by Nick Louth
* * *
Michaela awoke with a start. She groped for the mobile, just to stop the ringtone which was hammering into her skull like a dentist’s drill. It was the vice-dean wanting to know why she as a student host hadn’t turned up for the freshers’ event that morning. Michaela gasped and looked at the clock. It was gone midday. She made her apologies and replaced the handset, trying to work out what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. On the floor in a sleeping bag was Kat, her eyes crinkled against the light and perhaps against the same gigawatt hangover that Michaela was enduring. She could just about remember the fabulous meal at the Royal York yesterday, the bottle of wine she and Kat had shared and the way that Rifat had just listened to their talk while drinking mineral water. She vaguely remembered that she didn’t feel too good, at some point, and that a waiter at the hotel had told them to keep the noise and laughter down. They had then walked beside the river, she recalled that, and had chased ducks. She had got her feet wet, and then ran barefoot. The memory made her smile.
She looked under the bedclothes. She was still wearing the same shirt from yesterday, the same underwear. Kat too, looked like she was wearing yesterday’s clothes. Kat, ‘not what you’d call conventionally pretty’, as one of Michaela’s boyfriends had sarcastically put it, looked like crap this morning; only her irrepressible red hair had any life in it.
‘So what happened?’ Kat said, accusingly.
‘Nothing. I don’t remember anything after the ducks.’
‘When was that, six maybe?’
‘Dunno what happened to the evening then. Hey, did you puke?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Kat said, sniffing her T shirt, then delving deeper into the sleeping bag. ‘Eek. I stink, but it’s a more general kind of whiff. Not upchuck, that’s for sure.’
‘It was only a couple of glasses of wine,’ Michaela said.
‘Plus two pints of cider, before lunch, feckwit.’
‘He was a weird one, wasn’t he?’ Michaela said.
‘Yeah, but I’d still shag him,’ Kat said. ‘Hey, maybe I did shag him?’ She looked into her sleeping bag, as if she expected to find immediate evidence one way or the other. They both started giggling wildly, until their headaches brought them up short. ‘Did I shag him?’
‘I don’t think I did. I don’t remember seeing his room.’
‘Yeah but I don’t remember seeing this room, and I’m feckin here ain’t I? Why ain’t I in me own room?’ She collapsed into giggles.
It was a full hour later before they felt well enough to leave the hall of residence. At reception, the porter knocked on the glass to call them over.
‘A man left this here for you a few minutes ago.’ He pushed across a handbag with a label attached to it. Michaela gasped and seized her bag, checking that her purse, keys, phone and other items were still there. They were.
‘He left a note for you too.’
Kat peered over her shoulder as Michaela read the neat, typewritten note.
Dear Michaela and Katherine,
You left your bag in the restaurant, and I was not alerted to it by the staff until this morning. Thank you for an entertaining afternoon and evening. I enjoyed the many stories that you told me. I brought you both back here as you seemed overcome by alcohol. In my country it is illegal to drink, and now I can see why. I hope that you have no ill effects.
Your friend
Rifat
Michaela suddenly felt a shiver. The distant tone of the note made her realise she didn’t know anything at all about this strange man, who as she now recalled had worn gloves all evening. Had he drugged them, or was it just the alcohol? He could have done anything to them. He could have robbed them. He could have raped them. He even could have murdered them. He hadn’t done any of those things. At least, she didn’t think so. Yet in some deep part of her she felt a deep sense of foreboding. As if something of hers, something important and valuable, had been stolen. And she had yet to find out what.
Chapter Eleven
London
September 2009
Nine o’clock isn’t quite the end of the working day for a presenter on the Today programme. The pips that mark the end of the show and the final news bulletin remove the performance stress, but they also remove the excitement. Wyrecliffe had been on with John Humphrys, a tenacious and feared interviewer whose style had not mellowed despite his advancing age. However, today it was Wyrecliffe’s turn, grilling a Scottish government official over the early release of Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, a story that the editors had been working on for the whole day. The Libyan was the only person ever jailed for the Lockerbie airline bomb, and his release back to Libya on compassionate grounds because of his terminal cancer was greeted with incredulity in the US, where most of the 243 victims came from. Though the relatives of the families came across clearly, the interview with the official had been unedifying and inconclusive. Humphrys, Wyrecliffe felt, would have done better.
The short de-brief meeting afterwards would later lead in to a sheaf of paperwork, e-mails, and the planning of features for the coming days. It all had to be tied up before the first wave of mid-afternoon sleepiness kicked in. Some things, however, could not be dispensed with. For Wyrecliffe, this was his decidedly unhealthy, but absolutely irresistible mid-morning egg and bacon bap from the BBC canteen. A big wholemeal bun – the only healthy bit – plus lashings of butter, a sizzling rasher of bacon straight from the grill, a fried egg on top and a dollop of brown sauce.
Wyrecliffe made his order, picked up a coffee and made his way between the ubiquitous plant trellises and lemon-walls to a quieter area where the cacophony of mobile phone calls was just a distant buzz. He noticed a familiar figure sitting alone and gazing out of the window and went to join her.
‘Cantara, how are you settling in?’
‘Oh, hi! Take a seat.’
It was the first time he’d seen her for three weeks, part of wanting to create some space between them. She was wearing a bright green silky scarf, which set off her russet-coloured woollen dress. The contact lenses made a huge difference too, and she had retained the fuller wavy hairstyle that he had first seen at the Royal Opera House.
‘Sorry I didn’t reply to your texts or e-mails, things have been hellish busy.’
She smiled wanly. ‘A small message would have been nice.’
‘I know, I know.’ He held up his hands in surrender. ‘So how is it going?’
‘Really well. I’m just doing admin at the moment and I’ve got another month’s probation, but they’re hopeful that a part-time production assistant slot could be coming up on the Arabic service.’
‘Bush House eh? I think you’ll enjoy that. It’s a great cultural mix, with a real overview of world events. Here at Wood Lane I’m sure you’re finding it a bit too British: Top of the Pops, Blue Peter and Newsnight.’
Cantara smiled. ‘I’m really grateful for this you know, for everything you’ve done for me. There are some very clever people in there. I hope I don’t turn out to be too stupid.’
‘Nonsense. I spotted your talent the first moment I saw you, well, as an adult anyway, when you burst in on my meal back in May.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. You were clearly determined and articulate. Didn’t want to see that energy go to waste,’ he said.
‘All the same, it’s notoriously difficult to get into the BBC.’
‘Well, you’re not in yet. Probation and all that, and you’re probably on a pittance. Besides I didn’t really have much to do with it. I just mentioned you to a couple of people I know. That’s all anyone can do.’
‘You’re not just anyone are you? Presenter of the Today programme. How many listeners does that get?’
‘About eight million,’ he shrugged. ‘It does mean I know a lot of people. One of them is Jonathan Weedon, a producer in From Our Own Correspondent. He knows everyone at Bush House. I’ll ask him to keep his eyes peeled for any openings.’
‘What a
bout Imperial?’ she said. ‘Term restarts next week.’
‘These things are actually pretty flexible,’ he said. ‘I can get the Foundation to request a year in absentia, I’m sure there are ways around it.’
He had to be careful. In one of her text messages, she had asked him to come with her to a classical cello concert at the Royal Festival Hall. He had evaded that, but felt now he should still keep in contact. Something social but not dangerous.
‘I’m meeting a couple of documentary maker friends of mine for a curry in Brick Lane this evening. Not so far from you,’ he said.
‘Really? Anyone I might have heard of?’
He mentioned a prominent left-wing film director, now well established in the mainstream, who from her reaction she had clearly heard of, and a slightly less well-known producer, whom she hadn’t. ‘So what are your plans this evening?’
‘Training manuals and a leftover curry,’ she laughed.
‘You can join us if you want…’
‘Really?’
‘If that fits in with your plans. It’s not going to be an all-evening job. I still have to be up early tomorrow, so I have to be tucked up nicely by ten or the nation’s news gets mixed up.’ That’s the way to do it. Set up a cast-iron excuse for disappearing promptly, and head off any trouble.
* * *
The evening went well. Wyrecliffe knew it would. The combination of wide-ranging conversation, laced with humour and anecdote, and a splendid meal at the Tiger’s Tail where he knew the owners well, couldn’t fail to impress. Though he’d had a fair bit to drink, she hadn’t touched a drop, probably wary after the lapse at the Royal Opera House. It was 8.15pm when the taxi pulled up outside Cantara’s flat. Wyrecliffe got out first, and bowed in mock gallantry as he held the door wide for her, then shepherded her up between the rusty railings to the drab front door with its chaos of doorbells.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ she said.
‘Better not,’ he said. ‘Work tomorrow.’
‘Go on, just a quick one. I bought some brandy, Courvoisier, because I know you like it.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘It was what you asked for at the opera house.’
Wyrecliffe, feeling guilty that she spent her meagre resources on such a luxury, relented. But the trip up the cold depressing stairwell made him wish he’d been a bit more strong-willed. He waited at the top of the landing while she opened the door, and the smell of stale cooking wafted out. She showed him in and as soon as the door closed behind them, she put her arms around him.
He returned her first kiss, but then unpeeled her arms. ‘Cantara, we have to talk. This can’t go on.’
‘I’ve been trying to talk to you for weeks, but you don’t return my calls, e-mails or texts.’
‘Look, this is really awkward for me.’
‘Don’t you find me attractive?’
‘Of course I do. It isn’t that, at all. Look, I’m married…’
‘But you’re separated. You don’t even live with her!’
‘Look, what would your late father think if he saw that I set up the Fouad Adwan Foundation in his name to help young people from the camps, but then started having an affair with his daughter? For Christ’s sake, I’ve got a daughter your age!’
Cantara walked into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Cupboard doors banged, and there was the clink of glass. She emerged with a large brandy and handed it to Wyrecliffe. ‘You’d better have this. I shan’t drink it. In fact I’d better give you the bottle.’
‘Cantara, for God’s sake.’ Wyrecliffe looked heavenward and closed his eyes. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘I don’t know,’ she cried. ‘It may not make sense, but I just can’t help loving you.’
* * *
London
September 2009
Immediately she opened the front door Imogen knew something was amiss. Quite what she wasn’t certain. Like leaving a tap running or the iron on, there is a certain sort of nerve in the human mind that gets jangled. She propped the first two bags of groceries against the downstairs loo door. The hall looked in order, the kitchen no different, except that some letters and papers were on the floor. She soon saw why. The back door to the patio was slightly open, and a breeze was wafting through the house. Perhaps that was what she had detected. She couldn’t believe she had left the door open. It had been locked last night. Normally, she would use it each morning to check the bird feeders in the back garden, but she hadn’t done that today. Or had she? No, not. Had she been burgled? She closed the back door and turned the key in the lock. She now noticed that there was some compost on the floor, and a patch of water, still spreading. A pot plant on the windowsill was on its side. It was one of those flimsy supermarket herb pots, a coriander, which she had watered this morning because it looked dry. If the water was still spreading, it could only just have fallen over. Perhaps in the last two minutes.
A fist of terror seized the pit of her stomach. Someone had broken in. And they might still be here. Upstairs, maybe, unable to get out except past her? She grabbed her mobile, retreated to the downstairs loo, locked the door, and dialled 999.
* * *
By 2pm the police had left. They were at first very sceptical that anything had actually happened. There was really no sign of forced entry. The patio door hadn’t been forced, and was able to be locked again without difficulty. Imogen had been unable on the brief tour of the house to point out anything that seemed to have been disturbed or stolen. Her jewellery box hadn’t been tampered with. Piles of change lying on the hall stand were still there. The bedrooms, including Chris’s, were dishevelled and untidy, but not dramatically different from how they often were. Her own was just as she had left it. The two police officers, a distracted shaven-headed male in his forties and a young and pretty WPC spent far more time on the paperwork than on looking around, and she felt they were itching to get it wrapped up and go.
‘You are going to get some fingerprints taken from the door I hope,’ Imogen said.
‘Well, there’s a bit of a resource issue,’ said the WPC. ‘We can’t really call in CID unless we’re sure a crime has been committed.’
‘Of course there is a crime. I didn’t leave the door open.’
‘Maybe one of the kids left it open?’ the WPC said, putting her notepad away, and checking her Blackberry.
‘No, I’m sorry. Michaela’s at York, and Philip’s away at school. There’s no one around but me. Look, would you at least go into the garden, and see if someone climbed over the wall?’
With a heavy sigh the shaven-headed PC followed Imogen into the garden. She immediately spotted a footprint on a flowerbed, and some disturbed trellis against the lowest part of the wall. ‘Look, what did I tell you?’
Having established that the wall led over to an alleyway, and that Imogen had dug over that flowerbed just two days previously, the police conceded that someone indeed may have come in.
‘I might have scared the burglar off. He could come back, couldn’t he?’
‘Look Madam,’ said the PC. ‘We think you would be better off dealing with the security issues here. You have got a five-lever deadlock at the front, which is good, but perhaps you need one at the back. You should set your burglar alarm even if you’re only going out for a few minutes. You should perhaps get that wooden back door replaced with a uPVC one.’
‘You’re trivialising this,’ Imogen retorted, as she followed them to the door. ‘I reported a crime, someone still present at the property. Instead, you prefer to ignore that and read out a crime prevention leaflet. I’m not happy with your response. My husband is Chris Wyrecliffe, the Radio 4 broadcaster. He has told me that he was followed right back here by someone earlier this year.’
The PC stopped and turned. ‘He did report this, I presume?’
‘I don’t know. Probably, yes.’
‘Well, if he hasn’t, I do suggest that he does so. Here’s my direct line.’ He handed
her a card. ‘Alright, we’ll keep an eye on the place for the next few weeks. Put some high visibility patrols through the area. If you have any concerns call the non-emergency number here. I do want to assure you that we take this seriously.’
Yes, Imogen thought as she saw them off. You do now.
* * *
It was only after the police had gone that she made the most surprising discovery of all. She had taken the police through the main bathroom, as well as her ensuite and the downstairs WC. But now she realised that in the main bathroom, shared by Chris and the kids when they were around, there were no toothbrushes in the tooth mug. There had definitely been three yesterday. She remembered putting one back for Philip that he’d left at his bedside. The two others belonged to Chris. I must be going mad, she thought. No one breaks into a house, ignores the cash, but helps themselves to toiletries. Drug addicts, if they were interested in the contents of the medicine cupboard, would surely be more interested in cash. She checked the medicine cabinet anyway and it was as crammed and untidy as she recalled. She opened the vanity unit drawers to see if the toothbrushes were there. No. The louvre doors below opened onto a chaotic cupboard where Chris kept spare toiletry bags. Many of these were airline freebies, but he’d augmented each with a Braun battery operated razor, toothpaste, nail clippers, and two weeks’ supply of blood pressure tablets. This was a hangover from his foreign correspondent days when he needed to be ready at a moment’s notice, but Chris had always said that they saved his bacon quite frequently when he had overslept for the BBC car for Today, and needed to brush-up enroute.
She went back into Chris’s room. This was the room he’d slept in on and off for twenty years, but not for at least ten days. He’d been at the flat in Baron’s Court most of the week, and on a trip to Edinburgh. He’d normally let her know if he was going to be in. It was usually if he wanted something that was in storage. There wasn’t much space at Baron’s Court, so he’d left plenty of clothes behind. She checked the wardrobes and drawers.