Now You See Me

by Sharon Bolton

  55

  ‘WHAT’S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN TO you, Karen?’

  This, thinks Karen Curtis, her eyes tightly closed. This is the worst thing that could happen to me.

  ‘Most people answer that question the same way, had you noticed,’ says the voice that’s tickling her neck. ‘Most people say the worst thing would be to lose someone they love. Would you agree?’

  Karen doesn’t reply. As a child, terrified of the dark, she’d keep her head beneath the bedclothes and her eyes tightly closed, as though what she couldn’t see couldn’t hurt her. She’s doing the same thing now. Keeping her eyes closed.

  ‘Would you agree?’ The voice has hardened now, grown a little impatient.

  ‘Yes,’ Karen manages, although what she really thinks is that the worst thing that could happen to her right now is for the sharp object at her throat to be pressed closer.

  ‘You know, it’s only polite to look at someone when they’re talking to you,’ says the voice. ‘I’d feel a lot better if I knew I had your full attention.’

  Karen forces her eyes open. She sees the face above hers, the glossy black hair and pale skin and almost closes them again. Instead, she fixes her gaze on a spot of damp on the ceiling. She needs to get that looked at. If she focuses on the damp, on what she’s going to have to do to get it sorted out, nothing can happen to her. Nothing bad can happen to a woman who’s planning home repairs.

  ‘Who do you love most, Karen?’ she is being asked. The damp might be coming in through the loft. Probably a loose tile on the roof. She’ll have to organize someone to go up there.

  ‘I asked you a question, Karen.’

  ‘My son,’ Karen says, and in speaking feels her throat rise up a little closer to the knife. The ceiling may have to be re-plastered. It will be expensive.

  ‘Oh yes, Thomas. And does he love you? Would it be the worst thing to happen to him, if he lost you?’

  Probably not, is the honest response. Karen barely sees Thomas any more. She doubts he gives his mother much thought from one day to the next. The tip of the knife is pressed into her and she can feel her skin break around it.

  ‘I suppose so,’ she says, as hair brushes against her face. Her captor is leaning closer, getting ready to whisper in her ear again.

  ‘I lost someone I loved,’ says the voice. ‘Did you know that?’

  ‘How could I know?’ Karen whimpers. ‘I have no idea who you are.’

  Karen hears a deep breath being sucked in and then slowly trickling out again. ‘I loved only one person my whole life and I lost her,’ says the voice. ‘Do you like the zoo, Karen?’

  This is insane. She is at the mercy of someone who is completely insane.

  ‘I like the zoo,’ the voice says, as music begins to play softly, a tune so incongruous that Karen thinks, for a moment, it must be coming from outside. ‘I’m going very soon,’ the voice continues. ‘And I think I might just be taking someone – or should I say, something – with me.’

  Karen Curtis had never thought she would die to the sound of Julie Andrews.

  56

  WE DIDN’T MAKE IT TO THE STEAM ROOM. WE TOOK THE three immigrants back to Wapping police station, from where, over the next couple of days, they’d get a crash course in the English legal system. I showered, changed into yet another orange boiler suit, drank several mugs of scalding hot tea and gave a statement. I also got a thorough ticking-off from Uncle Fred on the subject of stupid and irresponsible behaviour that put the lives of his officers at risk and was completely unacceptable on any boat he was master of. I told him he was absolutely right, I hadn’t been thinking and I was terribly sorry. By the time he finished, I’d decided I rather liked Uncle Fred.

  While all this was happening, Joesbury retrieved his car from Southwark and, when the Marine Unit were done with me, he was waiting to take me home. He still hadn’t spoken to me and I had no idea what was going through his head. We drove in silence and it was after midnight when we arrived.

  ‘Can I tell Dana to expect you tomorrow?’ he asked, when he pulled over outside my flat. He hadn’t switched off the engine.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, looking him directly in the eyes. I picked up my bag, realizing then that Joesbury had been alone with it for a couple of hours while I’d been in Wapping station. He might know exactly what was inside. As I turned away from him I caught sight of the clock on the dashboard. The early trains to Portsmouth would start in just over three hours.

  I said goodnight and heard him drive away as I was going down the steps. Inside the flat I turned the electric heater up to maximum and thought about running a bath. I decided against it. My body was perfectly warm.The cold was in my head. Besides, a bath would make me sluggish, even sleepy, and I needed to stay awake.

  I’d already planned my escape route. I knew I couldn’t leave by the front door, there would be somebody in the street watching me. From the conservatory, though, I could sidle along the back of the house, turn the corner and creep very close to the alley wall. Joesbury’s cameras wouldn’t spot me. I could climb the wall, cross the park and make my way to the main road. The Tubes had long since stopped but Waterloo Station wasn’t too far away. I could walk. The trick would be in the timing. Go too soon, and I’d run a greater risk of being spotted by a camera. Leave it too late and I’d be missed before I had chance to board a ferry.

  I changed into warmer clothes, found what food I could and walked out into the garden. The night air would keep me awake. Anyone watching would just assume I was having trouble sleeping after the events of the evening. I looked at my watch. Fifty minutes before I had to leave. Stay awake, keep your nerve.

  Then, as I closed the door of the conservatory behind me, music started playing. It was coming from somewhere very close, possibly even the garden itself. I stood there, listening to the clear notes of the violins, waiting for the moment when Julie Andrews would sing the first line.

  She didn’t. I heard the click of a button being pressed and then the music stopped. In its place was the heavy silence of someone listening. Then, loud enough for me alone to hear, that same someone said my name.

  57

  WAS THIS IT THEN? WAS IT ALL GOING TO END HERE AND now? So many years since I’d heard that voice. It hadn’t changed.

  On the other side of the alley wall, something scraped against the stone. It was a sound so soft it could almost have been a cat, even a rodent. I knew it was neither. I opened my mouth, tried to form the name on my tongue, but nothing came out.

  From the main road came the sound of a police siren. On the other side of the wall, that of footsteps moving away.

  ‘No, wait. It wasn’t me. I didn’t call anyone.’

  I had no idea whether I’d been heard. The footsteps had gone. It took me seconds to pull back the heavy-duty bolts on the gate and get into the alley. It was empty. Instinct told me not to run towards the street so I went the other way. Thirty metres and I’d arrived at a pathway that circled the park. Still no one in sight.

  We were taught in training that it’s human instinct to turn left rather than right and that, with no other motivation, people will head to their left. That’s the way I went. The gateway to the park was open and I stopped to get my breath back. I could hear the music again. The tinkling tune, light as air bubbles, was trilling away from somewhere inside the park.

  Careful now. The shrubs around the perimeter were tall and dense. Plenty of hiding places. On the other side of the park were recreation fields, several football pitches that became cricket pitches in summer. Every step now took me further away from people. I’d brought no radio with me, no phone, no weapon of any kind. I’d acted without thinking, running out here. I’d have been spotted leaving the garden but it would take time for back-up to arrive. In the meantime, my police-officer status would be no protection. I was just a woman, alone at night.

  The park was long and narrow. Clumps of shrubs and ornamental trees prevented me from seeing the full length,
but I knew it well enough. To my right was the young children’s play area. There were swings, a roundabout, a large treehouse complex with slides and stepping stones. Lots more hiding places. The eastern side of the park was aimed at older children and teenagers. There was a skateboard ramp and a BMX track.

  Ahead of me was a circular structure of sheltered seating. In the darkest corner, I thought I could see movement among the shadows.

  After the rain of earlier, the night was now dull, damp and mild, with no stars or moon that I could see. Just a thick covering of cloud. Not much wind either, and yet all around me the leaves that hadn’t yet been claimed by the autumn were shivering. I was shivering too. So much it was starting to hurt.

  Then everything fell silent. Even the distant noise of traffic seemed to retreat and I had a sense of a defining moment approaching. I realized I’d stopped breathing and I began to wonder how long it had been exactly since I’d checked behind me.

  I didn’t move.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ I said and could almost feel the hand reach out to touch my shoulder.

  Then the silence broke, as though someone had waved a wand and brought the city back to life. I could hear traffic on the Wandsworth Road, leaves rustling like crisp packets, a car door being slammed.

  And another police siren, one that – instinctively I knew – was heading this way. We were out of time.

  I walked out of the park and back to my flat. As I left the alley I could hear footsteps running down the front steps and then someone banging on the door. I crossed my bedroom, picked up my rucksack and put it back on the wardrobe. I wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight.

  I had things to do.

  58

  Tuesday 2 October

  NEXT MORNING, I DRESSED CAREFULLY. I DON’T OFTEN wear a skirt but I have a couple of more formal outfits for when the job demands it. The smarter of the two, a dark-blue suit from one of the high-street chains, is plain but respectable. I wore it with a loose cream blouse and twisted my hair into a knot at the back of my head. It could almost have been a trainee barrister staring back at me from the bedroom mirror. From the neck down, of course.

  My face was still a mess. My nose was swollen and discoloured and the bruising around both eyes, whilst fading, was still very much in evidence. The stitches were visible at my left temple and my lips were twice their normal size. Joesbury hadn’t been lying that night in hospital; my injuries were 90 per cent superficial and already improving. I was still barely recognizable though.

  Every cloud, as they say.

  I spent less than an hour in the office, drinking strong coffee, trying to summon up enough nerve for what I had to do. When the police left my flat the night before, it had been nearly two o’clock in the morning. They’d carried out a thorough search of the park and the alley leading up to it, but had found nothing. By the time they finished, the words ‘wild goose chase’ were practically hovering in the air above their heads. It wasn’t even as though I had anything concrete to tell them. Scuffling sounds and footsteps. It could have been anything. Anyone. I didn’t mention the music. To do so would have been to face too many unanswerable questions. I drank a third cup of coffee, collected Mizon from the next room and left the station.

  First on the list were the Benn children, whose mother had been found dead the previous evening in a room sprayed liberally with her own blood. Out of respect for the immediacy of their grief, we’d arranged to see them at the home of friends, where they’d stayed overnight.

  Felix Benn was twenty-six years old. I’d put his height at six two and his weight at around 180 pounds. He was a sportsman, it was clear from his walk, the way he held his shoulders, from the muscle visible through the pale-blue polo shirt. He was fair-haired, freckled, thin-faced. His younger brother, Harry, was similar but darker, maybe not so tall. Madeleine, at seventeen, was slender as a willow with long blonde hair. She was the only one who’d been visibly crying. I introduced myself and Mizon and said how sorry I was for their loss. They nodded and thanked me, three polite, well-brought-up kids.

  ‘Can you think of any reason why anyone might want to kill your mother?’ I asked, once I’d gone through the basics. ‘Why someone might want to kill Mrs Jones and also Mrs Weston – Mrs Briggs, as she was when you knew her?’

  Felix shook his head. ‘My mother never did anyone any harm,’ he said.

  I turned to Harry and Madeleine. ‘You both still live at home, I know,’ I said. ‘How did she seem yesterday morning?’

  They looked at each other, then back at me. ‘Mornings are always a bit hectic,’ said Harry. ‘But she seemed OK.’

  ‘She was pissed off about that journalist,’ said Madeleine quietly. ‘The one that kept calling her.’

  ‘Someone was calling her?’ I asked.

  Madeleine nodded. ‘A reporter. Calling about Geraldine and Amanda. She said she was talking to several of the mothers from the school, wanted to get a feel for what everyone thought, whether they were scared.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Mizon.

  ‘It started a few days ago,’ Madeleine said. ‘In the end, Mum told me that if she rang again, to say she wasn’t in.’

  ‘Did your mother mention a name at all?’

  Madeleine nodded. ‘I wrote it down. It’s in my bag in the hall.’

  Mizon and I and the two boys waited while Madeleine fetched her bag. She handed a small notebook over and the two of us looked down at the name Charlotte Benn had warned her daughter about.

  Emma Boston.

  As Mizon drove us back to the station, I phoned in the news about Emma Boston being in contact with Charlotte Benn and was told that someone would be sent out to find her. We arrived to find that Tulloch, Anderson and several of the team were still at the public meeting over at St Joseph’s and that it had already featured on several morning news programmes and London-based radio stations. We learned that Emma had yet to be located and people in her building thought she might have gone away for a few days.

  The Jones children, sons of the blonde woman who’d died in my arms the night all of this started, were waiting for us.

  Jacob, aged twenty-six, had prematurely greying hair and startling blue eyes. His mother’s eyes. He was tall, with long arms and legs, good-looking and aware of it. He was a junior doctor in Sheffield. Joshua, at nineteen, was taller than his brother but very slight. We spoke to the boys for twenty minutes and got the same old story. Their mother had had no enemies. They had no idea why she had been on the Brendon Estate that night. They couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt her. They weren’t aware of her having been in contact with Charlotte Benn in years. Amanda Weston, formerly Briggs, they barely remembered.

  The Weston/Briggs children, just like the two Jones boys, were sad, scared and angry. Like the Jones boys, they could tell us nothing. By the time Mizon and I had finished with them, Tulloch and the others were back. The public meeting had been an ordeal, by all accounts. Nearly seventy confused and frightened families wanting answers we didn’t have. The mothers in particular had been told to take extra care in the coming weeks, to report anything suspicious, to let people know where they were at all times, to pass on the warning to others connected with the school.

  The post-mortem examination on Charlotte Benn’s body had now taken place and we’d had early results emailed through. Death had been caused by massive loss of blood when both carotid arteries were cut. She’d probably died some time between eight and ten o’clock on the morning of Monday 1 October. A little late to mark the exact anniversary of the Ripper killing, but I guess our killer had to wait for her to be home alone.

  At the end of the day, I drove home, but instead of going inside, I walked to the South Bank, bought a burger and sat on a bench to eat it, watching the river that I knew couldn’t scare me any more. I sat there for as long as I could bear it, waiting for the shadow drawing closer, for the voice whispering in my ear. When I needed a change of scene I crossed Vauxhall Bridge and headed for Wes
tminster. I kept in the open, in well-lit spaces, easy enough to spot, not too vulnerable to being jumped on. Just by the Houses of Parliament, I turned quickly on the spot and saw a dark shape disappearing into a side road. I was being watched. Impossible to tell who was watching.

  Nothing happened. No one came anywhere near me. By ten o’clock, I was cold and exhausted. I made my way home and went to bed. For a few hours, I actually slept.

  When I arrived at work the next morning, Mizon was finishing a cigarette at the front door. She stubbed it out as I approached.

  ‘Everyone’s upstairs,’ she said. ‘A woman arrived five minutes ago, asking to talk to the DI. She’s claiming she’s the next victim.’

  59

  Wednesday 3 October

  JACQUI GROVES WAS THIN AND PALE WITH CHESTNUT HAIR IN A chin-length bob. She wore nice clothes, good jewellery and a little more make-up than the average woman in her late forties. I watched the internal TV screen as first Tulloch and then Anderson joined her in the interview room. Around me, the team crowded close.

  ‘Two kids,’ said someone directly behind me. ‘Twins. Boy and a girl. Toby and Joanna. Both went to St Joseph’s. Twenty-six years old now.’

  On the screen we watched Groves reach into her bag and pull out a narrow white envelope. She handed it across the desk to Tulloch. ‘This arrived this morning,’ she said. ‘In the post.’

  Tulloch made no move to take it. ‘Can you tell me what it is?’ she asked.

  ‘Cuttings from a newspaper,’ Groves replied. ‘Two of them. One about the murder of Geraldine, the other about Mandy.’

  ‘Do you know who sent them to you?’ asked Tulloch.

  Groves shook her head. ‘There’s also a note,’ she said.

  Tulloch inclined her head. ‘Please go on,’ she said.

  ‘It says, “TIME FOR NUMBER FOUR”,’ said Groves. ‘Meaning me, I suppose. I’m number four.’