by Elle Croft
Building my mask of make-up slowly and deliberately, concentrating on the soft brush sweeping my skin, I tried unsuccessfully to conjure salty water behind the dark brown eyes that stared back at me. Snapping the lid on a tube of lipstick and running my lips together, I inspected my reflection carefully. I was surprised to see that I looked exactly like I always did. It seemed insensitive, offensive almost, that I hadn’t been visibly transformed.
I tried to take my imagination back to the streaks of red and flashes of metal I’d been so affected by earlier, but when even that failed to elicit a reaction I turned my thoughts to planning my next steps. First on my list was a phone call to the office.
‘Sorry I missed your call earlier, Fran. I was so shocked at the news, I needed a bit of time to process it.’
‘It’s absolutely fine,’ Fran said. ‘Jason called me. I can’t believe … well, I can’t believe it. I know you spent loads of time with Cal— I mean Mr Bradley, recently. I’m sure it was a huge shock.’
‘I … I spent lots of time with him?’ I stuttered, feeling light-headed as I realised how completely unprepared I was for this conversation. Did she know? What had given us away?
‘Yeah, with all of the filming lately, you’ve been there way more than you were for the first few months.’
I carefully released the breath I’d sucked in and allowed my pulse to resume as adrenalin rippled through my veins.
‘I guess I have been working there a lot,’ I said, feeling stupid for panicking. ‘Anyway, I called to say that I’ll be back in the office tomorrow. I’ll be checking my emails from home today but I’m exhausted, and I worked late last night, too. Hopefully I haven’t left you in the deep end.’
‘It’s under control,’ Fran assured me. ‘If you could just approve my Instagram plan for the week that’d be really helpful. What time were you here till yesterday, anyway? I thought you were leaving just after me.’
I’d rehearsed this part of the conversation, at least.
‘I think I got home at about eleven.’
Not a lie, exactly.
Fran made a disapproving tutting noise and told me to get some rest. The motherly tone of the twenty-three-year-old’s voice didn’t escape me, but I assured her that I would take it easy.
I dialled again, grateful for Alex’s greeting.
‘Oh my God, Bethany, what the hell? Are you OK?’
I listened as she ranted about the state of London these days and how she’d never walk around at night on her own, although I knew for a fact that she frequently did. I was grateful for once that she didn’t let me get a word in.
‘That’s what taxis are for, Bethany. As if he doesn’t have a chauffeur anyway, and millions of staff to do whatever he needs. Why would he even be out by himself at night? I thought he had security or something.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said lamely, knowing that she wasn’t looking for a real answer.
‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘I hope they find the bastard who did this, and I hope they make him pay. Calum actually seemed like a good guy.’
‘He is. He was,’ I corrected myself. ‘And I hope they find whoever did this, too.’
Before hanging up, we agreed on a time to meet the following week, Alex insisting that we had to catch up soon. Knowing how crammed her schedule was, I knew that this was her own personal brand of showing concern, and I loved her for it.
It was still early in the afternoon and I’d checked the only two items off my to-do list, leaving hours to fill before Jason returned from work. I didn’t want to sit around at home. I needed to move, to think, to clear my head. I didn’t have a plan, but I grabbed my keys and headed for the door, hoping that a walk would help unknot my thoughts.
Stepping into the afternoon light, I was taken aback by the blue sky, the people walking their dogs, playing with their children, chatting on their phones. I baulked at the normality of the day, the sheer average nature of the scene that greeted me. The world, it seemed, was determined to go on, with or without my permission.
I didn’t have a destination in mind as I walked, oblivious to my surroundings as I mentally replayed the news reports I’d watched with such intensity that they were now vivid memories. I couldn’t fathom what had happened to Calum. If it wasn’t a mugging, it must have been a targeted attack. But why would anyone kill him? Had Claire found out about us and stabbed him in a fit of jealousy? Or had a business deal gone wrong? Maybe there was a disgruntled ex-employee with a violent streak. Or perhaps it was just a random attack; nothing to do with the fact that he was famous and rich. But surely fate wasn’t that cruel?
The reporter had said that the police were interviewing Calum’s staff to find out why he’d been out on his own. I felt a mist of sweat forming on my top lip, and increased my pace.
Eventually I found myself on the Thames Path, blanketed by a canopy of majestic trees. Muscles aching from being clenched in fear and shock all morning, I spotted a bench by the water and dumped my body onto the wooden slats, exhaling until my lungs felt like they might stick together.
A shrill noise made me jump, and after a moment of confusion I recognised the sound as my phone. I took my time reaching for it, not in the mood to talk to anyone. I glanced at the name. Mark, Calum’s assistant. I considered ignoring it for a moment, but decided it was pointless to delay the inevitable.
‘Mark. I’m so sorry. Are you OK?’
‘No. You?’ His voice sounded dull, robotic.
‘I think I’m in shock,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t understand. What happened?’
‘We still don’t know. The police are trying to work it out. And I mean every bloody policeman and woman in London. It’s huge. The press is everywhere.’
‘I bet,’ I said. I couldn’t think of how else to respond.
I didn’t bother trying to fill the silence that followed. Mark had called me, so he must have something to say.
‘Bethany,’ he said eventually, hesitation in his voice, ‘the police want to speak to you.’
‘Me?’ I asked, my voice squeaky. ‘Why?’
‘They’re interviewing everyone who worked with him recently, including the production team. They don’t have a suspect yet, but this first twenty-four hours is crucial for them to get as much information as possible, from all sources. I’ve passed on your phone number but I’m just giving you the heads up.’
‘Thanks, Mark,’ I said, feeling anything but appreciative. With a promise to stay in touch and a few more condolences, I hung up.
Staring at a sparrow flitting from branch to branch on the tree in front of me, I sat in silence, no idea what to do next.
I couldn’t speak to the police. Calum’s words – it’s not paranoia if it’s true – reverberated in my head from our still-fresh argument. He’d trusted the police with a secret once, and the consequences had been horrifying. Someone had followed Kitty, waited outside her home and thrown acid in her face, simply because she’d been having an affair with the illustrious Calum Bradley. She’d nearly died, and although Calum hadn’t suffered any physical harm himself, the attack had affected every area of his life. The police department had vehemently denied being the source of the story, of course. But no one else had known about the affair.
Calum hadn’t trusted the police with the truth. Why should I have faith in them now?
I didn’t believe in their integrity. But I could hope that they were good enough – they were some of the best in the world, weren’t they? – to find whoever did this without ever having to hear what I had to say. But then again, what if they couldn’t find the killer without knowing the whole truth?
I tried to weigh up the pros and cons of telling them what I knew.
Cons, I thought. For starters, I’d be risking my marriage and my reputation. I knew it was selfish to care so much, when this was about finding the person who killed Calum. But I didn’t want to lose everything I had. I loved Jason – and although I hadn’t done much to prove it lately, it was the truth. An
d when it came to my business, I’d built it from scratch, and couldn’t bear the thought of jeopardising my reputation, my clients, my livelihood. If our affair became public, it could tear my life apart. I could be put in physical danger. It wasn’t a certainty, but the danger was real, after what had happened to Kitty. There was no guarantee that it wouldn’t happen to me, too. I could go through all of this for nothing. I could lose everything, and the police still might not know what had happened to Calum. Yes, I could get the police to focus their investigation in the right direction. But what if they still didn’t find the killer? I didn’t actually know anything that could help. Did I? The information I had – little more than fodder for gossip columns, really – couldn’t actually help them find whoever did this. I didn’t know anything. I hadn’t seen anything. If I had, I’d have taken myself to the police as soon as I saw the news.
I blinked. Pros: it’s the right thing to do. The moral, good thing, undoubtedly. But I couldn’t seem to think of another good reason to tell the truth, when all of those potential consequences were looming over me. It could lead to justice for Calum. It could help find Calum’s killer, contribute to putting them behind bars, make sure they couldn’t hurt anyone else. But what I knew could also lead nowhere. My whole decision was based on no more certainty than the flip of a coin.
It didn’t help that I knew the right thing to do. I was terrified. And I had no idea how to tell the difference between someone who would protect my secrets, and someone who would sell them to the highest bidder. So I was left with just one option.
I’d have to lie.
If that made me selfish and cowardly, then so be it.
It crossed my mind that I should get a lawyer to be by my side when the police questioned me, and I wondered whether Alex would be willing to step in.
I shook my head. Now I really was being paranoid. There was no need for a lawyer, which would only draw attention to the fact that I had something to hide. What I needed was to relax. The police were just going to ask me some simple questions and eliminate me from their search.
Then I heard Calum’s words again, and my body went cold.
It’s not paranoia if it’s true.
Chapter Nine
I’d just stepped inside my front door when my phone rang. Unknown caller. Before I gave in to panic I reminded myself that it was probably a client, or one of those annoying PPI people, and not the police. It had to be too soon for them to call me; they had all of Calum’s staff to get through first.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is this Bethany Reston?’ The woman sounded far too pleasant to be a cop. Definitely a cold caller.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘This is Detective Constable Clayton from the Metropolitan Police.’
Damn it.
‘I’m part of the team that’s investigating the murder of Calum Bradley and we’re speaking to everyone who’s been in contact with him recently. We know you’ve been working on a project of his, so we’d like to come and see you so we can ask a few questions.’
They certainly didn’t waste any time. An invisible hand clenched around my neck, squeezing slowly, firmly.
‘Um … all right …’ I said, concentrating on forcing air into my lungs. ‘Do you mean now?’
‘Oh no, that won’t be necessary, Mrs Reston,’ she replied. ‘Would tomorrow morning at ten o’clock be suitable?’
‘Sure, yes, ten o’clock,’ I repeated, giving her my address before hanging up.
I sighed, relief that the call was over mingling with nervous terror that my interaction with the police had only just begun. I had all night to decide what to say, but I had no idea how to adequately prepare. I wished that I had someone to talk this through with, but the only other person who knew what I was hiding was dead. I felt irrationally angry. This wasn’t fair. Calum had left me; abandoned me to deal with this alone, with no support and no idea what to do next.
When Jason arrived home, he seemed delighted that I was dressed in real clothes and keeping busy. He had no idea that I’d been cleaning the house for hours to make sure it was spotless for the police, downing tea and wishing it was vodka, trying to predict the questions I’d be asked, preparing my responses. When I knew that it was time for my husband to walk in, I’d forced myself to suppress my nerves and appear functional.
I thanked him for looking after me all morning, and apologised for reacting so badly to the news.
‘You don’t have to apologise, Bethany,’ he said. ‘It must have been a huge shock. You’ve done loads of work with him recently, it’s not like he was a stranger.’
I wanted to welcome his support, but even that made me feel guilty. I didn’t deserve it. I nodded, smiled thinly and asked if he felt like a takeaway. We ordered Chinese and settled on the sofa to watch some crappy television for the night. Jason sat with his laptop, catching up on the morning’s missed tasks while I pretended to watch Friends reruns, forcing a laugh here and there while trying to ignore visions of a blood-smeared Calum as they played in a grotesque imaginary montage.
It was torture, having to act like this was just another evening when, in fact, my world had been ripped apart just hours before. I couldn’t sit still. I felt twitchy, a deprived addict. I had no idea how Jason could just sit there so calmly when Calum had been brutally murdered less than twenty-four hours ago.
My gaze must have been acute, because Jason suddenly looked up at me from his laptop. I pretended to yawn, and before he could ask if I was all right I excused myself to bed, ignoring his promises to join me soon. I pretended to be asleep when he slid under the covers later, but even after his breathing deepened I couldn’t find rest. I practised interview answers in my head like they were lines in a play. I rehearsed my story again and again, testing it to make sure it was flawless, although it occurred to me that my revision might have been unnecessary.
I was already well-rehearsed in most of the lies I was preparing to tell the next morning.
After all, I’d been telling them – with hardly a second thought – for months.
If my own husband didn’t know I was deceiving him, surely the police wouldn’t either.
Chapter Ten
‘Let’s start with the basics, Mrs Reston. Could you tell us a bit about what you do for a living, please?’
I’d expected some kind of formalities before the interview began, but Constable Clayton and her colleague, a tall and altogether forgettable man named Price, told me that this was nothing more than a chat. I exhaled deeply.
‘Of course. Please call me Bethany, though. I’m a photographer, and I run my own business. I have an office over in Tooting, which is also a small studio. I do a lot of portraits, corporate head shots, editorial shoots for companies, that sort of thing.’
‘I see,’ said Clayton as her partner scribbled some notes in a small Moleskine notebook he’d retrieved from his jacket. ‘And how is it that you came to be working for Mr Bradley?’
‘I was commissioned to take head shots for a section of a business book he released a few months ago. He was happy with my work on that, so his team invited me to come on board for the new documentary that I’m sure you’ve been told about. I’m taking behind-the-scenes photos for a coffee table book.’
The detective raised an eyebrow and I shrugged.
‘It wasn’t my idea. Apparently people will buy it.’
Clayton was even more pleasant to look at than she was to listen to, with Bambi-wide eyes, long brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles that made her look more cute than authoritative.
‘Fair enough,’ she said, as Price scratched away in his little book. ‘And how well did you know Mr Bradley?’
My insides wouldn’t calm down. It wasn’t butterflies trapped in there, but angry pigeons, the kind that fly directly at you in Waterloo station, panic-fighting their way out.
‘Well, you know,’ I said, focusing on keeping my voice unwavering. ‘We worked together fairly often, and we had quite a few meetin
gs to go through proofs, so I didn’t not know him, if that makes sense.’
I waited for her to nod. She held my gaze, unmoving.
‘But I don’t know all of the ins and outs of his personal life.’
A pause.
‘How about any enemies, Bethany? Did he ever mention anyone who wanted to hurt him, or who had a grudge against him?’
I shook my head slowly, screwing up my face in concentration. I tried to think back, to identify anything he’d said that could be a clue to his killer.
‘No,’ I conceded eventually, relieved that we’d moved on from how close I was to Calum. ‘I can’t think of anyone who doesn’t like him—’
I stopped, realising what I’d just said.
‘Didn’t like him,’ I corrected myself, the words lodging in my throat.
‘When was the last time you saw Mr Bradley?’
Relief drained out of me, gurgling away like bathtub dregs. Price dipped a biscuit into the tea he’d happily accepted when he arrived, as though he was thoroughly enjoying the show.
‘It was, um, Monday … no! Tuesday evening. I brought some proofs to him to look over after his last meeting of the day.’
‘I see. And how did he seem?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Was his behaviour unusual in any way? Did he say or do anything out of the ordinary?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘I only saw him for a moment to drop off the proofs. Then he had a meeting with Mark, and I left.’
‘Mark Dunbar?’
I nodded. More scribbles. My chest was being squeezed relentlessly by an invisible force as I tried to keep my face impassive, my voice even.
‘And where were you on Wednesday night, at around ten thirty?’
I blinked, affronted.
‘Why … I mean, I’m not …’ My voice trailed off. Why would they be asking me that? They had no idea about the truths I was hiding; no reason to think I had anything to do with Calum’s death.