Joesbury’s eyes opened a little wider. He and Trev shared a look, had a short, muttered conversation and then the Chinese man disappeared. Joesbury took the seat opposite mine and I waited with something like interest. He was going to have to talk to me now.
He picked up a fork and ran the prongs down a paper napkin, before leaning back to admire the four perfectly straight lines he’d made. He glanced up, caught my eye and looked down again. The fork made its way down the napkin once more. It was becoming blindingly obvious that DI Joesbury and I weren’t of the same mind on the talking issue.
‘If you’re not part of the MIT, what do you do?’ I asked. ‘Traffic?’
If you want to insult a fellow cop, you ask him if he works on traffic. Quite why I was insulting a senior officer I’d only just met was, of course, a good question.
‘I work for SO10,’ he replied.
I thought about it for a second. SO stood for Special Operations. The divisions were numbered according to the particular function they served. SO1 protected public figures, SO14, the royal family. ‘SO10 do undercover work, don’t they?’ I asked.
He inclined his head. ‘Covert operations is the term they prefer these days,’ he said.
‘Then you’re based at Scotland Yard?’ I asked, slightly encouraged at getting a whole sentence out of him.
Another brief nod. ‘Technically,’ he said.
Now what did that mean? Either you’re based somewhere or you’re not.
‘So how come you ended up at the scene tonight?’
He sighed, as though wondering why I was bothering him with this tiresome conversation business. ‘I’m convalescing,’ he said. ‘Dislocated my shoulder and nearly lost an eye in a fight. Officially, I’m on light duties only until November, but as both you and DI Tulloch have been at pains to point out, I’m bored.’
Trev arrived back with drinks. He put a bottle of South American beer down in front of each of us. I hadn’t been asked what I wanted.
‘The look on your face says you’re not a beer drinker,’ said Joesbury, reaching across and pouring the contents of my bottle into a glass. ‘And the look on mine should tell you, I know that – you’re far too skinny to be a beer drinker – but it’s good for shock.’
I picked up my glass. I’m not a beer drinker, but alcohol of any description was starting to feel like a very good idea. Joesbury watched me drink nearly a third of its contents before coming up for air.
‘What brought you into the police?’ he asked me.
‘An early fascination with serial killers,’ I replied. It was the truth, although I didn’t usually advertise the fact in quite so blunt a fashion. I’d been intrigued by violent crime and its perpetrators for as long as I could remember and it was this that had led me, through a long and circuitous path, into the police service.
Joesbury raised one eyebrow at me.
‘Sadistic, psychopathic predators specifically,’ I went on. ‘You know, the type who kill to satisfy some deviant sexual longing. Sutcliffe, West, Brady. When I was a kid I couldn’t get enough of them.’
The eyebrow stayed up as I realized my glass was now more than half empty and that I really needed to slow down a bit.
‘You know, if you’re bored, you should think about golf,’ I said. ‘A lot of middle-aged men find it fills the hours quite nicely.’
Joesbury’s lips tightened, but he wasn’t about to dignify such a cheap jibe with a response. And I really had to get a grip. Winding up a senior officer, however unpleasant, just wasn’t me. I was low-profile girl.
‘Sir, I apologize,’ I said. ‘I’ve had one hell of an evening and—’ Movement at my side. The food had arrived.
‘Don’t call him Sir,’ said Trev, putting a plate of noodles with prawns and vegetables in front of me and something with beef and black beans in Joesbury’s place. ‘Young female officers calling him Sir turns him on something rotten.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ I muttered, thinking it probably shouldn’t be too hard. Joesbury was definitely not my type. I didn’t actually have a type. But if I had, he wouldn’t be it.
‘Now this is for Dana,’ Trev went on, putting a covered plastic dish on the table. ‘Give her my love, tell her to come and see me soon, and if she ever gets tired—’
‘Trev,’ drawled Joesbury. ‘How many times …?’
‘A man can dream,’ said Trev, as he made his way back to the kitchen. When I looked up, Joesbury was intent on his food.
‘How did he know I’m police?’ I asked, picking up my fork and pushing a prawn around in a circle.
‘You’re wearing an orange Andy Pandy suit with PROPERTY OF THE METROPOLITAN POLICE on the collar,’ said Joesbury, without looking up.
‘I could be a villain,’ I said, putting the prawn in my mouth. It sat there, large and uncomfortably dry, on my tongue.
‘Yeah,’ said Joesbury, putting his fork down and lifting his eyes. ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
7
I LIVE JUST OFF THE WANDSWORTH ROAD, LESS THAN FIVE minutes’ walk from Trev’s Chinese restaurant, in part of an old Victorian house. The letting agent who rented it to me called it the garden flat. In truth, it was the basement, accessible via a dozen stone steps that led down from the pavement, just to the right of the house’s front door. Out of habit, I checked the small area of shadow in the under-well of the steps. If I was unlucky (and careless) one night, someone could be waiting. It had never happened yet and I rather hoped tonight wouldn’t be the first time; I was hardly in the mood. The stairwell was empty and the padlock on the door of the shed where I keep my bike hadn’t been disturbed. I slipped my key into the lock and went inside.
I walked through my living room, past the tiny galley kitchen and into my bedroom. I’d changed the sheets that morning, as I always do on Friday. They were crisp white cotton, one of the very few luxuries I allow myself. Normally, getting into bed on a Friday night is one of the highlights of my week.
But I had just the worst feeling that if I lay down on them, when I got up again, they’d be stained the dark red of another woman’s blood. Stupid, I’d showered until my skin felt raw, but …
I carried on walking, through a sort of lean-to conservatory and into the garden. It’s long and very narrow, like lots of gardens behind London’s terraced streets, attracting practically no direct sunlight. Luckily, though, whoever designed it knew what they were doing. All the plants thrive in the shade and it’s full of small trees and dense shrubs. High brick walls on either side give me privacy. There’s a side door that leads to an alley. I keep it locked.
I closed my eyes, and saw pale-blue ones staring into mine. Oh no.
DI Joesbury, objectionable git that he was, had actually taken my mind off the events of earlier. Being with him, trying to find something to talk about, trying even harder not to say anything inappropriate, had given me something to focus on. Now, on my own, it was all coming back.
London is never quiet, and even at this hour I could hear the constant hum of traffic, the sound of people walking past in the street and high-pitched yelling from very near by.
There is a park not a hundred metres from my flat. When the sun goes down the teenagers of south London claim it for their own, swinging around the play equipment like monkeys, screeching and howling at each other. They were on form tonight. From what I could hear there was some sort of chase going on. Girls were squealing. Music playing. They were letting off some steam.
Which, exhausted or not, was exactly what I needed to do. And I had a playground of my own I could go to.
8
CAMDEN TOWN HAS LONG BEEN ONE OF THE TRENDIEST places in north London and especially so since the development of the Camden Stables Market. Once an extensive network of tunnels, arches, viaducts and passageways, the area was sold off to developers some years ago and transformed into a vast complex of shops, bars, market stalls and cafés. It’s popular in the daytime as a place to browse, eat and just hang out. At night, peop
le flock here. At least once a week, usually on a Friday, I’m one of them.
My car had been taken away by the scene-of-crime officers so I’d had to travel by bus. As I approached the Horse Hospital, once stabling for sick or tired horses that worked on the railways, I took off my jacket and tucked it into the small rucksack I was carrying over one shoulder.
Horses, or rather their replicas, are the predominant feature of the Stables Market. Back in the days of the railway’s construction, hundreds of them were kept to transport goods and equipment to, from and around the site. Nothing so unusual in that, but in Camden the working horses led a largely subterranean life, moving from one area to another through tunnels, built specifically to allow them a safe and convenient passage around. At one time they were even stabled underground.
These days, the living, working beasts are long gone, but equine images are everywhere you turn. There are wall hangings, massive free-standing statues, motifs built into railings, on lamp posts, even on bins. I like horses, but even I’m inclined to feel the developers have overdone it a bit.
The heat hit me like a wall when I stepped through the main door of the Horse Hospital. Violet lights twinkled on either side as I made my way through the central passageway, past the original layout of loose boxes and stable furniture. Even at this hour the place was full and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and humanity.
A party was going on in one of the boxes and for a second I considered gate-crashing.Then I noticed red helium balloons around the iron grilles. They swayed, gleaming, in the hot air. Like blood droplets. I carried on, pushed my way to the bar and bought a Bombay Sapphire on ice. I can’t bear the taste so I drink it very slowly, but if I need a quick shot, it does the job. The clock behind the bar told me it was five to one in the morning. The place closed at two.
A few more paces and I was surrounded by the soft tangerine light of the photographic gallery. Around me golden faces glistened with heat. A band had been playing earlier and up on the stage someone was packing away sound equipment.
‘Hey baby!’ Four boys, barely old enough to drink, were blocking my way. The one who’d spoken staggered closer, put a hand out towards me.
‘Want to step outside?’ he offered.
The hand had made contact with my hip. He was having trouble focusing and I didn’t think it was just the booze.
‘Well, it’s a sweet thought,’ I said, ‘but I haven’t had the all-clear from the clinic yet. I’ll get back to you.’
I smiled quickly at a tall, dark-haired boy who seemed more sober than the rest. He grinned back and I stepped past them. Before I’d gone more than a few feet I felt a hand on my arm. The dark-haired boy had followed me.
‘Don’t rush off,’ he said.
I looked at him and thought about it. Younger than I preferred, but otherwise definitely possible. Tall, just starting to fill out. He had a strong jawline and his face an almost regal look about it. His hair was curly, a few inches long, and he had pale skin. The sort that was very soft.
‘What’s your name?’ I said.
‘Ben,’ he replied. ‘Yours?’
Three pairs of eyes were watching us, willing him on. Scratch a gang of mates and you get a gang. I didn’t like gangs.
‘Catch you another time,’ I said. ‘Come without your friends.’
I turned away, moved back through the Horse Hospital’s loose boxes and stepped outside. A wide, curved walkway known as the horse creep takes you down, past another giant equine statue, to the market below. The night was cooling down. Most of the outdoor stalls had closed up for the night, but those serving food were still doing business. Everywhere I looked, people were huddled in groups, leaning against walls and railings, keeping warm under outdoor heaters, eating, drinking.
At the centre of the piazza, wide steps lead down to more market stalls. The top was as good a vantage point as any. About halfway down, a fair-haired man was watching me. As I stared back he didn’t look away. When I smiled, he smiled too.
He seemed to be alone, leaning against one of the metal horse statues. Around thirty, I guessed, maybe a bit older, still in a business suit. He’d removed his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. If he’d come straight from work he’d been here a long time, but, even at this distance, I didn’t think he was drunk.
As I set off down the stairs he realized I was heading his way. He’d straightened up and was running a finger around his collar. His eyes hadn’t left mine and I didn’t think he was going to be one of my more difficult conquests. Then something made me look up and I stopped dead.
Mark Joesbury was directly opposite me, on the balcony that ran round the steps. He was leaning forward against the railing, his eyes going from me to the man I was heading towards. As he realized I’d seen him, his eyes narrowed.
I carried on walking, blanking the fair-haired man. At the bottom of the steps, I went left and shoved my way through the crowds, pushing a leather-clad girl out of the way, squeezing through bodies. I just had to hope Joesbury didn’t know Camden as well as I did.
The crowd was thinning out but getting less respectable as I walked quickly past the toilets. This was where drug deals went down. I pushed through the swing door and started to run up concrete steps. I had to go up several flights to get back to street level.
If Joesbury didn’t know about this way out, I could skirt my way around the market stalls, cut through Camden Lock Place and get across the roving bridge. On the other side, I could jog a few hundred yards and get a night bus home. I had flat shoes in my bag.
As I made my way towards the lock, I was shivering again and honestly couldn’t have said this time whether it was cold, delayed shock or just plain fury. By the time I’d reached the canal, I’d decided.
What the hell was Joesbury doing here? I come to Camden for a reason, damn it. It’s the other side of frigging London from where I live and work and the chances of coming across anyone I know are tiny. It could not be coincidence that he was here. He’d dropped me off, hung around outside my flat and followed me here. Why?
It was after two by the time I got home. I walked straight through the flat. There is a tiny shed at the bottom of the garden. I’ve put foam matting on the floor and hung a large punchbag from the middle of the shed roof. I’ve humanized it, giving it a head that once belonged to a shop dummy, dressing it in clothes, so that it resembles a human figure. I rarely bother with gloves.
I hit it as hard as I could; so hard my bruised shoulder yelled at me. Ignoring the pain, I hit it again, then again, until I was so weary I lost my balance and fell over. I gave the bag one last kick and wondered whether, just once, I’d get away with screaming my head off. Instead, I closed my eyes.
I can never remember my dreams. Come morning I have no idea what’s passed through my head in the dark hours and yet I always know if my dreams have been bad. They must have been very bad that night, because I woke, hardly an hour after falling asleep, to find myself drenched in sweat and hardly able to breathe. I scrabbled backwards until I hit the shed door and found myself, wide awake, in the garden.
Awake or not, it seemed the dream was hovering around. I could see pale-blue eyes, the dead woman’s eyes, staring into mine with something like rage. No, that wasn’t right, the eyes had been terrified. Except now the terror was mine. And the eyes were getting closer all the time …
The chill night air was taking away some of the heat. I was OK, it was just delayed shock. Just a dream, my first for a very long time. I stumbled halfway across the garden and stopped.
Music was coming from close by, possibly the park. But it wasn’t the sort of pounding, pulsing sound I was used to hearing here at night. This was a melody, soft and light, drifting across the rooftops. Julie Andrews from The Sound of Music, the song she sings to comfort the children scared of the storm. Raindrops and roses, it begins. ‘My Favourite Things’.
As a child, I’d been enchanted by The Sound of Music. I’d loved this particular song and pl
ayed the game myself, making lists of my favourite things. When life got completely shit (regular occurrence when I was a kid) I’d played the game and made myself feel a little bit better. But it had all been so long ago.
I took a step closer to the house.
The music was still playing, softly, sweetly, and beneath it, on the other side of the garden wall, I could hear scuffling. Quickly, I checked the side door that led to the alley. The bolt was shut. Something moved again, something brushing against the wall. I wouldn’t normally describe myself as a timid person but I felt a sudden need to get indoors.
I hurried across the garden and in through the conservatory, checking the locks more carefully than I normally do. Probably just one of those weird coincidences, and yet, as I pulled a spare blanket from the cupboard and curled up on the sofa, I couldn’t help wondering why it should be tonight, of all nights, that someone should decide to play ‘My Favourite Things’.
I woke to the sound of my phone ringing. It was the duty sergeant at Southwark. I’d left instructions that if a certain person called for me, I was to be found. That person was now waiting at the station. So, day off or not, I was going into work.
9
Saturday 1 September
‘THEY WAS THREE OF THEM. AT FIRST THEY WAS THREE OF them. Then more arrive.’
I sat very still on the wooden bench, not wanting to do anything that might distract her. I really wanted to make notes, but she’d refused to let me. She hadn’t allowed me to turn on the tiny recorder I’d brought with me either. She wasn’t making a statement, she’d said repeatedly, until she was certain I understood. She wasn’t even prepared to stay in the station. So we’d gone out, had walked down towards the river, to the place where Shakespeare’s Globe had been re-created on the South Bank.
Rona Dawson was fifteen years old, plump, with gleaming skin and braided hair. Eyes like dark chocolate. She was a good-looking black girl like dozens of others from south London. And like dozens of others, she’d been raped by her boyfriend and several of his mates.
Now You See Me Page 3