’
‘In the winter, even when the kids were quite small, we always rented a video on a Sunday afternoon.’
‘She told me that!’
Alison’s face softened. ‘Did she? Really?’
‘It’s where her love of film started, I’m sure.’
Alison sighed deeply, her eyes welling up. ‘Such a waste.’
They sat in silence for several moments.
But Briony realized she’d never have a better opportunity, it would be foolish not to exploit it.
‘You know, Mrs Boden, that’s why I think this film could be such a tribute to Sarah. I sort of imagine it as the film she would’ve made if she could’ve done it herself. And who knows, maybe her spirit is out there in the ether somewhere, guiding me.’
Alison Boden ran her middle fingers under both eyes to wipe away the tears and Briony wondered for a guilty second if she’d pushed it a tad too far.
But then the older woman’s gaze came to rest on her and she smiled. ‘Yes, I think you might be right. It is the sort of thing that Sarah would’ve approved of.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The estate agent’s was part of an upmarket chain with offices throughout London and Ivan Rossi was assistant manager of the Shepherd’s Bush branch. The shop occupied a double frontage on the Hammersmith side of the Green. Jo Boden stood across the road studying it from a distance.
It had taken a couple of days for Foley to make the necessary arrangements. She needed some ID and bank details to establish her bona fides as a serious potential client. Jo had used the time to focus and to distance herself from the distractions swirling around her new deployment.
Darryl’s unearthing of the photo-booth picture had upset her more than she cared to admit. For years it had lived tucked away behind the credit cards in her wallet, she rarely looked at it, she hadn’t even realized she’d lost it.
The only other memorabilia she had of her sister were three letters. They’d been written in Sarah’s first weeks at university, after which all correspondence had abruptly ceased. Jo had never understood why. Maybe her sister had become too enmeshed with her new student life and could no longer be bothered with her family. She had no memory now of how she’d reacted to this rejection at the time. The shock of subsequent events had simply wiped it out. But Jo had kept the letters and a couple of glittery birthday cards, which Sarah had made for her while she was still at school. She never told her parents about this private trove because everything else that had ever belonged to her sister – from the one-armed Barbie she’d handed on to Jo to the sellotaped Spice Girls posters – had been purloined by Alison after Sarah’s death.
The scrap between Vaizey and Hollingsworth remained office gossip although neither of them spoke to her directly. Had they also discussed the fact she was still, theoretically, a target of the Kelmendis? No one had talked to her about that either. Her only contact had been with Foley and he treated her with a lack of interest bordering on dislike. She’d heard nothing from Jabreel Khan.
The encounter with Darryl had been uncomfortable, although she’d probably jumped to the wrong conclusion about him. There was no evidence to suggest he was the informant. In the end she decided to get on with the job and hope for the best. As Jabreel had already pointed out, adopting a false identity was as good a way as any to lie low.
But why on earth had they come up with the name Charlotte? Jo neither felt like a Charlotte nor, in her opinion, looked like one. It had been chosen by an anonymous researcher somewhere in the bowels of MI5; they were providing her legend and the documentation to support it. Foley said it emphasized her Englishness. She was an English rose with golden hair, which may well appeal to Rossi. Jo got the impression he was being sarcastic.
Nevertheless she was approaching the job with professionalism and had given careful thought to her outfit and appearance. The most expensive item in her wardrobe was a grey jersey shift dress from Whistles. It was simple, elegant and figure-hugging. With a short leather biker jacket and medium-heeled ankle boots it emphasized her figure and her long legs. She pinched a gold bangle and a silk scarf from her mother’s bedroom to complete the look.
She had also created a backstory in her own mind to embellish the legend. Her feeling was they needed something that matched the aspirations of a man like Rossi. They wanted to arouse his sympathy certainly. But Jo was astute enough to understand that, whatever the official line, this was a seduction, even if it would never be consummated. So the skill was to hook him and play h
im for long enough to gather the intel they needed.
As she cast around for ideas a random notion popped into her head. The summer before she’d gone to university her sister, Sarah, had done some modelling for a catalogue. An old friend of Alison’s had arranged the job and was keen to persuade Sarah to continue during her studies. But Nick Boden had put his foot down and a family argument had ensued with Sarah pleading with her father to let her do both and Alison tacitly supporting her, with the proviso that her university work must not suffer.
Jo had sided enthusiastically with her sister. The world of modelling seemed impossibly glamorous to an eleven-year-old. But having spent three weeks from dawn until dusk at the shoot, putting clothes on, taking them off and posing, endlessly posing, Sarah had confessed to her little sister that the whole thing was extremely tedious and hard work, not what she’d expected at all. Jo was disappointed too. She’d shared her sister’s thrill vicariously. But what she remembered in particular, and what had puzzled her at the time, was Sarah’s stubborn refusal to admit to their father that he’d been right. She still kept arguing and harassing him for permission to continue her modelling career.
Was Sarah stubborn, wilful even? Jo couldn’t remember. She tried not to think about the past. And she didn’t want to think about it now. But the photo, Wade’s release, her mother’s hysteria were churning it all up.
Pretending to be someone she wasn’t, in circumstances that could be construed as risky, would definitely have appealed to Sarah. Jo hadn’t thought about it for years, but as she stood on the corner of Shepherd’s Bush Green psyching herself up to morph into Charlotte, she suddenly had a forgotten memory of Sarah. It seemed to come from nowhere, a clear image of her sister, once again in a bikini.
They were on holiday in the Caribbean. The exotic holidays and the moneyed existence of her childhood was something that rarely strayed into Jo’s adult consciousness. It belonged to a time labelled before, when the Bodens were a family; it was a lost world.
But Sarah was on a sun lounger with Jo deputed to rub sun cream into her back. A group of rich preppy American college boys had been playing in the pool. Jo found them boisterous and intimidating. One of them tried to chat up Sarah, who promptly pretended to be French. She spoke to them in a mixture of heavily accented English and proper French and within five minutes the whole group were mesmerized. They sat round in a circle, ordering drinks, smoking and paying court to Sarah. Jo’s role had been to answer her sister’s occasional question with a oui or non. At nine years old she’d managed her part with aplomb and Sarah later rewarded her with a Knickerbocker Glory.
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